I'm sitting here, inside, at my desk, New Orleans literally at my feet (which are propped up on the windowsill). We're within walking distance of the French Quarter, where we spent hours wandering last night. Now that our work day is done I realize we should be rushing to hit the town again before we're whisked away tomorrow morning. And yet all I want to do is sit in one place, write this piece and enjoy the fact that, if I wanted to, I could take to the streets of New Orleans at a moment.
I was surprised to be so content with such simplicity. I'm absolutely happy just to be here, knowing it's all going on around me as I gaze out the window, watching the ebb and flow while I tap away at the keys. This is pretty much true of any great dest
ination. I do like to get my hands in the dirt, see the sights, taste the foods and watch it all folding me in. I'm okay with a little bit of touristiness, but just enough. It's absurd, since I could sit and write at home and it doesn't seem nearly as romantic. Just shift the setting outside this window, though, and there we are, and “oh, I just love this place” though my posture hasn't changed. The point is, I'm somewhere. Paris, Prague, Rome, wherever-- the idea is to become as much a local as possible, blend into the landscape. If people start asking me for directions, I feel a small surge of victory.
My ideal is to sit in the city, inside a cafe, writing it down as thoughts, images, sounds and smells come floating in, to engage in interludes with passing customers, locals and the occasional tourist. I want to find the places locals go and join their everyday lives. Nothing special to them. Like me shopping at Quincy Market, they wonder what is so captivating about their daily lives. A a visitor, though, it's enough to just be here in this place.
I have to concur with the aesthete who said he'd rather a room with a view of Buckingham Palace than a room inside the palace itself.