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</span>​</div><br/><span style="font-size: 15px">To the casual observer, it looked as though there were street buskers crawling from every nook and cranny of the <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fres.cloudinary.com%2Fsimpleview%2Fimage%2Fupload%2Fc_fill%2Cf_auto%2Ch_560%2Cq_60%2Cw_960%2Fv1%2Fclients%2Fneworleans%2FNOTMC_17846_e329cb97-8ee4-4b47-8230-cb6901bf17c1.jpg&amp;hash=a0928345e63879414f6d5434c8d451ad" href="https://res.cloudinary.com/simpleview/image/upload/c_fill,f_auto,h_560,q_60,w_960/v1/clients/neworleans/NOTMC_17846_e329cb97-8ee4-4b47-8230-cb6901bf17c1.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Faubourg Marigny</a> and <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=http%3A%2F%2Fenvoccdn.canalstreetbeat.com%2F%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2013%2F11%2FNew-Orleans-Hotels.jpg&amp;hash=754b44b25c115bd210322b15d58fb199" href="http://envoccdn.canalstreetbeat.com//wp-content/uploads/2013/11/New-Orleans-Hotels.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Vieux Carré,</a> better known as the French Quarter, tonight. Some people were busking to survive, while others supplemented the meager wages they earned while working in the New Orleans tourist industry. Some just busked to avoid the boredom of their mainstream, nine-to-five jobs.<br/>
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For a fortunate few, it was also a starting point to launch a career in the local, or international music industry. Each busker developed a particular skill that they brought to the streets, that ranged from reciting poetry, performing music of almost every possible genre, art, tarot card and palm reading, miming, juggling, freeze posing, politics, tap-dancing, shticks such as “dog in the coffin,” comedy, and so on. <br/>
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A lanky blonde man carrying a black hard-sided, Fender guitar case sauntered down Rue Canal towards Rue Royal, where the street was closed off to oncoming traffic starting at Orleans Avenue. That particular location provided a sustainable habitat for buskers and street performers to make money from wide-eyed tourists as they leisurely strolled the pedestrian streets of the French Quarter. <br/>
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As he walked he encountered numerous courtyards alive with the dreamy allure of burbling fountains, flowering foliage and vine-covered brick. Far beyond the tourists clustered on the streets just in time for nighttime revelry, private oases of fountains and foliage lay hidden behind iron gates. Ayren Bélanger had never been invited onto one of these private patios before, since very few of them were open to the general public. <br/>
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But luck was in his favor tonight. He was drawn to <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.cafeamelie.com%2Fuploads%2Fgallery%2F2655181928a58b9c50c4_1364414170.jpg&amp;hash=1ac019a75b7ba9f127f23512b53b88b3" href="http://www.cafeamelie.com/uploads/gallery/2655181928a58b9c50c4_1364414170.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Café Amelie</a> at 912 Royal Street, mainly because it was picturesque and its namesake, Amelie, was also his dearly departed mother's name. Nestled in the historic, 150-year-old Princess of Monaco Courtyard and Carriage House, Café Amelie invited patrons to dine indoors amid genteel, period antiques or al fresco in its charming, landscaped garden. <br/>
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Born of the Louisiana bayou, <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2F564x%2F0d%2F6d%2F93%2F0d6d93589dcd9ca9394c45a7ff99d75c.jpg&amp;hash=30c6b1119f1a6b5f2d1df282003e46ba" href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/0d/6d/93/0d6d93589dcd9ca9394c45a7ff99d75c.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Ayren Bélanger</a> was an exceptional vocalist who had an unparalleled skill with the acoustic guitar. His pleasant demeanor and natural charisma earned him a prime spot just outside the courtyard of Cafe Amelie because as a street performer, he maintained a working relationship with its owner, Bobby Delacroix. The self-taught street musician was playing a midnight-black Fender acoustic-electric guitar this evening.<br/>
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Placing the medium sized hard case on the ground, it lay open and empty at his feet until Ayren shrewdly threw in some seed money consisting of a few dollar bills and some pocket change. The guitar case was swiveled around to face the patrons as he started to play. Some people ignored him at first, walking around him with the preconceived notion that he was just another of the city's homeless begging for handouts.  <br/>
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The one thing that separated Ayren from the New Orleans homeless population was his charismatic flair and his showmanship.  His attire was well worn, but clean and steam pressed, his shoes polished. But what turned the heads of the diners on Cafe Amelie's patio were the spicy tones of his Louisiana Cajun accent. The blue eyed, flaxen haired male wore a graphite and burgundy patterned jacket and matching slacks, with a long-sleeved checked oxford dress shirt. <br/>
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Blonde bangs spilled down into his eyes,  hiding his gaze whenever he tipped his head down towards the strings. His magnetic charm had drawn the attention of a few pedestrians, who lingered to listen to the pleasant sound of Ayren's voice accompanied by the guitar. Without further ado, Ayren got right down to introducing his first song, Cajun twang included. Many of the diners pretty much ignored Ayren as he started playing the guitar, thinking that he probably was going to create more of a disturbance than actually play something worthwhile once they heard his accent. <br/>
