The cold air is warming for a day or two. The Woods were lovely and cold. The Old Man watched a Blue Jay, oblivious to being watched. He was about his business in the New Year. It is not the Arctic air as much as the wind. Thoughts hearken to New Orleans and the French Quarter. There is a culture dedicated to Joy. There is a joy in living that we often ignore. There are things to do and bills to pay. Joy is a reward we defer to when we retire or take a holiday. The majority of our time is spent putting our nose to the grindstone. We Americans especially the Baby Boomers, were raised to produce and not be slow about it. Keep your nose to the grindstone and avoid frivolity. Paul said that when he was a child, he enjoyed childish things, but when he became a man, he gave them up. Perhaps that is not sound advice. I marvelled when I passed thousands of students at Southern Illinois University and found most of the faces I saw were sullen, lonely, and sad. We have lost the plot.

Joy is the purpose and the meaning of life. The French Quarter taught me there is a better way. Spontaneous eruptions of joy occurred all over the French Quarter. It is invigorating to witness lifting of our human experience to the Angels. Happiness broke out across our Holiday in the Big Easy. We were met with smiles, song, music, and dancing. We had a server at the Bourbon Street Cafe who was original. She not only caused us to feel welcome but also made us participants in the Joy. The slowed-down acceptance of life as it presents itself was refreshing. A jazz band played on the corner. When we left the Bourbon Street Restaurant, where I enjoyed some wonderful parboiled oysters, we found ourselves in the midst of a street party. Many were singing and cheering while a young man danced with abandon in the middle of the street. He was in another world.

So the French Quarter felt a bit like a Cruise. The Hotel Monteleone had wonderful accommodations and music. Across the street was the Brass Monkey and a Fine Art Studio where MJ discovered a piece. Just down the road was Meyers Hat Shop, where I purchased a delightful Pork Pie Hat. Mr. Meyers was there at 101 years old and working behind the counter. Many ladies were having their photos taken with Mr. Meyers, the Hat Man. One woman told him how cute he was, to which he replied that he was not cute. The women laughed, knowing that he was. The Meyers’ Hat Store looked throughout the store for a Pork Pie Hat that would fit the Old Man. He found a perfect straw one. I wore it the remainder of my time in the French Quarter.

The relaxed feeling in the Hotel Monteleone was compelling. A luxorious Grandfather Clock was in the Lobby. People from all over the world were staying there. Old people middle aged and young are all enjoying together. At our Sunday Breakfast with musical accompaniment, an old couple sat next to us. The old gentleman was putting in his hearing aids, and I felt a kinship with them. I noticed on the Train that they were on board with us and wondered if we might have met.

The Old Man watched the Love Dance at the Hotel Bar. Couples rejoiced in the moment of Joy as they flirted with each other and sought companionship. Old Men flirting with young women, temporarily forgetting their place in life. A tall lady squatted on her knees and rocked and rolled to the jazz music. She was in Nirvana and worried not who was around her. Rest for the weary and hope for the hurting. An Oasis in the desert of authoritarian government and meanness towards those who do not fit the mold of the leader. The French Quarter breaks the mold of the Dictator and those who would control the lives of others.