Woke up early this morning and decided to go out and run. I'm on the top floor of the hotel; you need a special key to get up here. It's a nice hotel but inexpensive. You hear that, Charlotte Observer. It's inexpensive.
I turn the corner to get to the elevator and have to step over a guy passed out face first on the floor. He's wearing only boxers.
Good morning, New Orleans.
I step outside and see a guy walking behind me. He's pulling a bag and using a cane. I open the door to the street and hold it at least 10 seconds. He doesn't say thanks. He doesn't even think about it. Like a fool, I say, "You're welcome." What I should have said is, "Is white trash one word or two?"
On the street I step over chicken bones and fast-food paper bags. I turn the corner and an old guy is passed out on a stairwell. Halfway down the block, the bar is hopping. It's 6:36 a.m.
New Orleans isn't for everybody. If, for example, you look for a chain restaurant when you travel, you probably won't like it here.
There is a spirit and an odd beauty, however. Some days you have to work harder than others to find it.
Many of the bars are open as I run slowly, too slowly, through the French Quarter. There's a lot of dog walking but the streets are mostly empty. Somebody has a truck with a cardboard sign on the back: 17-N-O.
Not bad. And it's much better than the team of destiny T-shirt the malls sell. There is no destiny other than the one we create -- despite what the NASCAR folks say.
A shirtless guy, thick guy, goes through a garbage can and pulls out an empty wine bottle. He looks pleased.
I work my way to the Mississippi River, always a great place to run. The sky opens and the water flows. On Saturday, a guy next to the river was playing a saxaphone, and not particularly well. He had a box in front of him for tips. I had already given a dollar to the guy playing a blues riff on his guitar and $2 to the man with the band in front of Cafe du Monde.
The sax guy finished about 10 seconds after my kids and I walked past, and when nobody gave him money, he flipped.
"You're cheap!" he screamed at the group in front of him.
We also walked past a woman who stood next to a wall and sang. She was the kind of singer Simon makes fun of. My older kid said he almost gave her a $10.
Why?
To stop, he said.
A block from the Mississippi I pass the bench where on Saturday I heard a well-dressed guy say into his cell phone, "I see dead people in my bed every night."
Buddy, I know the feeling. The last year of my first marriage, I saw one, too.