A Dog’s Day in New Orleans

People are not the only lovers of the French Quarter and Warehouse District of New Orleans. After a long week of indoor confinement, our dog, Zeus, decides it is time for a “dog day” outside… and that means Deb and me finding some entertainment for the old boy – or else. Woof.We aren’t sure of the dog-friendliness of our neighborhood, or the French Quarter. One thing we do know for sure is that dogs are welcome and loved at the Cotton Mills condominiums.Our building is full of dogs – from small yappy ones to full-blown great danes. A favorite is the shiny black lab, Boo-Ray, who lives across the courtyard and spins in circles with glee when he’s released outside. His owner is friendly, giving us a wave and a smile when we take Zeus out to play, and dozens of other pups populate the halls, stairwells and sidewalks of our cozy co-op.

But out on the town? We decide to give Zeus a special day, and our mission on a beautiful Saturday morning in March is to show the man of the hour a good time. We’ll have to be creative…

We start six blocks away from home with breakfast at Lucy’s, our favorite neighborhood pub. We’ve become “regulars” who can now order “the usual” at Lucy’s, so we think it will be a safe test… will our dog be welcome?

We find a table outside, the cheerful umbrella flapping in the breeze… This seems to scare Zeus. The pigeons strutting on the sidewalk are another distraction. Zeus thinks we should chase them, but then he’s driven back behind our table in fear as a city bus goes by. He is afraid of cars, and definitely afraid of buses. He hates motorcycles, he hates bicycles. Our fun day out has our poor dog reduced to a shivering furball against the wall… his ears are down, and he seems to be asking, “Are we having fun yet?”


Things start looking up when the food arrives. Our waitress assures us that Zeus is welcome, we order him his own plate of fries, and he is encouraged by two staff members to feel free to lick our plates when we finish our breakfast.


After breakfast, we head toward the French Quarter. We want to share all our favorite pastimes with man’s best friend, so we take Zeus shopping at a great store in the French Market called Pets are People, too. He buys an LSU jersey, a fleur-de-lis collar, and this stunning ruffle around his neck in purple and gold – a real Tiger fan! (I hope no one tells him that tigers are cats).

We show him the wonders of the uneven streets in the Quarter. We encounter all the usual artists and performers; including this sarcastic clown. The clown does not appreciate our zeal for Zeus’ big day out and barely tolerates having his picture taken with “our baby.” We don’t think he’s a native; he’s an imported imposter clown – an angry day-glo multi-colored fake rainbow-haired bastard who won’t acknowledge the doggy groove of this very cool outing.


All is well a few moments later when the silver robot mime, our personal favorite, gives him a tender pat on the head. Zeus loves the mechanical space-like whistling sounds and forgets all about rude clowns.


Our next stop is to have Zeus’ portrait done. We interview several artists, determined to find the best one to capture our noble beast in all his glory. We finally settle on a charcoal sketcher. Here he snaps a picture of his subject and tells us to come back in an hour for the finished picture.


It’s after lunch, so it’s time for a drink. We take Zeus to the most famous watering hole in New Orleans – Pat O’Brien’s. Unfortunately, the bouncers do not agree that three years old in people years equals twenty-one in dog years, but we did snap a picture to commemorate the moment.


We meet a leprachaun just around the corner…


Zeus stops for a cold Bud Light…


… and of course, a world-famous native Lucky Dog…


Other than poseur-clown-guy, everyone else toasts the four-legged visitor with enthusiasm. Several tourists snap his picture, many exclaim, “Oh, look at the Doberman. Look at his cute outfit!” And we find a mexican restaurant for lunch with a breezeway entrance with tables. This sort of counts as keeping Zeus “outside,” and we are in luck that the waitress speaks little English. Her frown and “shoo-ing” gesture are lost on us… we assume she’s saying, “Welcome to the restaurant. We are pleased to have you here, and thrilled to have your dog lying in the doorway.”

Zeus gives her his best “sad boy” face, and she grunts something and allows him to stay.


Her English is also inconvenient for Deb. She orders a strawberry daquiri – virgin – with her lunch and gets a pretty stiff one… She’s only sixteen so I send it back, angering the waitress even more. “She no say that,” she insists. “She no say ‘no alcohol.'” Apparently virgin means something else where she comes from… Alas, she’s not among our growing number of fans today.

Circling back around, we visit Jackson Square park, only to be asked to leave. Dogs are not allowed. Zeus is totally psyched that he’s been thrown out of a New Orleans landmark. Another tall tale to share with Boo-Ray over cocktails in the courtyard tonight.


We go pick up Zeus’ portrait… a masterpiece. He is clearly impressed when he sees how perfectly the artist has captured his likeness, complete with all the Mardi Gras beads around his neck.


Satisfied and tired, we head for home. Now we’ve got the Dog Scene all scoped out, and we’ll be back to the French Quarter with Zeus soon, enjoying a beautiful day in New Orleans. Maybe next time we’ll check out the dog park on the river…

Nah. Too canine. So last season.

