One time, in the early '90s, my best friend went crazy there, from love. It was the voodoo of the air, she said, and her memory. Late one night in the Quarter she just took off walking, alone, and wouldn't even let me speak to her. I followed from a distance, hoping to keep her unmolested.
We stayed at a place called The Hummingbird, on the wrong side of Canal Street. It was a shabby little room above an all night cafe, but cost us only $27.50 a night (total). This left all the rest of our money for food and shopping.
Now these places, where she wandered crazily, where we ate in bliss, where we stayed -- crazily -- are all under water. And I know there are faces I saw there -- like maybe the junky woman who needed money for the night, or the guy in the costume shop, or jazz players, or the waiter, or the cute fireman who gave us a ride to keep us from walking to the cemetery alone, or a child on the street, anyone that I saw on any of my trips to this most magical of U.S. cities -- who could be unspeakably sad, or hungry, or underwater.
