On this side of
the ocean, for a quick and southern-magic infused getaway, my favorite vacation
spot is definitely New Orleans. I think Venice and New Orleans share a
mysterious and timeless energy I have yet to find in other cities. Both seem to
be encapsulated in a timeless bubble. The moment you arrive time stills and
hearts beat to a different, more melodic beat. Every breath we take becomes a
swaying of sensuous energy filling our beings with a relaxed and
willing-to-go-with the-flow attitude.
People in New
Orleans, especially around the French Quarter don’t just merely walk, they sort
of dance in a slow-motion swag, as if constantly listening to one of those
sultry jazzy tunes always caressing the air.
My favorite
hotel is the St. Pierre, right on the edge of the French Quarter and within
walking distance to all the major downtown attractions and trolley stops to the
Garden District and other areas of attraction. Its décor and design exemplifies
charming French Quarter architecture and ambiance. The guest rooms are located
amid lusciously landscaped courtyards, gurgling fountains and swimming pools. The
complimentary continental breakfast is a lot more than a simple meal. It
features biscuits and fluffy scrambled eggs. The coffee is strong and always freshly
brewed. But the most peculiar, and perhaps to some fearful attraction, is the
fact that the hotel seems to be haunted. As one of the oldest properties still
in existence today in New Orleans, guests of the Hotel St Pierre have reported
all sorts of ghostly happenings during their stay, especially in the old
Peyroux House, a hotspot of paranormal activity. What is heard most are the
sounds of footsteps. As we toured the property, Assistant General Manager Cody
McLain filled us in on a call that he had received just a few weeks earlier. One
woman staying in the carriage house directly behind the front lobby area called
to make a complaint. It was late at night, she was ready for sleep, and the
heavy sound of footsteps in the room above hers was driving her batty.
Naturally, she asked McLain to tell her upstairs neighbors to quiet down. There
was only one problem: No one was staying in the room above hers. The sounds of
heavy footfalls stomping about were not the sounds of a rambunctious guest, but
the sounds of a ghost—an entity of some sort—making its presence known during
the late hours of the night. Perhaps it is the spirit of one of the Peyroux
family members checking on the status of their old home; perhaps it is the
ghost of the Confederate soldier that is said to still haunt the property. Although
we can’t be certain who is responsible for the otherworldly activity, it
seems that the Hotel St Pierre meets their after-death standards and those
ghosts are here to stay. I always found this sort of places fascinating, but I
also know they’re not everybody cup of tea.
As far as attractions and things
to do, I would start with checking out all the little street art markets,
meander along the Mississipi bank and perhaps even take a tour on one of the
colorful steam river boats. A nice lunch break at Le Café du Monde (where, I kid you not, I actually tried
fried alligator tail and liked it) to savor Cajun specialties while listening
to a local jazz/blues live band.
The afternoons are for exploring the majestic
Garden District. Even on its busiest days, the neighborhood's large, graceful
mansions seem to invoke a hushed reverence among those who flock to see them. These mansions and the elegant landscaping around them are the main tourist attraction in the Garden District, but there are other must-sees as well. Make some time to just stroll around and admire the architecture and the marvelous details that make each mansion unique and don't forget to explore Lafayette Cemetery one of the famous New Orleans above-ground cemeteries. And perhaps finish with a visit to the Garden District Book Shop. One of the finest in the city and boasts author Anne Rice among its biggest fans. A cursory glance at the store's online calendar will give you information about interesting upcoming events, including book readings and signings with both local and out-of-town authors. Of particular interest is the shop's extensive selection of New Orleans and Louisiana-focused work. This always includes one or more books that contain directions for a self-guided walking tour of the neighborhood, so if that's of interest, stop in and pick one up before embarking on your own adventure.
The evenings are made to dress up in flowery dresses and strappy sandals, for reservations at one of the myriads delicious restaurants, and forget about diet restrictions for once. If you love spices, flavors and seafood, then Cajun and Creole cuisine are a must try! I adore Jambalaya and Gumbo. In New Orleans even okra loses its sliminess and acquires a tangy, almost arugula peppery flavor.
In Book I, Among the Cloud Dwellers I sent Porzia to New Orleans for a subliminally passionate weekend of delicious food, bubbly champagnes and magical lovemaking. I envied every single word I wrote in that chapter. Especially when she tried on a spaghetti strap, backless dress with no bra on, and her bosom held its own.
Yes, New Orleans is definitely one of not my favorite place to visit, especially in Spring and Fall.
***
The Bridge Across Times
Entrainement Series
Book II
Giuliana Sica
Genre: Magical Realism, WitchLit, PNR
Entrainement Series
Book II
Giuliana Sica
Genre: Magical Realism, WitchLit, PNR
Date of Publication: May 17th, 2019
ISBN: 9781797676142
ASIN: B07PKWTLT6
Number of pages: 244
Word Count: 63,496
Cover Artist: Enterline Design
Tagline: Join Porzia in her magic quest for a timeless soulmate.
Book Description:
Porzia's journey continues.
From the first page, Magic carries Porzia and all of us into an exotic and fantastic world. Emerging from two years of grief, her quest for a soul mate takes her to Japan where an unexpected encounter with a mysterious and fatally attractive artist unleashes an irresistible whirlwind of passion.
