A strange thing just happened.
There's a man who rides up and down the streets of the Bywater neighborhood in a beat-up F-150 bulging with produce. On the roof of the truck cab, he's bolted a low-rent PA system, which he uses to broadcast his wares. From blocks away you can hear him coming, his call thin and nasal and droning: "I got banaaaaanaaaaas, I got lettuuuuuce, I got okraaaaa...." Like the hum of window unit air-conditioners and the aerosol whoosh of mosquito trucks, the call of the Vegetable Man says "summer."
But a minute ago, while I was walking the dogs, I got confused. Maybe it's because the Vegetable Man was really far away--a good five blocks or so, scraps of his tinny voice carried on a rare breeze. Or maybe I was thinking about the news, or Midnight Express, or how much I've always wanted to visit the Hagia Sophia. Whatever the reason, from where I stood, the Vegetable Man's voice sounded like the Muslim call to prayer. You know the sound--you've heard it in countless movies and documentaries, echoing down arid streets, above the heads of vendors in souks, filling the corners of locations fantastic and mundane. And I thought to myself: "Wow. I know New Orleans is, like, exotic and all, but I had no idea...."
Half a second later, the realization hit, and I was back in New Orleans, watching my dogs chase one another on an empty lot that one of the neighbors is kind enough to keep mowed. And I said out loud, "Well, that was a nice vacation."
