El Matador, New Orleans

I dip into the El Matador, and shake off the rain that has pooled in the space between the collar of my jacket and my neck. Most of it though rolls down the crest of my back making a tense arch of my spine. The El Matador is a smoky French Quarter bar bathed in red light and armored with a half dozen black-velvet paintings of resplendent toreros posturing over crouching purple bulls. It’s just enough out of the way that it rarely attracts the tourist crowd—except of course during carnival. The black vinyl booths that line the wall in a half circle keep their secrets easily in the dim red glow. I slip in anonymously and take a seat at the far end of the bar nearest the door. I can’t make out what the hell kind of music is playing. It’s a mush of guitars, sparse echoing drums and a lingering back track of unintelligible vocals. It could be the soundtrack to a heroin overdose. The whole scene blends so well that there’s no definite separation between any of it. It’s just a red melancholy of shadows and forms. Absolutely perfect.