The Room above the Noodle Shop

The Room above the Noodle Shop

He passed again today in that slow deliberate way he has of seeming always to be going somewhere else but content as well to be exactly where he is, and I watched this time more closely as he went from shop to shop, corner to corner, passing here or there in some uncommon random way to consider where he was or where he was going or perhaps, even, where he had been;

and I was sure his life was full of stories and adventures of lust and longing and all the lives he’s lived; full of places and people and stories forever changed by his passing; and so I followed as he walked this way from corner to corner and block to block, and with each step the mystery and the marvel grew and grew from large to grand until I was quite sure I could never, even if I lived forever and walked the miles and blocks and corners on my own, know such a life as he must know.

And I found myself falling into that moment just before despair that always seems to follow when we look too closely at our lives compared to others and find them somewhat lacking, and just when I began to fear my life may really be as dismal as one life can be, the man I had been following, admiring, envying stopped at a door set into a nook right beside a noodle shop window, and with a nod to the woman just closing the shades, he took out a key, unlocked the door and began to climb the steps to the top.

Moving on ...

     It’s been the better part of a year since I laid to rest my best and truest friend. I have had many opportunities since to write the pain and joy of everyday living and post it here for the world to read. But each time I came and saw the picture of my dear old friend, I would have to leave it a little longer at the top of the page. A tribute to all he was to me for so long, for so much living. He is still missed.
  
     I have been spending a good part of my life for the past month in the French Quarter, the Vieux Carre, working weekends for friends of mine who have a shop on Royal. And rediscovering the city girl who has been so long on the bayou she had almost forgotten how to drive in the city. That’s a common phenomenon here, apparently. For years I have listened to folks tell me they “don’t drive in the city.” For years I have wondered what that meant. I had begun to discover that in myself until I started coming in on weekends, finding my way into the Vieux Carre, maneuvering the narrow streets, avoiding unfortunate encounters with pedestrians and bicycles. I have discovered one gets better with practice.

     As long as one remembers the pedestrians have the right of way.

     Always.

     Even when they are wrong.