On the final morning in New Orleans, wouldn’t you know it, the sky was overcast, my favorite appearance, perfect writing weather, but still wouldn’t it have been nice to see the sun’s rays on the Mississippi? Of course it would.
Strolling by the river, back to the French Quarter, and then back to the business part of town, just past Canal. There, on a corner, is Mother’s: A bricked establishment with a long room and glassed counters where some of the world’s best sandwiches are prepared.
President Obama, on TV, was basking in a post-killing of Bin Laden. Behind the counter, one of the workers said, “That be my husband!” Which I felt was a fascinating, tender statement that made me so happy I could feel it in my body.
After ordering the Mother’s special sandwich, which was ham, roast beef, and “debris” (roast beef bits), kibitzing ensued with the cashier after I told the sweet, young thing that I’d seen Wyclef on Friday. “Aw, man,” she said, “I wanted to see him, too, but I never go to jazz fest ’cause there’s too many people. But maybe I’ll go see Lauryn Hill next weekend!”
The sandwich? We’re talking The Perfect Airplane Picnic.