It is said that you can still hear
the Irish whistle. Foggy nights walking along St. Charles, brick filling lines
the sidewalk, that has filled in channels that once served to collect all the
runoff from busy St. Charles Avenue. Many immigrants died while digging these,
and the unnamed Irish were buried right then and there. I know that I can’t be
the only one who feels like this, but New Orleans goes to sleep on Sunday
nights, no one is out in a city that normally is bustling with activity. Then I
feel like there is a time lapse. The giant and ancient oaks look a little
smaller, car sounds stop so that one could hear horses. The fog cloaks the
traffic lights, and all of a sudden, its 1910, and French can be heard from the
inside of stately mansions at a dining table.
There
is a timeless feeling that overwhelms New Orleans because of its resistance to
change. And what follows is an eerie feeling of somewhere between present and
past. And for that feeling, I go to walk New Orleans on Sunday nights, and I
can hear the Irish whistle.
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