Arriving at the Amtrak station in New Orleans was such a relief, more than anything.  Long, largely boring, sleep-deprived trip was over, now enjoying myself seemed like an attainable reality, rather than an abstract idea at the end of a thousand miles of train track.  Enjoying myself was going to begin with relaxing; sitting down on something that wasn't moving.  Unfortunately, our perceived short jaunt to the hotel turned out to be a little longer than expected.  It was made more cumbersome for me by the fact that I tried to be helpful and I traded one of my rolling suitcases for bag with a strap that I wore like a satchel, and was probably as heavy or heavier than my rolling bag I traded.  I was already wearing my heavy backpack, so whatever side I put the bag on, that shoulder started getting very sore.  I also offered to take another person's bag, as it was not rolling right, so, since I had a free hand, I could just carry it.  I ended up carrying 50 lbs or more on me for blocks and blocks, and I began to wear down a little as we got close.  It may have been more psychological than physical, with my mind becoming anxious and weary, so it produced somatic symptoms of fatigue.  Regardless, I made it, though I soon found out the train ride was haunting me, as I felt like I was a buoy on a choppy ocean, or just really buzzed.

Jump ahead and we're on the ghost tour, which was pretty interesting.  I love good stories, and our tour guide told a good story, but then again, the city provided the fodder, her script written by history.  Walking through the French Quarter and hearing these sad and brutal tales, I couldn't help but think of Disney World; going there as a kid and seeing the different parts of the park with different countries and cultures as a general theme.  A family friendly, white-washed facade.  Now, walking the real streets of New Orleans, picturing in my head the people and events being spoken of, feeling the soul of the city creep up and overtake you momentarily like an aroma on a breeze, I still couldn't help but think I was still walking through Disney World, viewing not history, but a sketch of it, too real to be real.  That being said, I still got caught up in the poetry and darkness of it all, reveling in the exquisite beauty of human tragedy provided by a city whose world-renowned liveliness is matched by the death that it is both literally and figuratively built upon.

Once returned to my hotel room, lying in the dark with my eyes closed, I was still haunted by one particular spirit....that damn train ride.  I still felt like I was floating in choppy seas, and I could see trees going by on the screens of my inner eyelids!