These vignettes of an analog world have an ineluctable charm. This is a neighborhood from a different era and empire; from a foregone manner of city planning. The flickering gas lamps illuminate the cobblestone walkways and narrow streets; cast a warm glow beneath the balconies adorned with ornament and extravagance. The sense of place here is unparalleled. Its history lives on.
But our places are not meant to become a performance of their former selves. Times change, as do our livelihoods and needs. These streets are not sacrosanct; they are ours, as we are and as we become. As we desire.
Even if that desire manifests into a theme park of debauchery and indulgence. Boisterous here are the mirages of sex, alcohol, and music—of the youthful yearnings subdued from lives back home. Finish your étouffée and come grab a frozen daiquiri served in an oversized cock-shaped plastic cup. Indulge in the sinful desires without the introspection of the sin itself: why must these be a sin? Why do we preclude ourselves from letting loose? The band is playing, and bodies are dancing. Why not let the good times roll, if only for one stiff drink?
