Deliola (deliola) wrote,

Лечу в Одессу

...In the spring, the air was heavy with the smell of the acacia trees. The streets were blooming with horse chestnuts. The wild lilac, on the way to the cemetery, was right on time for my birthday. My greatgrandfather took me there every weekend, to the place of the quiet life of my dead ancestors. The place was spooky with wild growth, greedy coming to the light, growing vigorously on the fertile remains. It looked more like a jungle, and certainly not a safe place to be alone. When Passover would come around the old cemetery became alive with families, coming to visit their dead. It was like a picnic with children running and families gathering next to the graves with customary shotglasses of vodka for the ones who were gone.
Many years later, I was wondering why New Orleans felt so familiar. After the first visit I wanted to come back for more. Maybe, at that first night, in the small cemetery with the violin playing in the moonlight, or in the hidden beauty of the courtyards, or in the midst of the crowd trying to live life to the fullest, I felt my Odessa. In any other city the spirit was missing. Yes pretty, yes nice, but it was not the one that would capture your heart forever. In New Orleans, streets and houses were full of shadows from the ones who were gone. Garden District felt like the road from my childhood with wild lilac and ageless trees...
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