Goodbye, Crescent City

On my last night in New Orleans, I said goodbye to the vampires.

It seemed only polite.

I had spent several weeks wandering through the French Quarter, eating beignets at unreasonable hours and drinking things with names that sounded like minor curses. I had admired the balconies, the jazz, the crooked little streets that seemed to know secrets I didn't.

And, occasionally, I had noticed the vampires.

At first, I thought they were simply unusually pale tourists.

Then there was the man who never appeared in mirrors.

Then the woman who hissed when the waiter brought her garlic fries.

Then, of course, there was the gentleman who invited me to his house and became mysteriously offended when I asked whether he owned a coffin.

By the third week, I had accepted that New Orleans had a vampire problem.

Or perhaps I was the problem.

Either way, I decided it was time to leave.

On my final evening, I stood by the Mississippi with my suitcase beside me.

“Thank you,” I whispered to the city.

Thank you for the music spilling from doorways.

Thank you for the warm nights and the strange encounters.

Thank you for teaching me that some cities feel less like places and more like living creatures with excellent taste in cocktails.

And thank you, especially, for not letting the vampires eat me.

A breeze moved through the trees.

Somewhere behind me, I heard a voice.

“You're welcome.”

I turned.

Nobody was there.

I grabbed my suitcase and walked faster.

New Orleans had been beautiful.

New Orleans had been magical.

New Orleans had nearly gotten me killed by the undead.

I would miss it terribly.

But some goodbyes are best said from several states away.