"I have nothing but love for you."
We left Birmingham with magic muffins and a vanful of everything we could imagine needing for the rest of the road trip, and then we set ourselves in the direction of New Orleans and drove.
It didn't take too many hours to get to the city, where live oaks arch over the streets with names we can't pronounce and more people than we'll ever know. The French Quarter is big enough to feel overwhelming, but small enough to see the same dark-suited guy who rushed to pay for parking at the same meter as us before running off to meet his girlfriend, with whom he walked right past us and our busking, along Jackson square, a few hours later. We had wandered in and around the square before setting up instruments on the corner across from a beignet shop. "We're leaving, if you want our spot," a masked man told us who was also hoping to earn a few bucks by entertaining people who walked by. It looked like Mardi Gras vomited all over him, or maybe like he went swimming in a pool of New Orleans pride. He and his buddy's arms and leg were painted to match their shiny silver-green-gold faces and court jester hats. They went off with a friendly wave, and we shuffled in to take their place in the tourist-trap area. We were tourists, and we were trapped, too, in the crazy French-American waterside city that made us feel close and far to everything familiar. And we loved it.
"I have nothing but love for you," a woman told the homeless man who approached her while she was talking to us, gently quieting his request for money, but placing her hand on his shoulder and looking him directly in the eye. The homeless man thanked her and slowly wandered off, and the woman turned to us again. She had several loose, flowing skirts wrapped around her waist and an overall style that was suggestive of a forest nymph, or something ethereal. She wasn't in the forest though, but seemed settled with a station of paintings set up next to where we were busking. We sang one song, and she stood up and stared at us with a wide smile, nodding and clapping when we were finished. "My work is about desire too," she said, after overhearing us mention a song about love. She pointed to the biggest canvas which was tacked up on the wire fence, a painting of a New Orleans street. "Tennessee Williams," she said. "Streetcar Named Desire." She looked back and forth between us and her painting with so much pride I thought she might burst. "You want to see what's on the back?" Before we could answer, she had pulled it down off the fence, turned it over, and began reading the poem that was scrawled out in messy handwriting. It was sweet and sincere, and it was about all of us taking part of this whole human experience together. She never told us her name, but she seemed so happy to share a little bit of her artistic output, as we tried to share ours. Maybe we had nothing in common, but maybe not. Either way was okay.
