One by one lights turned on. Dinner smells from restaurants overrode fragrant ginger blooming outside my hotel. When the door of a nearby music hall swung open, elated voices pierced the city’s sultry air. A shadowy figure exited, subtle like the oozing of powdered sugar from beignets unto fingertips. A musician? Too dark to tell. The ensemble last night played Dixieland like there was no tomorrow. Room pulsed. Young and old swayed to the beat. Like the rest, I found myself tapping the old wooden floor with my feet. Experience destined to memory. To accompany my departure from New Orleans.
"Classic"
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