How to acquire gout

Field report #11 – the monthly longer essay for supporters

A vintage New Orleans postcard

The trip is a last-minute fling. A few weeks ago, a close friend told me he and his wife were renting a house in New Orleans. The friend’s brother had lived there for years, but was potentially moving to New York, and the vibe was one-last-hurrah. And the rental house had plenty of room – if I could make it to Louisiana, there was a bedroom and a couple days planned of restaurants and bars, plus a Mardi Gras parade, the early-season kind attended by locals.

The frequent-flyer balance said there were miles to spare. My wife said she preferred to stay home. I hadn’t been to New Orleans since high school, when I went with my church to work for Habitat for Humanity; basically, I’d never experienced New Orleans as an adult.

Therefore, I did not board the plane intending, within forty-eight hours, to propose marriage to a young woman late at night in a piano bar. But some things happen as the universe wants.