The Visual Serenade of St. Charles

Festivities for the long, Labor Day weekend found New Orleans aswarm with tourists afoot on the walks and stuffed into cabs and buses in the ‘CBD,‘ Central Business District.

I wagered the weather maker’s winds would repel thunderheads in the distance, giving me fluffy whites above as I spotted the outbound St. Charles line street car--for which I had waited 20 minutes--grinding against its steel rails, so many people aboard that they spilled from its ends like sausage escaping an uncrimped casing perforated with imperfections.

I looked at the sky, the gone-by street car, the sidewalk ahead, and chose to walk toward the Carrollton levee, miles away, despite icepicks of pain that snarled, ‘Tings just ain’ so in yo’ ankle ‘n knee joint, Mistah Joe.’

Leafed twigs and pods scooted along and across the sidewalk, a path with miniature hills created by fissures from roots of old cypress and maples dead-lifting the jagged concrete, a concern to only us infirm, the aged, and toddlers atop tricycles.

Decorative ironworked fencing segregated the public from the period-perfect homes, spear-tipped vertical rods providing an occasional hand-hold to steady my determined gait, completing the four-and-a-half mile trek to The Superior restaurant in a time I hadn’t kept or cared to know, a walk interrupted by readings of bronze plaques boasting respective histories of the impressive architectural wonders they fronted.

Arriving dehydrated, hurting, and spent, the eatery seemed too crowded for mid-afternoon, and I was lucky to commandeer a barstool to immediately down two tumblers of lemon garnished water, gulping with as much savor as a child in a two-handed, cold milk clench, chasing a warm brownie, and I reflected upon how--like the water replenishing me--I had drunk-in and absorbed the majestic charms of St. Charles on that humid, warm and blustery September afternoon, feeling my soul, too, had been quenched.