Learning what it means to miss New Orleans

I'm home. That's Maryland for any non-family or friend who happens to have stumbled across this blog. (Welcome, by the way, and please comment if you promise to play nice.) Maryland, I must say, is not New Orleans. Compounding this great misfortune is the fact that I'm finally getting all the only child moments I want, and have remembered why I always wanted siblings. Be careful what you wish for, no? And so, now that I must make my own dinners and cookies and pancakes, lets just say I've cut back on the carbs. There's no one to run down the hall and see, and as much as I love my mom I don't think she'd understand if I burst in her room after 10... Actually, I don't know how she'd feel about bursting... We're a peaceful household.

But luckily, I can see my Dukies (by definition) back at Duke. So I'm gchatting them, and saving all my mourning for Crescent City: the lack of shrimp and oyster po' boys in my life, and the crawfish etouffee I should have eaten more of. I miss the live music, and regret every night I stayed in (even though sleep and budgeting and being prepared for work seemed like good ideas at the time). I miss the new friends I made there, and the street car passengers, and the random palm trees in the middle of downtown. I even miss the weather, though I'm quite happy without the mosquitoes. I miss how adorable the musicians village is, and although I can't wax poetic about the stench of Bourbon, I do like knowing that it's there in its inferiority to Frenchman. I miss Superior Grill and Trolley Stop Cafe and a dozen other restaurants, and snowballs and getting hit on every day. I miss Magazine Street, and kitschy souvenir shops, and sitting at Audubon Riverview on a Sunday afternoon, and walking for five minutes and having sweat trickle (I liked to pretend I was getting excercise). And second only to the indomitable and loving spirit of the people, I miss how much possibility there is down there, and how everything has the potential to make a difference. I'm thinking it could be just as meaningful as my Peace Corps aspirations, only much less likely to give the parental units anxiety disorders.

So... yea. I don't just want to go back, I need to. I've contemplated "Walking to New Orleans" (a la Fats, see below) but I'll wait until I can afford less taxing transportation.



Oh, and I'm looking for a job. Maybe I can get one like that guy on Twitter who got fired?

(Resume and references available upon request)