Loca, Heidi and I went for our early walk this morning – a routine that has fallen so far from routine with our travels abroad that it felt like a novelty. The bayou was still black water. We got to the park and the grass had all been newly mown and smelled fresh as a clover patch. The lagoon was still black water. On the banks was a Great Blue Heron and beside it a Little Blue Heron. Ah, home where the birds are plentiful (and hopefully stay that way). The park with its moss laden oaks, black water lagoon, and swans with their tail feathers shaking on the surface of the water was like stepping into a beautiful old oil painting of Louisiana.
Two people passed who were walking fast and talking even faster – they were talking about what they were cooking this weekend. Ah, home where scrumptious food and what is cooking is sprinkled into every conversation.
As we made our way passed the Peristyle and Popp’s Bandstand, we noticed the work by the great lawn was progressing and the fountain across from the cafe was working. Heidi instead of Loca stole an ort from the ground and chewed it before I could choke it out of her. Some things never change.
You have to leave home to come back and see it through different eyes – this park is perhaps one of the most splendid places on earth in its fecundity of flora and fauna.
On the beach of Zahara, very far down the beach away from the crowds, there was a big rock where someone had painted YOU ARE HOME, which is odd since hardly anyone in Zahara speaks English. But everytime I joined the girls for a walky talky I noticed that graffiti. Here in New Orleans, I need no graffiti to remind me I am home.