13
DAWN
The ride into the city is an experience in and of itself. New Orleans is an old place, and it smells old, too — the outdated sewer system emits a musty metallic stink from beneath the streets which mingles with the faint odor of rotting wood and mildewed cobbles. Horses, most drawing carriages, clomp by on hooves adorned in paint. Every corner holds a performer — gilded men pretending to be statues, magicians in brilliant robes of purple and green, a curly-haired sixty-something woman brandishing a stack of tarot cards. Teenage boys dance in the street as their friends beat a frantic rhythm on five-gallon pails. The energy is like static against my arms, each new event, each new voice, stimulating my nervous system.
I want to walk the street and bask in the life of every artist,
