One by one

One by one, people excused themselves for bed. The Doberman first (it had been a long day), followed shortly by each of her owners. It was a Sunday night and we'd all have to work in the morning. Some sooner than others as I had two flights and a time zone between myself and my office.

Eventually, there were just two of us left watching basketball in high definition.

"I didn't realize it was 11," the other one said. "I thought it was closer to 10."

"I have to get up at three," I replied. "It doesn't matter any more."

And it didn't. I stayed up and watched the rest of the game before my three hours of rest, before rubbing the grit of too little sleep from my eye.

I didn't regret missing the festival until I got to the airport and, even then, just a little. A delayed flight on Thursday meant I arrived midday on Friday. The skies opened up and all of the fury of heaven poured forth in giant buckets on Saturday, turning the fairgrounds into a grand, muddy mess as rivers formed in low-lying bits.

We talked about going on Sunday, to see Elvis Costello, but the rain returned and our day melted into beer making and gelato eating, boiled crawfish and the nothing and everything of being with friends. Trivial conversations mixed with the key over mudbugs while my hands, already aching from blackberries and brambles, burned with seasoning, dirt and grit even before I stabbed myself with a hundred little claws when I cleaned the stainless steel counters.

"So, when are you coming back?" the other one asked and stuck out his tongue. "Next weekend?"

He asked when I would get an apartment and stay. I didn't have an answer. I never had an answer but my visits seemed to melt into each other, coming faster and faster. On Sunday afternoon, I wondered aloud, "When can I come back?"

I hadn't left yet.

Tired and cold in the artificial air at the airport, quiet and slow, I would check my email for work, regretting reality. Around me, girls in short summer dresses and scarves and couples with cruise ship tags shivered sleepily. Voices raw with fatigue rumbled softly.

With the airport's free WiFi, I would look at the site for the festival I had ostensibly come to see and completely missed and I would look for tickets back to New Orleans. I couldn't help it. The fever would have to run its course. I didn't know which would break first: it or me. One would give sooner or later.

The Acadian festival and tapas, blackberry pie and the dogs, drinks with friends, making beer, sanitizing everything, driving and talking. And talking. And talking.

"I don't want to leave," I said to the other one as he stood to go. The rest had gone, to home or to bed. "I really don't want to go."


Tag: Travel Friends New Orleans