A lot of years ago, Harold and I planned our first trip together. It was more than just a romantic trip away. It was the very first time we ever met each other in real life. As I looked through the cities we could meet in, one city jumped to the top. New Orleans, city of Jazz, city of stories, city of the dead. I’d been there once when I was 12 years old and I’d fallen in love with it. It seemed fitting that we should meet there.
It was a whirlwind week full of romance, fun, and partying. Our favourite place was a dueling piano bar at Pat O’Brien’s. We went there three nights in a row, and on our fourth night, one of the piano players called attention to us, “You lovebirds have been here all week! Welcome back!” She meant it as a nicety, but it embarrassed us. We found other places to go after that.
This trip we couldn’t wait to go back to all our old haunts, even the piano bar. I half expected it to be gone, but it was right where we’d left it. Even the entertainers were the same. We couldn’t believe our luck.
I don’t know though. We’re just not really repeaters at heart. The first time is always the best, and there are so many other places in the world we haven’t been yet. It was fun to return, but after a few days, we were more than ready to move on.
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