There is nothing lovely or quaint or picturesque about this street. Iberville. I look down its grimy canyon from my spot on the balcony, past the balcony of the Penthouse Club next door where the strippers and the bouncers come out for their cigarette breaks, the girls in thongs and spangly bras, the men in dark suits, down to the end of the block where the Hard Rock dominates the corner where Iberville crosses Bourbon. Below me, an Orleans Parish Sheriff patrol car nudges it’s way to the curb between two traffic cones. The cop is off-duty, working a shift doing security for the Acme Oyster House, where the line to get in extends halfway down the block.
Thank you! This piece falls under the general heading of "The Memory Project" where I'm trying to understand what has formed me into the person I am. As usual, I had no idea where it was going to go when I started sketching the scene from our balcony in New Orleans.
Splendid memoir, Scott. I admire the deep dive into memories, how you play them through the theme of cities, and with what candor.
Thank you! This piece falls under the general heading of "The Memory Project" where I'm trying to understand what has formed me into the person I am. As usual, I had no idea where it was going to go when I started sketching the scene from our balcony in New Orleans.
It says a lot that that scene led you so far.
Keep going!