Despite the laws that govern the heart of a horse, the creatures drawing carriages through New Orleans must still obey the laws of traffic:

 

We first hear my screeching brakes, because I’m on a bicycle. It’s tough to hear anything in a city that isn’t motorized traffic. I heard a horse clopping along, a vestige of olde trafficke that they keep pumping in the French Quarter, because holding onto (or preserving, if you like) the past is what drives tourism. Other preserved things include 1930’s-40’s Jazz, very old New Orleanians who can never die, and traditional food.

This particular horse is strutting down Esplanade, not in the heat of the day, relatively shaded. Cars often get stuck behind the carriage and are forced to slow to a crawl true to the spirit of the city.

I sometimes see the horses lined up head-to-tail on Jackson Square, taking turns drinking water, and generally doing nothing. Where do they sleep at night? What do they think about?

It’s the sound of hooves on pavement.

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