Throwing his bag on the neatly made hotel bed, he hurriedly checked his watch. After a small delay at the airport, he still had enough time to make it. Quickly he unpacked and hung up anything that could get easily wrinkled. He kicked off his boots, slipped on a pair of loafers, and grabbed his worn-out blue chore coat before . . .
In red neon cursive "BAR" glowed in the afternoon shade. Before pushing the door open, he respectfully unrolled the sleeves of the striped blue Oxford down to his wrists concealing the faded lines inked into his skin. The humidity outside permitted a less formal approach, but the small brass sign on the door clearly . . .
As he crossed the tracks on Canal he could faintly make out the gruff voice of a trombone from deep within the Quarter. He glanced down at his wrist out of habit and laughed because he had intentionally left his watch at the hotel. No matter. Crossing this historic street was as close to stepping back in time as one can get. The . . .