First Draft

Betsy’s Pancake House was over 12 hours ago. Where did the time go? Life with K. is always an adventure – each day a tiny adventure, each hour, each minute. Time spent passes slowly yet it’s a rush, all at once. 

Betsy’s Pancake House has decor reminiscent of 1980s curtains: blue and pink floral, not bright, but dull, just like the staff and clientele. Everyone was dressed in their Saints gear, not that K. or I care. 

There aren’t endless coffee refills, this is no IHOP, but at least one refill, one measly refill, is offered during the meal – a meal just as bland, but it’s a simple breakfast, and gets the job done.

And so the day begins. 

I hop onto the back of the Vespa, and we zoom down Canal Street, on the way to the Lower Ninth Ward. The sun is peering over the elevated walking trail along the Mississippi River, and a distraught looking gentleman, well, hardly a gentleman, just a man, wanders down the hill, shirtless. 

We pass the secluded neighborhoods, passing by an swanky looking mystery building that is apparently a nonprofit. We learned this by slowing down the ride and asking a friendly couple out for a walk. 

“This is a nice neighborhood,” K. said. “But you already knew that.”

The homes are just as colorful as the Bywater or Marigny, or any neighborhood in New Orleans, really, but at the end of the street, we marveled at the Steamboat Houses: large, decadent homes, with white pearled concrete beads that drape above the wrapping porch and balcony. Truly, a sight to see, as though transported in time, back to a simpler era. The Steamboat Houses sit across from one another, one open and easily accessible from the street, the other ever so slightly hidden by bushes and a grassy gate. 

Moving on, as we always do. Never lingering too long, not overstaying our welcome. It’s just a little taste, a little sliver of a moment while the next moment is simmering. And we’re off, ticking through the day like the sun across the sky.

And we’re off. Yet again. Dashing through the city like the strokes of our pens. Keeping a finger on the pulse of New Orleans, while I keep my arms wrapped tightly around K.’s waist, holding onto each moment before letting it go. 

Originally, the plan was to go to Italian Barrel, as K. and I were in the mood for clams, linguine and clams, specifically. But keeping a plan is difficult when life is an adventure, a spontaneous revelry. 

We headed Uptown, taking a pit stop at Octavia Bookstore, then at Whole Foods where every woman was wearing her tightest yoga pants, sports bra, and/or biker shorts. 

“There’s gotta be a yoga studio around here, somewhere,” K. said. K. darted through Whole Foods, swiftly snatching an apple, a pear, a loaf of sourdough, a sparkling mineral water, and a block of sheep’s cheese. 

We made our way to Audubon Park, passing a nearby Pilates studio on the way, which made K. content with his inclination. There was at first some trickling rain, but it soon passed, and the sun peered from behind the clouds. What time was it? Not once did I look at my phone. I was captivated, consumed by the moment – every tiny moment. 

K. and I sat on the steps by a pond with a spewing fountain, whose sheets of water created a gorgeous rainbow that went in and out of visibility. Our Whole Foods bag as our tablecloth, K. sliced bread, fruit, and cheese, and we nibbled in peace.

A harmonica played in the background, and while K. appreciated the architecture of the structure near the steps, I quickly did a cartwheel, and gleefully skipped back to the Vespa. 

Moving on…

Holy Ground, a popular spot for K. and I, was next on the agenda. Oh, right, did I mention I tried on brass knuckles at one of the Brown Derbys? When was that?

I sat outside Holy Ground, sipping a double Amaretto Sour, waiting on K. to return with some beef dumplings, mashed potatoes, and shrimp toast. We devoured the delicious dumplings, and saved the rest of the shrimp toast for K.’s chickens. We sat outside, in our usual table by an old clawfoot tub converted into a planter, the same table we sat at the night prior, having to bribe a guy who sat there with a piece of pizza to regain our rightful spot. Everyone loves a slice of pie. He was hungry, and happy to move. 

At some point in the day, we stopped at Michael’s and Lowe’s, so we unloaded our finds in the back garden, drank warm vodka sodas, and listened to ambient music on K.’s laptop. 

And then we were off, once again, onto the next little adventure. What was it this time? IHOP? Probably. Oh, that’s right, how could I have forgotten? Before hanging in the back garden, we stopped at Petco so K. could buy 30 large goldfish for the broken fountain in the garden. I held the bag as the fish nibbled on my fingertips. 

King was in usual King form today. He was even more King than usual, if that is even possible. 

“Will you catch a bird for me?” he asked the Petco attendant. I looked up with admiration, confusion, and glee. K. wanted a parakeet. An impulse buy, sure, but why not own a little bird? He pointed to a periwinkle one, but I liked the yellow and teal one better. Ed, another employee, unlocked the container and scooped out the bird with a red, mesh net, then dumped the bird into a takeout box. 

It was most Bitter Sweet. 

Living la dolce vita, an oh so European day. 

Bitter Sweet, K.’s new parakeet, escaped when we returned to the garden. He chased it and cornered it, until securing it in his hands, and I plucked a loose feather from his tail, one perfectly ready for one of K.’s fedoras. 

I suppose there are forgotten things, not so “forgotten” but rather unmentioned, like coffee at Toast, lots of singing and kneeling at Mass, and espresso and treats at Angelo Brocato. It was a beautiful, New Orleans day, unlike and just like so many others: K. and Felicity, living a dream, a life, so deliciously sweet.