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Any doubters in the crowd would be sorely disappointed.<br/>
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<b>"Ah'm Ayren Belangér, dis song was written by me...hm.. back when ah was twenty-one. Ah wrote dis song fo' all de lovers out dere, an' de ones yet t'fall in love,</b>" he smiled, his eyes meeting a pretty girl in the crowd. <b>"Dis song's called</b> <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DY4ULUiV4BBA%26list%3DRDY4ULUiV4BBA%23t%3D0&amp;hash=f019f4503184e69f8e6c32d511cf52f4" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4ULUiV4BBA&amp;list=RDY4ULUiV4BBA#t=0" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank"><i>The Other Side</i>.</a> <b>Here it go!"</b><br/>
</span><br/><i><span style="font-size: 15px">"In the beginning/ I never thought it would be you/ When we were chillin' /Smiling in the photo booth /But we got closer/'Till you were eating off my spoon /And coming over /And we would talk all afternoon /Tonight we'll just get lost /Disturb the peace /Find your hands all over me /And then you bite your lip /Whisper and say, "We're going all the way."</span></i><br/><span style="font-size: 15px"><br/>
As Ayren belted through the song, it was clear that the self-taught musician was a great singer. He also had fantastic stage presence, making eye contact with the cafe patrons. If they weren't impressed before, all conversation in the dining area had stopped and all heads were turning in the Cajun busker's direction as he played his heart out for the crowd.<br/>
</span><br/><i><span style="font-size: 15px">"Tonight, take me to the other side /Sparks fly like the Fourth of July /Just take me to the other side /I see that sexy look in your eyes /And I know, we ain't friends anymo' /If we walk down this road /We'll be lovers for sho' /So tonight kiss me like it's do or die /And take me to the other side."</span></i><br/><span style="font-size: 15px"><br/>
The moment Ayren started playing, he immediately made the crowd at Cafe Amelie his. He had a way of speaking to the audience in a very intimate way, which made them feel like he was actually having a conversation with them as opposed to shouting at them. Ayren was putting every bit of energy into his performance, while still singing and playing great. <br/>
</span><br/><i><span style="font-size: 15px">"This could be perfect /But we won't know unless we try /I know you're nervous /So just sit back and let me drive /Tonight we'll just get lost /Disturb the peace /Find your hands all over me /And then you bite your lip /Whisper and say, "We're going all the way."</span></i><br/><span style="font-size: 15px"><br/>
Not only did Ayren have a wonderfully clear tenor as he sang <i>The Other Side,</i> he showed dynamic range as he belted out the song lyrics. The song showcased his ability to write very moving and emotional music, as the words he wrote would've been just inspiring enough had he read them aloud on stage. But with his tender voice and his smooth mastery of his six stringed acoustic guitar, Ayren gave his audience everything they needed to be totally immersed in his beautiful music. <br/>
</span><br/><i><span style="font-size: 15px">"Tonight, take me to the other side /Sparks fly like the fourth of July /Just take me to the other side /I see that sexy look in your eyes /And I know, we ain't friends anymo' /If we walk down this road /We'll be lovers for sho' /So tonight (So tonight) kiss me like it's do or die /And take me to the other side /(Whoa) Take me to the other side /(Whoa) And take me to the other side /(Whoa) Kiss me like it's do or die /(Whoa) And take me to the other side."</span></i><br/><br/><i><span style="font-size: 15px"><b>"Gal-ee! Dat song make me work up a sweat, yeah!</b><i> <b>Merci, mes amies. Tanks.</b></i><b>" </b>Ayren announced cheerfully.</span></i><br/><span style="font-size: 15px"><br/>
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<div class="bbCodeBlock-content">Merci: thank you; mes amies: my friends</div>
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It could have been worse for Ayren had he been playing midday, because the New Orleans heat was like an oven. It just bounced off the streets, causing an illusion of wavering images before his eyes. Everyday in New Orleans was a heatwave. Most of the time when Ayren was busking, perspiration would surface first on his forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, then run in rivulets down his face until he became soaked with sweat. <br/>
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A typical day in the French Quarter was when even the well turned-out businessmen couldn't conceal the massive sweat stains under the arms of their sophisticated dress shirts. In fact, today had been one of those hot, hazy and humid days where every single bird, leaf, cloud and busker succumbed to the dastardly talons of indolence. Ayren busked early in the morning before it got soupy outside, then retreated to the air conditioned comfort of a cafe.<br/>
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Ayren always returned to the streets at dusk because of his intolerance for the incessant heat, and obnoxious tourists. Ayren appreciated tourists but preferred those that came from far and wide, with grins wide and their wallets wider. The more generous folk were out at night, like himself. After the first song, a few generous patrons dropped some cash into his guitar case. <br/>
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All of a sudden, there was a brilliant flash of white followed by a harsh click of a camera, that nearly blinded him and shook Ayren out of his trance. He tilted his gaze away from the infuriating tourist before the rest of the crowd could see the soft scowl that appeared on his lips, or hear the obscenities he muttered softly under his breath. <br/>
