The wind cools my walking-worn legs as I lounge on the charming balcony at our B&B. Sitting reassures the body after spending a morning traveling around, building up the sweat of exploring a city. It’s warm, but not stifling as the breeze continues. I might be out here for a while I think to myself.
I imagine the journey of the breeze. Did this wind split the crowds of the French Quarter, past the double-gallery homes with wrought iron fences of the Garden District, above the stone crypts of the Cities of the Dead? Did this wind carry the scent of cooked crawfish and shrimp and beignets along brick courtyards? Did this wind hop a ride with a street car on Canal Street or thread the spokes of a classic bicycle on Royal Street?
Will this wind ruffle the hair of the people listening to music at the jazz clubs or catch the hat brims of those watching performers in Jackson Park? I wonder.
Will it nudge many more board-and-batten shutters and skim the varied hues of stuccoed exterior walls? Will it rustle the needle-like leaves of many more bald cypress trees, many fronds of palmetto trees, many branches of old oak trees?
The original traveler, wind. It refreshes me, encourages a sense of peace and serenity on the balcony. It carries the spirit of this city–ephemeral and enchanting. I smile as the Crescent City invites me back before I even left.