Sometimes New Orleans feels like a city with urban problems of population and planning. Other times it feels like a small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business and you see the same people over and over again, even if in different contexts. And It always feels like a place in flux. But tonight New Orleans felt like the tropics. I saved my bike ride for the evening when I rode to a pizza place for dinner and then to the Saint for A.’s pinball challenge. I then went to the Half Moon for darts versus A. and N. I ended with a tipsy ride home by night, the air filled with the sound of croaking frogs. Usually when I hear these sounds, I figure I won’t see the culprits. My fireplace sounds like bats, but I see no bats, thank God. The tree outside my house vibrates with noise, but I never see whatever causes it. Tonight I heard the tell-tale croaking of frogs; I wanted to see the frogs, prove where the sound was coming from. This ended up being a ridiculously easy task. The gutter on Annunciation was full of them, including this fellow, all puffed up with sound. I was reminded tonight that I am not the only one who chooses to call this hot, wet, humid place, home. I’m happy to share.