There he stopped to admire the intricately detailed wrought-iron rails on the balconies of the Pontalba Apartments and to take in the architecture of the Cabildo. He also paused in front of St. Louis Cathedral and gazed upward to the tall spires. I stood by and watched him drinking in the old cathedral, wondering what he could have found so fascinating. “What are you, an architectural historian today?” I asked. “No. I’ve never been here before. Just admiring the beauty of the place.” He pointed at the cathedral. “David painted here, didn’t he?” I nodded to an alley on the left of the cathedral. “Over there. Pirates Alley. The first time I saw his paintings was here.” “And told him you didn’t think he had yet found the right subject to paint,” he added with a cocky grin. I peered into the alley. “You and David shared a lot, didn’t you?” “Like I said, he spoke about you constantly and I listened.” I walked over to the front of the cathedral. “That must have gotten old.
