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| Photo: Cedric Angeles |
From November 2010
One sunny autumn afternoon as I was driving through the city, I turned a corner somewhere in Uptown and was confronted with a marching band consisting of what appeared to be eighth graders. They wore gold jackets and Prussian hats with white feathers and were on the march, cheeks puffed out, mallets swinging. Something about the hats with their plumes made the old Ottoman Empire briefly materialize on Dufosset Street. The low, bright sun exploded off tubas, trumpets, trombones; their jackets seemed to glow. It was an astonishing sight. The sound, cacophony. Like a dream, unreal, and like in a dream, they were a mysterious impediment.
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