The Big Easy

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The Big Easy.  That's what they call it. Them Nu Awlins folk.  And it really, really is.

I am sitting here in this cold hard airport chair patiently waiting.  I am waiting for my delayed plane to come on over here to pick me up and take me home. 

I can't complain. I have my fancy-schmancy blog to tend to.  I have a belly full of kinda' gross airport pizza and am eyeing the fruit smoothie stand.  I have a couple hours yet, but since the travel Gods blessed me last week by allowing us to make the flight we almost missed to get to this big easy place, I am telling them it is okay to send me home a bit later than originally anticipated.

Last week we were those people.  The ones running through the airport in a frantic rush to board.  Them long lines at LAX, man.  That almost started our vacation off on the wrong foot, but as it were we made it and had a wonderfuk time.

I have a horrible sense of direction, and yet found the Big Easy very easy to navigate.  I was even dircting Lloyd, who is usually my honing pigeon. I walked us over to Bourbon street, to the famous Cafe Du Monde on Decatur.  I led the way to the Mississippi river and I had a pretty decent sense of how to get to the WWII museum.  I directed my co-workers, who arrived this week,  to the St. Charles streetcar and even knew the exact fare.  I dug all the southern hospitality types and being called "m'am" everywhere I went.  Everyone was so eager and friendly.  I wondered if, in another life, I was perhaps a Southern Belle?  

Maybe.  Or maybe not.  My very east coast trenchocot and fast jibber-jabber says otherwise.  I have the attention span of a New-Yorker, but the love of all things jazzy in New Orleans.  But where is my heart? 

I left my heart in California.  And I gotta' say.... I can't wait to get back...

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