Scanning the radio as I leave New Orleans, I hear a term that confuses me – “patchy.” All over the traffic reports, during Monday morning rush hour, there are accounts of patchiness. This statement is confusing for an Atlantan. Not once, ever, have I heard the term patchy used to refer to traffic. Coagulation, jammed, at-a-complete-stop, shutdown, horror! – these are the terms I am used to. “When am I going to move to New Orleans?,” I think to myself for maybe the fiftieth time since I arrived on Thursday afternoon.
The problem is, without fail, I always leave a piece of my heart in this city. Ok, I admit, I tend to fall in love with cities and places like certain women fall in love with men – often and easily. Edinburgh is that one man that you had that fabulous romance with, the one you still think of often and wonder what-could-have-been; but alas you had to part. Paris was a lurid love affair – so indulgent and beautiful. New York is the “fun guy” who is exactly what you n
eed when you need it. Albuquerque is that one crunchy dude you dated in college who you didn’t quite understand. Boston is the hipster guy you met that one night having beers at the book launch. Atlanta is your high school boyfriend who you sometimes resent after all these years, but then there is all that history and so you keep returning.
Oh but NOLA, the fabulous characters and music and food that fill the streets with life steal my heart again and again. The beauty of the buildings and the smiling faces and the signs of survival and perseverance get to me, every time. I’m seduced by its atmosphere and culture. I hate so to leave. So the problem is I keep losing a bit of my heart to NOLA – and with half of my heart already buried beneath the cobblestoned streets of Edinburgh, I will soon be heartless. I think I must go and reclaim my heart at some point, I must forever.
(Starting tomorrow . . .)
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