Artwork: Paul Puckett

In New Orleans at 5 a.m. on a fall morning the air is damp and heavy with a slight chill and the gaslights capture droplets of moisture in their glow. For a 24-hour city, she is very quiet at this hour; most of the French Quarter revelers have had their fill, leaving the streets to the shockingly efficient cleanup crews. We park our truck and give these unsung heroes a nod as we pass them on our way to the coffee shop.

The worst cup of coffee in New Orleans is still better than the best cup elsewhere and, luckily for us, the worst coffee shops in New Orleans are the only ones open this early. They’re mostly regional chains or franchises with hand-painted signs that say, “Who Dat?” and “Crawfish Boil!”—the kind of stuff a local probably rolls their eyes at but a tourist like myself eats right up. We grab boudin-filled pastries and black coffees for the long drive to Hopedale. The sun rises as we turn onto the long, two lane road that parallels the canal to the marina. A wide, flat-bottom shrimp boat keeps pace with us all the way to the bayou, reminding us to slow down, the day really hasn’t even started yet.

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