Here's a snippet:
The New Orleans of my imagination is the New Orleans of Jitterbug Perfume, Interview with the Vampire, and The Awakening. The New Orleans of my soul is the New Orleans of Jazzfest and Dr. John, Professor Longhair, Beausoleil, and Robert Cray. Because somehow every time I’ve seen Cray perform live it’s been in New Orleans. The New Orleans of my belly is the New Orleans of Calvin Trillin, whose decades-old essays strike a chord. And the New Orleans of my heart is the New Orleans where I spent a weekend not fucking the guy I’d wanted to fuck my entire sophomore year, where I got lost in the Spanish moss of the Garden District, where my husband and I both saw Harry Connick, Jr. play years before we would ever meet, and where I built houses and worked with youth in the juvenile care system. It’s where my people are from, and where my tastes were formed.
We arrived midday, hungry, a little tired, and ready to strike. Most of our traveling companions were late and wanted us to wait for them before heading off for an afternoon of exploration. Two met us in the lobby, and we decided to head upstairs for naps, showers, whatever. Our whatever started the minute the door closed, and now I can’t remember if we even managed to get our clothes off before twisting ourselves in the fresh sheets of the pristine hotel bed. It was hard and fast and deliberate, as though we knew that the weekend might not offer too many chances for afternoon delights or aperitifs of a carnal sort. We devoured one another, briefly quenching one appetite while we built another, sliding into the rhythm that the city that care forgot bestows on her worthy visitors.
"Café du Monde. Got a table.” The text was unexpected, its meaning unmistakable...