It is so, so humid here. I know, I know–that’s New Orleans. But really people, it’s crazy humid here lately. When I rode to the coffee shop today it was pouring rain, but then it stopped and the sun came out and the steam was rising. I headed down to the Treme for drinks with friends tonight, and as soon as I pulled the Surly out of my air conditioned apartment my glasses fogged up and my handlebars were wet with condensation. But it’s fall, so it should let up a little soon. I rode home from Frenchman Street after a low-key evening, which put me on St. Charles. It was a treacherous ride through the Quarter and the CBD. I narrowly missed several drunk pedestrians and avoided many cars that seemed intent on squeezing me out. The streets are just terrible down there. The streetcar tracks leave pockmarks everywhere, and then there’re just the regular potholes. But then I hit Louisiana. The city has just finished laying down new asphalt in early anticipation of the Super Bowl four years from now. Riding around here I forget what it feels like to ride on smooth surfaces. Riding on Louisiana feels like riding on ice, like I’m just streaking along, legs pumping without thought, zip-zip-zipping through the air. It is magic, I tell you. I dream of a city with freshly paved streets and bike lanes and wide shoulders. Oh yeah. Sweet dreams.