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  • The golden lily, the plantations, the cuisine and the bistro’s, the quarter downtown, everything speaks French in New Orleans. They reach their hotel. It’s a few steps from Bourbon St. The room opens onto an inside courtyard, the beds are too soft, the bathroom tiny, and the air conditioning doesn’t work… They look at each other and burst out laughing… This is the real New Orleans style… They both hate luxury hotels, where they are forced to go for work. They hastily undo their bags, but they don’t know where to put things. They give up.
    They go out armed with camera and videocamera, they turn the corner and no longer know where to point their lenses… The feast is all over… in the streets, where people are dancing, on the balconies from which people throw beads, , in the cafe’s and pubs where jazz is played. Everywhere the “hurricane” is the drink.
    They weave their way through the last overcrowded tract, holding hands so as not to lose each other. They reach Canal St. and pick a strategic place from which to watch the parade.
    They take pictures of people as they wait for the floats, make friends with a middle-aged couple, Théo goes to buy fried chicken wings at a stand nearby. Then arrive the first police cars, the firemen’s truck, the military. The band and jazz are accompanied by a hurricane of colors that hits them like the rain of beads being thrown from the floats. They take pictures, wave their arms about to catch the gadgets and scream along with everyone else “I’m here!”
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