em janeiro de noventa e um estava de férias em new orleans e muito muito apaixonado. passava as tardes no french quarter a beber hurricanes no pat o’brien’s e as noites em pé ou sentado ao balcão da maison bourbon com uma dixie gelada na mão a ouvir jazz. comia cajun junk, passeava pelo cemitério, olhava para o mississippi com saudades do tejo e, pelo meio, escrevia religiosamente duas cartas por dia à minha namorada. quando passava pelo hotel (o velho andrew jackson na royal st., decadente, assombrado e irresistível) pedia ao ethan, um dos recepcionistas, para mas levar ao correio. ele lia a morada (porto, portugal) e sorria. confessou-me mais tarde que achava curioso endereçar cartas a uma bebida. i wish i was in new orleans.

Well, I wish I was in New Orleans, I can see it in my dreams,


Arm-in-arm down Burgundy, a bottle and my friends and me

Hoist up a few tall cool ones, play some pool and listen


To that tenor saxophone calling me home


And I can hear the band begin "When the Saints Go Marching In",


And by the whiskers on my chin, New Orleans, I'll be there

I'll drink you under the table, be red-nosed, go for walks,


The old haunts what I wants is red beans and rice


And wear the dress I like so well, and meet me at the old saloon,


Make sure that there's a Dixie moon, New Orleans, I'll be there

And deal the cards roll the dice, if it ain't that old Chuck E. Weiss,


And Claiborne Avenue, me and you Sam Jones and all

And I wish I was in New Orleans, 'cause I can see it in my dreams,


Arm-in-arm down Burgundy, a bottle and my friends and me


New Orleans, I'll be there