Lenny was finally on his way to the New Orleans Jazz Festival, a trip he’d dreamed of for years. The date—May 8, 2025—was circled in bold red on his calendar for months. As the train rolled through the flat stretches of Louisiana, Lenny gazed out the window, his mind already filled with the sounds of brass bands and syncopated rhythms. He had packed light: just a small duffel bag with his trumpet, a couple of shirts, and a notebook for lyrics and sketches. Music wasn’t just a hobby for him—it was a way of breathing.
He’d first fallen in love with jazz listening to his grandfather’s vinyls, spinning Coltrane, Miles Davis, and, of course, the legends of New Orleans: Louis Armstrong, Sidney Bechet, and Wynton Marsalis. This trip was more than a vacation—it was a pilgrimage.
As the train neared the Crescent City, the sky opened up with a warm spring rain, soft but steady. Lenny smiled. Rain didn’t dampen spirits in New Orleans—it just added rhythm. He could already feel the pulse of the city: street performers on Royal Street, the brass echoes from Frenchmen, the mingling scents of gumbo and beignets.
He planned to spend the whole weekend moving from stage to stage, soaking it all in. But there was one moment he anticipated most: playing his trumpet in a late-night jam session on Bourbon or Frenchmen. He wasn’t famous, but that didn’t matter. In New Orleans, everyone who played with heart had a place.
As the train pulled into the station, Lenny tightened his grip on the trumpet case and stepped off into the humid air, ready to lose himself in the music of the city that birthed jazz.
