This morning a mysterious man on a motorcycle pulled onto the ferry and parked in front of me, facing the French Quarter. His bike was laden with gear bags and what looked like a lovely picnic basket. He kept his helmet on and as the cars piled up I found myself looking at him for longer than was appropriate, wondering if I was seeing him at some point in an incredible adventure on the open road. Where was he from? Where was he going next? Was he reading Jack Kerouac by the glow of his headlights every evening? Did he sleep at motels with retro neon signs or under the decidedly un-neon twinkle of stars? On and on I went, and I said a prayer to the universe for his safe travel as he pulled off the ferry and into the big wide world.
This afternoon on the ride back to Algiers, as I leaned against the rail and thought about the day, onto the ferry rides my mystery man, bike still carrying his gear. Apparently his adventures took him to places he could reach in a day. Or else he just can't pack light.
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