Bayou St. John on a Saturday at Seven

A slow tea-colored waterway through one of the most residential parts of New Orleans. Not a wilderness. But at seven on a Saturday before the joggers and paddleboarders, it's where the city pauses to breathe.

The bayou was flat as poured metal, reflecting live oaks so perfectly the water looked like a mirror buried in grass. A great blue heron in the shallows near Magnolia Bridge, motionless except for the occasional slow rotation of its head, tracking something with a patience I aspire to and will never achieve. The walking path runs about a mile along the western bank, paved and flat. Turtles stack on fallen logs like living cairns. Occasionally a nutria — orange-toothed rodent the size of a beagle — swims past with the confidence of a creature that owns the waterfront.

Spring for azaleas along Moss Street. Bring water, sunscreen, no agenda. Bayou St. John asks nothing of you — the rarest thing in New Orleans, a place where you don't need to eat, drink, or dance. Just watch the water do its slow brown ancient work.