Music entangles them in a slow, sensuous dance. With the help of her esoteric teacher Evalena, Porzia has been honing her magic abilities. More confident and controlled, she now summons Magic at her will... with only an occasional flaring of rebellious powers.
Among scrumptious bites of delicious food and thirst-quenching sips of wine she summons a ghost from a distant past. The enigmatic message leaves her puzzled, but also determined to resolve the mystery hidden in the almond-shaped eyes of her dangerous and yet so passionate lover.
Each intriguing and intoxicating page is another luscious bite into Porzia's world and the magical possibilities that may be there for all of us.
PROLOGUE
Firenze, Italia. Galleria degli Uffizi.
The echo of the
security guard’s footsteps slowly faded toward the distant museum exit.
Silence.
Silence echoed
along the austere arcades on the first floor. Sunset filtered through the
ancient windows, the sun rays interrupted in their paths by massive walls.
Golden light ricocheted and dispersed off myriads of dancing dust motes. At the
end of the high-windowed Galleria, the heartbeat began to pound within the
chilled white marble of Michelangelo’s Davide. Life’s essence stirred through
his perfectly chiseled body until strength and heat gave him the power to move.
He slipped from his pedestal and headed toward Venere in Botticelli’s room.
Davide’s shadow
glided undisturbed amongst dozing masterpieces. On the upper level, beneath
gilded ceilings, silence reigned.
Venere stepped
out of her golden frame and leaving her seashell behind, she entered reality.
The Angels’ gazes followed her progress while her ancella gently smiled and
wiped a lonesome tear.
Still wet from
the scented sea mist, Venere’s long auburn hair trailed, barely covering her
glowing body. Desire stirred deep within her soul, conjuring rhythmic waves
within her.
She met Davide
on a sunset-lit windowsill. Doubts dissipated, washed away by the high tide of
her will. The lovers allowed the salt-scented mist to subdue them, slowly, to
unfold erotic dreams.
Please let
reality be what fantasy was.
As the sun’s
light faded away, she drew him in, savoring primitive rituals, riding the moist
rhythm of the waves to slowly drown their thirst. With the moon silently
smiling, they reached for the sky and left agony behind.
That was the
night my parents gave me life.
This life.
If I were a
color, I would be gold. Born under the blessing of the full moon, protected by
ageless winged guardians, I played hopscotch with Giotto on checkered floors
and hide-and-seek with masterpieces along marble staircases, among their golden
frames and moth-dappled velvet drapes. My tiny hands pressed against
rain-streaked windows while outside the river Arno swelled and found its way to
the sea.
I grew up in the
shadow of the Leaning tower of Pisa. And although the colors of Tuscany in
August blush my skin, it is the Manouche mystery that pounds through my veins.
I know the woods where Dante lost his way as the palm of my hand. I could
escort you to the Inferno door blindfolded, for I have knocked on it often
myself. I crossed the Mississippi River and heard Jesse James ask Huckleberry
Finn if he were real.
I swam with
dolphins in the Gulf of Mexico and danced with the Queen of New Orleans on a
wet, humid winter night. I got drunk with Ezili in Savannah and cursed life,
screaming at the moon in rage. I wandered in meadows restlessly and watched the
winds with a longing I could not understand.
I challenged the
Goddess, belied my powers, and regretted it all. I soared after a majestic
eagle toward a sinking sun and caught up with her by Ayers Rock, where,
anguished, I bowed. Subjugated at last, I embraced Magic.
Too wild, too
strong to be mortal, I wove a dream with love in my heart, passion in my soul,
and the breath of my life.
I have summoned
the elements, conjured my yearning into a spell to be taken away across the
endless sky. I have swallowed my pride and begged the gods to give me proof
that life is worth the fight. Now I walk through sorrow barefoot, careful not
to step on the sharp, shattered pieces of my broken dream.
Now I lay still,
numb and spent, waiting.
Until rage and
anger fueled my soul to rise.
I sought answers
and hope in distant lands, in ancient scripture, in encrypted mysteries and
timeless traditions. I sought answers within and finally understood how to
accept the void of my damaged soul, how to gather strength to stir and to
finally move, once again, into the beauty of life’s simplicity.
I healed,
nurturing my wounds, shedding tender skin. Reaching for the goddess within, at last,
I have accepted my feminine self. Bowing to the Rising Sun I welcomed my new
self and embraced Courage. Instants later, absolutely still in a Veronica, I
held a crimson cape of fears, enticed a crippled wolf to charge, and defied
time.
About the Author:
Giuliana was born in Siena, Italy. At the age of 4 her father gave her a box of markers. She immediately began to doodle stories on the house walls. After a few weeks of repainting, they finally gave her paper as well. She has not stopped writing since. She calls home Whidbey Island where she settled in 2001 after globetrotting teaching Italian in exotic places as far as Japan.
She holds a Classic Italian Literature and Philosophy degree with a minor in English still laced with a Chianti-infused accent. She speaks fluent Spanish, has forgotten most of her French, and holds tightly to her Japanese, mostly by eating sushi every chance she gets. She shares a yellow cottage on the island with her husband, 3 cats, an unstoppable toddler, a vegetable garden, and a fig tree named Federico. Every residual free minute of her life is spent working on Book III, and catching up on some much-needed sleep.
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