Greetings from a Ghost-Town New Orleans

Picked a hell of a time to go to work for an airline, didn’t I?

Hi, it’s me, Trey. I promised you stories from my adventures as a 52-year-old baby flight attendant. I never imagined I’d be trying my hand at a modern-day Decameron.

But here I am, sitting at Gate C14 in a nigh-on deserted Louis Armstrong International, looking at a day full of canceled flights, hanging out on hold with Crew Scheduling in hopes they can tell me my next move.

The Folse Market food hall at the new MSY — a spectacular new airport for the city of my heart (and the city of my birth, though my family was only there a couple of years when I was a wee bitty thing).

And a no-people New Orleans is weird, y’all. No hotel guests in the Sheraton lobby. No traffic on the way to the airport. No lines at security. (It’s been like that all week, in pretty much every place I’ve flown.) No bodies bellied up to the bars in the terminal, which … this is New Orleans? How are there no bars open in the airport?*

It’s all been jarr…