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It was an inebriated, white male tourist with a thick country accent that condescendingly ordered him to sing another song while pointing with a smirk to his wife.  Ayren turned his little shock to the eyes into something humorous.<b> "It's okay folks, Ah'm totally a pro'fess'nal."</b> he joked, eliciting a few laughs from the tables of diners.<br/>
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His wife apologized profusely, dropping another five dollars into his guitar case, as she dragged her drunken husband off into the night.<br/>
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<b>"Tanks ma'am. Awrite! Testing, testing. One. Two. </b><i><b>tree,"</b> </i> Ayren's warm tenor was heard above the conversations as he tuned up the strings.<br/>
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The cover he'd chosen to sing was called, <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DlKKIE5JX1zM&amp;hash=6a6a48070c4f7362105a1f8e655846c5" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKKIE5JX1zM" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">"Ink,"</a> by Coldplay, challenging because of the difficult finger placements.<br/>
</span><br/><b><span style="font-size: 15px">"Got a tattoo said 'together thru life'/Carved in your name with my pocket knife/And you wonder when you wake up will it be alright/Feels like there's something broken inside/All I know/All I know/Is that I'm lost/Whenever you go/All I know/Is that I love you so/So much that it hurts/Got a tattoo and the pain's alright/Just want a way of keeping you inside/All I know/All I know/Is that I'm lost/In your fire below/All I know/Is that I love you so/So much that it hurts/I see the road begin to climb/I see your stars begin to shine/I see your colours and I'm dying of thirst/All I know/Is that I love you so/So much that it hurts/Oh yeah yeah yeah/So much that it hurts/So much that it hurts."</span></b><br/><span style="font-size: 15px"><br/>
As Ayren belted out the warm melody, his fingers twisted in all sorts of odd shapes to form the chords on the maple wood fretboard. Ayren had immersed himself in the mood of the song, his foot tapping the sidewalk. As Ayren's head bounced, his silky-straight, golden-platinum blonde hair cascaded into his sparkling seaspray eyes and concealed their glimmer, but only for a moment.<br/>
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Ayren's singing voice emanated a deep soulfulness that was almost soothing as his hand dragged across the higher frets. Musical notes flowed out of him like an audible picture of his soul. With his voice flowing gently upon the ears of the diners on the patio, its sorrowful aching wave rose to a crescendo. Fingers slowing, the emotion swelled up in his throat and projected the feelings of their shared emotional connection. <br/>
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The acoustic guitar's sound faded with his husky voice as the song ended. Touching his heart with his fingertips as a gesture of thank you, Ayren took a bow. He received the warm applause from the audience that appreciated his musical performance, and hoped the crowd would be generous by donating a few bucks for his efforts.<br/>
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<b>"Dis Cajun boy is takin' yo request, me. You got de envie fo' sumtin' in paw'tick'la, cher?" </b>Ayren asked, acknowledging the woman that generously offered him a compliment and donated to his cause.<br/>
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<div class="bbCodeBlock-content">cher: darling; envie: desire, wish</div>
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She had a foreign accent, at least to his bayou born ears. When her eyes met his she smiled in return. They were such a beautiful shade of blue, it was like the stars themselves decided to rest behind the soft almondine crease of her eyes. She was fair skinned like most from the UK were, long wisps of charcoal streaked with highlights of dark umber that seemed to glimmer when they captured the fairy lights dangling in the courtyard trees. <br/>
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Her cheekbones were high, florid with a rosy stain, and her smile revealed flawlessly sculpted lips, as if crafted by the angels themselves. When she spoke, her voice was like music itself. Ayren had to admit the woman gave him a rise in the crotch of his pants, even if she was a bit effusive with her compliments about his singing.<br/>
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<b>"Tanks mon ange. Ah 'preciate dem kind words."</b>Ayren sincerely replied in response to her lovely compliment.<br/>
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<div class="bbCodeBlock-content">Mon ange: my angel</div>
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</div></span><br/><b><span style="font-size: 15px">"Mais la! Ah'm nah ready fo' primetime, no! But if ya got de envie fo' a song, jus tellme wat you wanna hear. Ah play it fer you, me."</span></b><br/><span style="font-size: 15px"><br/>
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<div class="bbCodeBlock-content">Mais la: As if!</div>
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And before he got a request to sing his next song, you better believe his gaze was looking around for a husband or boyfriend that she had to have, because she was so good looking it would've been a tragedy for a pretty lady to be out in Nawlins without someone to call her beau. <br/>
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<div class="bbCodeBlock-content">beau: boyfriend or male admirer</div>
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