A couple lovely days in the Delta and it was time to head back to New Orleans, so I strapped the bike to the back of the car (and yes, I spent the entire ride staring at it in the rear view mirror, pretty sure it was about to fly off–can anyone explain how that flimsy thing can hold anything on my car while I drive 75 down the interstate?), loaded in S. and the dog and the new snazzy Christmas record player, and we were off. We wanted to get back in time for the Saints game. Yeah, we have a football team, and they were playing thee Falcons tonight. But the time I unpacked and ran a few errands, it was time to ride down to the Treme for the big screen and friends. I was running a few minutes late, so the streets were just empty. I saw more cars in the Delta. I zipped through the cold along the same streets I’m always on, and the familiarity meant I could just zone out and wheeeee down the smooth asphalt on Simon Bolivar. The game ripped my heart out and then put it back in and I stayed talking to R. for a couple hours before heading home. I comfortably took the same roads, even emptier late and in freezing temps, watching out for this terrible broken piece of the road on Baronne between Josephine and Jackson. The streetlight is out here and two lanes suddenly become a small strip between two gravel pits. You’ve got to know they’re coming up, or you are going to be in for a terrible surprise. But I know they’re there–it’s good to be home.
Which Crosley did you get?
It was a gift to my friend–I’m not sure of the model, but it appears to do *everything*!