We can’t end where we begin – we pushed back from a sunny shore, from the waving arms of plump tourists on Bourbon Street. St. Louis Cathedral’s stately spires faded behind us as we set sail towards the Bywater, a path of her strawberry tinsel trailing us through the Mardi Gras. Outside the Ruby Slipper she, rosy costume shimmering, turned her mouth skywards in a lament. This place is past the climax, this place is dying, her bird hands pointed downwards, empty of cash and drinks, so I...