The Detour

The Detour

How a Single Turn Can Spin Your Soul and Stretch Your Patience

By Kateb Shunnar

I was heading to work this morning, windows cracked just a bit to let in the crisp autumn air, the kind that wakes your lungs up like a brass band hitting a big note. New Orleans in fall smells like toasted pecans, damp leaves, and just a whisper of the Mississippi drifting over the streets. Leaves twirled along the sidewalks like they were rehearsing for a second line, squirrels darted across the asphalt like they had somewhere urgent to be, and I sat there with my herbal mixture steaming in the cupholder  a little potion I sip to keep my sanity, my vitamins, and a smidge of spiritual protection for the nonsense waiting for me down the road. You know how we seasonal people do: gotta nourish the body, fortify the soul, and brace for the city’s chaos, because baby, it comes at you faster than a streetcar on St. Charles.

I was about to make the turn onto Paris Avenue from Filmore, feeling smooth and confident, thinking, all right now, today’s gonna be easy, calm, straight as a snare drum. But of course, that’s not how mornings in this city work. The car ahead of me didn’t make up its mind  half in, half out, looking like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted Paris Avenue or to stay on Filmore. And I felt it  that familiar squeeze of frustration that hits when life tosses a little test your way and you ain’t even dressed for it.

Boom. Detour. One tiny human slip, one half-hearted turn, and suddenly my morning was rerouted, shuffled like Mardi Gras beads blown by the wind. And I wasn’t even mad at the driver. Well, maybe just a little. But that’s how New Orleans teaches you patience: slow, loud, and with a little horn honk thrown in for emphasis.

Next thing I know, I’m dumped onto Interstate 610, inching along like a crawfish in molasses. Horns blare. Brake lights flicker like some disco gone wrong. People gesture like the world is their stage and everyone else is just the audience. I sat there, herbal mixture cooling in the cupholder, shaking my head. “Really? One car? That’s all it takes?” I muttered. And I swear, the driver ahead looked back like he knew exactly what he’d done. Or maybe I imagined it. Either way, I wasn’t laughing yet.

But I thought I had it figured out. Exit 1A: Pontchartrain Boulevard/West End Boulevard. “Yes!” I said out loud, like someone would hear me, “I’ll get back on track. Won’t be late. I got this.” But traffic? Baby, it didn’t care. Inch by inch, stop and go, flashing lights, people muttering under their breath, horn-blaring madness. And that’s when it hit me   not just the commute, but life itself. One little misstep, one small mistake, and suddenly your path bends in ways you didn’t plan. The Universe has this funny timing. Not cruel, just persistent. Like a street musician playing a tune that only reveals itself if you slow down long enough to hear it.

I laughed quietly at first, then louder, because if you don’t laugh at detours, baby, the city will do it for you. “Lawd,” I muttered, tapping the wheel, “all for one little car? Couldn’t it have been polite?”

And then she appeared  Mama Cléon. Old as the oaks, wise as the river, leaning on her crooked cane, eyes twinkling, moving through the mist like she belonged to another world, and yet somehow to this one too.

“Child,” she said, voice soft but firm, “the crooked road sometimes brings the sweetest fruit, ya hear me?”

I blinked. “Mama Cléon… you really here?”

She chuckled like bells in a breeze. “I been waitin’ on you to notice. You rush too fast. Life don’t care ‘bout your hurry, cher. It gonna teach you lessons whether you ready or not.”

I laughed at her and at myself because lawd, ain’t we all a little Boudreaux sometimes? Thinking we got it figured out, only to be slowed by a car, a leaf, a gust of wind, a tiny oversight. And talking to myself like a fool, “You feel me, huh?” Horns blared back. I swear they laughed with me. Or maybe at me. Same difference.

Around me, the city moved in its autumn rhythm. The bakery on the corner spilled sugar-scented air, kids chased each other past wrought-iron fences, a man walking his dog waved like I was part of some slow-moving parade. Detours force you to notice things you might otherwise miss: music spilling from open windows, roasted pecans from a street vendor, stray cats darting across the sidewalk, wind rattling the shutters. Even the honking horns become part of the melody if you listen long enough.

And let me tell you about Old Boudreaux. Way back, thick mist over the bayou, he spotted a shortcut, narrow, winding, promising faster passage. “Shortcut,” he said, chest puffed, “I’m cleverer than these waters.” But the swamp is wise. It knows who’s humble, who’s reckless. That shortcut? Stuck him in mud so thick he couldn’t row backward. Pride drenched. Hours wasted. Reflection gained. By sundown, free again, poor in fish but rich in lessons. Ain’t we all a little Boudreaux sometimes?

Then came the people of the streets, adding their own commentary.

“Hey! Watch yo’ lane, cher!” yelled a man selling peanuts from a rolling cart, nodding like he was narrating my misadventures.

“Lawd, lady, you drinkin’ somethin’ good in there?” called a woman jogging past with earbuds, smirking. I raised my cup. “Herbal magic,” I said. She laughed, shaking her head. “Mmm, you’ll need a whole vat for this traffic!”

Mama Cléon leaned close, whispering as if she knew my thoughts before I did. “Child, life’s got a funny way of testin’ ya. Sometimes it toss you in the mud just to see if you can find your rhythm again. You feel me?”

I did feel her. I felt every honk, every squeal of brakes, every swirl of wind and leaves, every aroma drifting from the street, and I laughed, out loud, because really, what else could you do? Life’s detours are messy, slow, ridiculous, sometimes infuriating, and always teaching if you’re paying attention.

By the time I finally pulled up to my street, late but smiling, late but lighter, late but grateful, I realized: detours ain’t punishments. Traffic jams, missed turns, spilled tea, bad decisions  all lessons in patience, awareness, humility, and the strange art of laughing at yourself before the world laughs first. Roads twist, people stumble, plans derail, but detours? They guide, redirect, nurture insight. And if you’re lucky, they make you notice the rhythm, the music, the dance of life you’d otherwise miss.

Talking to myself again, “One wrong turn, one stubborn driver, one tiny mistake  and you’re richer, wiser, alive to the city in a way you never were on the straight road.” Streetcar clangs. Wind rattles shutters. Dog barks approval. Life’s detours are messy, slow, ridiculous, sometimes infuriating, always teaching if you’re listening. If you can laugh at it, sip your herbal mixture, watch the leaves swirl, notice squirrels, hear the jazz spilling somewhere down a side street  you’re seeing the divine in the ordinary. And lawd, if you can do that, baby, you’re already halfway home.

Mama Cléon winked. “Child, remember: crooked roads, messy paths, they don’t break you. They teach you how to dance with the world, with its chaos, its laughter, its music. You just gotta learn the steps, cher.”

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