As I approach Rue Bassin, a fecund odor, one that is similar to decomposition, replaces the pillows of balmy air drifting intermittently off Lake Pontchartrain. Not far away lie a garbage pit and a giant divot of a trench full of offal and a string of houses with red lamps in the windows. In a large courtyard is an ale and wine shop that has outdoor tables and offers escorts for the evening. None of the customers are in uniform, but I know the cadences of Boston and New York and Michigan when I hear them. And that does not mean my own class is not there, because they certainly are, every one
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