My phone alarm sounds at 11:25 a.m. – ding ding ding ding ding. I throw on my coat, adorn my earphones, and head into the cold – popping a King Mint into my mouth as I haul the empty stroller down our front steps. The sun is shining – that bright globe I’ve missed so much. My boots click on the cobbled road as I cross the street, passing by a lane of Antwerp city bicycles ready to transport anyone from here to there. I walk at a clip place – I have a habit of always cutting it close.
The metal gate glides open and the guard waves me through. I hand him my passport and he smiles. Asks me to pull my car off to the side. I turn the engine off and step into the cold, walk the short distance to the guard’s booth. Another mom traverses the second barrier, hands the French-speaking guard her ID. The two frozen men in the tiny booth joke they want chocolate in return for the favor. I offer Girl Scout cookies instead. There’s document signing, ID checking, photo-taking, etc. etc. etc. After giving them a blood sample and a promise
The idea began with me laughing and shaking my head at Facebook posts. My husband grew up in Louisiana, and his fraternity brothers all married beautiful southern-born women. While Texas has its own way of doing things, I can admit it’s probably a little more rugged and less refined than its southern sisters. With firmly planted French roots, New Orleans has a unique and sophisticated manner of decorating, speaking, and hosting. Back in September I swear, or maybe it was October, I saw Facebook posts requesting recommendations for mother-daughter Christmas teas in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. I smirked. I