I've had enough.

I've actually had to stop reading the news. It's just too awful to think that everything in New Orleans is underwater or simply gone. As I was telling Tim earlier today, my heart weeps for the Garden District. It's selfish, I know, not to be as torn up about the other parts of town, but I don't think anything has to make sense right now. I find myself thinking the strangest things, like wishing that I had taken more pictures when Chris and I were there in January. I'll never forget when we were sitting in that cozy little jazz bar on Bourbon, getting progressively drunker on Abita beer, and they played "It Had To Be You." It was pouring big, heavy, Southern rain outside, and the only time we braved it that night was to dart next door and back to grab a quick hurricane because the Abita wasn't working fast enough. They had the heater on in the bar, possibly to compensate for the fact that all the doors and windows were open to let the music out; the humidity clung to everything, a pleasantly smothering sensation.

The next morning, we dragged ass down to Cafe du Monde, because it's what's done. Just as we were tucking into our evilly sugared beignets, the sax player standing on the sidewalk played "It Had To Be You." We laughed, and everything felt right. Everything felt right before, and everything has felt right since, but at that moment, it was tangible.

I'm glad I got to show Chris the houses, and cemeteries, and 300-year-old grime, and a city with a living, breathing soul made up of voodoo and whorehouses and cathedrals and oak trees. I just hope that someday, I can go back and see something of the city I remember.