“Good.” She was already walking away from me.
We walked on, passing a street performer juggling flaming batons while a small crowd cheered him on. Anna tossed a few dollars into his hat without breaking stride, her movements natural and uncalculated.
I wondered how she made it look so easy. For her, being part of this city seemed effortless, like breathing. For me, it felt like trying to dance to a rhythm I couldn’t hear.
Finally, I broke the silence. “How much do you think those vases were actually worth?”
Anna snorted, shaking her head. “Not two thousand dollars, that’s for sure.”
I couldn’t help but smile, even as the tension lingered. “Guess I overpaid, huh?”
“You think?” she shot back, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
I chuckled. “I’ll let you handle negotiations from now on. Can you tell me more about this place?”
The French Market sprawled out before us, a kaleidoscope of color, sound, and smells. Anna walked a step ahead, her voice carrying just enough over the din of the crowd to reach me.
“It’s the oldest public market in the country.” She glanced back to see if I was paying attention. “It’s been around since the 1700s. Originally, it was a Native American trading post. Over the years, it’s been everything from a butchers’ market to a bazaar selling spices and coffee.”
“And now?” I sidestepped a man selling feathered masks.
“As you can see, now it’s a mix of everything. You can find anything here if you look hard enough.”
We stopped near a stall selling colorful handmade pottery when I caught someone staring at me. A young couple, holding iced coffees and wearing matching sun hats, exchanged whispers before one of them pointed right at me. And they weren’t subtle about it.
My stomach dropped. My heart picked up speed. They recognized me. The couple approached, and I braced myself. Here it comes. The awkward smile. The sheepish, “Are you…?” And then the inevitable selfie request.
“Excuse me,” the woman said, her voice polite.
I gave a tight smile. “Yes, I am.”
She looked confused for a second. “Uh, do you know how to get to Frenchmen Street from here?” she asked.
I blinked. “What?”
She tilted her head. “Frenchmen Street? We heard it’s got great live music.”
“Oh!” Relief washed over me so fast I almost laughed. They didn’t recognize me. They thought I was a local. I could do this.
I straightened, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, absolutely. Frenchmen Street. Super close.”
Or not super close. I had no idea where it was.
“So, uh, you just head that way.” I pointed in the general direction of what I hoped was north, “Take a left. Or maybe it’s a right. You’ll see it. Can’t miss it.”
The couple exchanged a confused glance. Anna stepped in.
“Actually,” she said, her voice cutting through my nonsense like a hot knife through butter, “Frenchmen is a bit farther. Go down Decatur, and you’ll hit Esplanade. Turn left, and it’s a few blocks up.”
The couple looked relieved. “Thank you so much.”
Before they could leave, I added, “And if you make it to Frenchmen without melting into a puddle, consider yourselves lucky.”
Anna’s head wheeled toward me, her expression caught between a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “Really?” she muttered under her breath.
The couple gave an awkward laugh and hurried off, leaving me with Anna’s eyes narrowing slightly in my direction, though I could see the faintest twitch of a smile on her lips.
“What?” I said, lifting my hands in mock innocence. “It’s hot enough out here to cook an egg on the sidewalk. I’m just being honest.”
