Somewhere

New Orleans is a case study in a geography text book. New Orleans is a story someone casually throws at me, which I catch and hold and can’t let go. New Orleans is a recurring dream I am always disappointed to wake from.
And then, New Orleans is the destination of the car I’m in. New Orleans is a collection of lights on the horizon, glittering over the swamp. New Orleans is the buildings rising into the dark above. New Orleans is the mass of rooftops, sprawling below this maze of flyover highways.
And then, New Orleans is the woman who calls me 'Baby,' as she places steaming bowls of gumbo on our table. New Orleans is the man playing chaotic saxophone, staggering along to his own jazz. New Orleans is the softly lit pockets of people, huddled on door stoops or sprawled on porches, who ask us how we’re doing as we pass them.
And then, New Orleans is this old man, with a face creased from smiling, and a white beard that seems eager to take part in our conversation, too. He offers me a shot of whiskey, and tells me stories of destruction.
“Flooded all the way up to the balcony,” he says, of the building we are perched outside. “And a whole group stuck on that balcony for almost a week. Can you imagine?”
The recent rain glitters on the street lit tarmac, and the warm wind twitches the palms. The old man’s cigarette smoke curls around me. I close my eyes, and try to feel disaster in the air.
“It took us two years,” he says. “Two years to get this place back to how it is. I gotta photo album of it all somewhere. All the work we did. Was showin’ it to a girl just the other day. She looked at it, and you know what she said?”
I shake my head, accept a shot of whiskey.
“She said… The amazing thing is, in every photograph, you’re all smiling!” There is a gentle silence.
“You know what I said?” He murmurs. I shake my head again.
“I said… Well we didn’t take pictures of the times we were CRYING, did we!?” He shouts, making me jump. He laughs.
It’s almost been ten years. “Has it changed the city?” I ask.
Something deep inside him chuckles. “Oh… Yes.” I decline another shot, ask him how.
He sparkles at me. “We’re all fucking crazier than ever.” He says. “We shouldn’t be here, really, but we are. The people who came back, after that, we’re all crazy. We looked it all in the face, and we still came back. Imagine,” he smiles, again, tips his head back, whiskey down his throat. “Imagine living in a place where the apocalypse already happened once.”