Bastille Day

July 14th began at the counter of a diner in Alexandria, Louisiana, a country town with corn fields and baseball diamonds and minimalls some three hours northwest of the Big Easy. The summer humidity rose steadily in the early morning hours as I perused the greased menu. The waitresses scuffled past while calling out to the regular customers and the cook.

The man on my right, eating bacon and grits and wearing a worn baseball cap, brought me up to speed on the topic of the day. "We were just conversing about daw-ags."

"I'm sorry?" I looked at him with a puzzled expression.

"Daw-ags," he repeated. I gave him a blank look.

"Daw-ags."

Finally it dawned on me that the topic of conversation, rendered in two syllables according to Louisiana-speak, was dogs.

Much later that evening, I was sampling New Zealand sauvignon blanc, cumquat-grilled chicken skewers and avocado soup at a benefit function in New Orleans. The room was electric with socialites' anticipation of the arrival of the main event: The Sexiest Man Alive.

Moments later I was shaking the hand of Brad Pitt himself, sharing a few nervous words with him about the rehabiliation of the city. Gulp.


Then it was on to a Bastille Day celebration in the French Quarter, sponsored by the French Consulate. A rowdy Cajun band fiddled and toe-tapped in front of throbbing and sweating couples. The wooden dancefloor and the gallery above, ringed with twinkling lights, were seeped in the revelry and music of 150 years of socialites and celebrities and debutantes and country boys and fiddlers.