by María L. Trigos-Gilbert
Louisiana’s mysticism caught my eyes as if stoned by an invisible, but powerful, drug that made its way through my senses and my veins. At first, like most romantic stories, I didn’t realize my love for Louisiana. I took for granted the amusement that it had provided me. Time kept spending itself with little monotony. All of its components excited me, especially its true green and its enigmatic bayous. The people seemed to me as if they were Portuguese speakers who tried to imitate the English American accent. Even more they appeared to me as if they were borrowed Portuguese Brazilians who came here trying to find a more amicable jungle, this type of amicability was like a spiritual-materialistic mixture. Those were the initial impressions during my first fifteen days trip to Louisiana.