It was good, albeit brief, to check back in with the denizens of St. Philip street, of the Faubourg St. John, of American Routes and New Orleans in general, while I was in town for jazzfest.
Maybe one of my favorite encounters may have come at the Fais Do Do stage.
This guy looks an awful lot like Alan, my nosy mailman. If he’s not, he captures Alan’s effortless essence: which is to say, this guy cut quite a rug. I kind of always imagined that Alan does.
So is it really him? I will never know. By the time I move back, there likely will be no Alan: he’s just filling in while a fellow letter carrier is taking end-of-career sick leave. He’ll have moved on, keeping close watch on someone else’s mail.
I know I’m rhapsdizing about this a little too much. But in Los Angeles, I have no idea who carries my mail. I see my neighbors, but don’t talk to them. When we had a massive fire in Griffith Park two weeks ago, with a view of a swirling burning hillside from my street, we all gathered outside next to the recycling, but they just looked at me. Sure, I had a couple of beers with my friend Queena last night at the Tee Yee, but that hardly counts as meeting a neighbor; I met her down at the Frank Stanton Studios.
I miss this about Louisiana.
Cut the rug!
