Today, my neighbour from across the way waved at me from the roof of his building. (I’ve gotten better at this skill of not being afraid to ask for things that I want. Getting up onto that roof was something that I very much wanted to do.) I told him I wanted to come up, and he said “Of course!”. My flatmate and I raced across the street and booked it up four beautiful wooden flights of stairs. The walls were plastered-over brick that had been painted so many times that telling the layers of paint apart was practically impossible.
The roof entrance was through a strange apartment-like/loft/studio/thing. It was wonderful. I would have made an offer on the place immediately if the building manager had been there. The ceiling sloped to the point where probably only half of the room can be stood in. The rest is more appropriate for crawling. It was dubiously finished, and only one room, and so beautifully warm. I crawled through some wooden framing that separated the part of the room where the ceiling was less then two feet off the floor, which is naturally where the opening to the roof is.
The roof was tiled in slate. It was amazing. I’ve never been on a slate roof before. I could see so much of the French Quarter, and the wind carried the music of buskers on Bourbon Street. I played an unknown duet with a washboard. The skies were our only audience.