Coming Back to Life – The Sounds of New Orleans

We just watched Captain Corelli’s Mandolin – one of those quickly-forgotten love stories; like cotton candy, melting away before you can really taste it… but a treat. Satisfying in its own way.And while I was caught up in the little drama on the screen, I was also scribbling on a napkin, hoping to retain just this one thing: soldiers singing opera on a beach in Greece, marching to a cadence of joy in the middle of a war.

Interesting, too, to reflect that military battlegrounds are “theaters,” and that the pain of war is portrayed in these musical terms. These thoughts, as I am recently entrenched in so many written accounts of Katrina, New Orleans, death and destruction, and the ways we articulate the individual journeys home from that war.

Each author I’ve read shares one thing with all the others; a deep isolation, trying to reconnect with the other survivors and finding that his path is choked with misconception… he writes it all down, wallows in it… most of these writers simply could not turn their heads away. Call them self-indulgent, but they had to scratch down their impressions, using words like the rythym of drums, calling to each other like an ancient tribe.

And those of us who read them pick up the references between the lines, the unifying factor being the death of the beat, that loss of swing, the notes that fell to silence as the city collapsed beneath the pulse of rising tides and dancing wind.

In Heart Like Water, Joshua Clark speaks of a moment without a single sound. The city is a corpse, not even the hum of flies attending it. The undercurrents of the living city simply ceased.

And this is what, to me, measures the rebirth of New Orleans. I listen to the pulse and the musical score is revealing itself in a different kind of symphony these days.

Wal Mart on Tchoupitoulas Street is as far from the heart of the city as the coastline of Greece in that movie. Just another urban strip mall as far as I’m concerned, but it is here that I hear the music, feel that weak pulse, in a way I can explain for the first time in a long time.

Here, there are no landmarks, just the raw thrust of commerce at its basest level. The worst in our collective character is exposed on the sweat shop produced racks of cheap clothing, the carts jacked all across the parking lot because we’re lousy citizens, too lazy to put them back where they belong.

Looking at these little clues, I know we’re a hopeless case – a lost cause. This tribe of humanity is going down on a slow burn of mass carelessness and cheap thrills. It’s all but over now.

It is mid-afternoon, four o’clock or so, and I’m walking to the car with my daughter, just a little discouraged by the wave of disconcern for the city all around me. As we walk, my four-inch heels click on the pavement, and so do hers.

She grins at me, raises an eyebrow at her silver “space boots,” and she skips a step, matching her beat to mine. We are in sync now, and the longer we walk, the more it becomes a march.

The grocery cart has a click-clacking loose wheel, and this imperfection joins the click of our heels as we add it to our awareness.

There’s equipment in the lot next door; big, skeletal, Jurrassic hunks of steel doing big, earth-moving stuff over there. It has a clang, back-and-forth, up-and-down – BANG. And we let it in, add it to the groove of the afternoon.

Maybe it hasn’t died after all.

We reach the car and our buggy-rolling, heel-clicking jazz-swing thing becomes a rest. It’s not death – just a pause between the notes.

I love that my daughter “gets” this. We load the car, digging the solo by the monster machines over there.

I look at her and frown. It’s a question.

She answers with machine noises and we get into the car, laughing and beating the dashboard with our fingers. That’s her response.

But we might need words, too, to define the moment, put flesh back on the corpse.

“It’s like jazz,” I tell her. “The city IS the song. There’s no plan, it just happens.”

She shrugs, then rolls down her window to hear the song again. She corrects me,

“It happens because we MAKE it happen. We had to hear it.”

And so it is. We didn’t need the words after all.

Recycling Bono, Adopting a Drag Queen and Other Tales of Manchester, The Moody Melon

When you have a second home in New Orleans, it’s expected that when guests arrive you will show them a good time. Our guests this weekend didn’t need much help… My sister, Judye, and her daughter, Jennifer, came down to visit us this weekend at our Cotton Mills location, in a quiet peaceful neighborhood, just blocks from the French Quarter.Because of our close proximity to Bourbon Street, Jude wanted to be ready to have some fun when she got here, so she started drinking at 5:00pm – Brazil time, I think. In other words, she arrived at 5:00 pm New Orleans time feeling pretty good already, so we headed straight out for a fun Friday night, no plan whatsoever in the works. I was wondering whether, in our late thirties and early forties, she and I would have as much fun as we did back in high school and college. We had so many things to show our daughters!

Right away, Jude made a scene. Just like old times.


We were walking toward the French Quarter when Deb and I noticed that BONO WAS MISSING! The Hard Rock Cafe has a huge (and life-like) Bono poster in the window that is one of our favorite landmarks, so of course, we inquire inside. Can we have it? If they’re not going to use the poster any more, we can think of millions of uses for it. We’re informed that we can’t have it. It’s being “recycled.” Bono? Recycled? What the…?

Jude is on the case, though. She walks in and demands to see the manager. She will rescue Bono from recycling because it’s our duty as fans of Irish drinking songs and Dublin pubs and the fact that we are two of the old folks who remember him before he got fat… like Elvis…


Can she do it? Here is the manager, talking it over with her…


This manager is an absolute Nazi. He continues to insist that Bono will be “recycled,” and we finally give up, deciding that what is needed here is more alcohol for our spokesperson. We’ll come back to this later.

We proceed to the French Quarter, and we’re just soaking up all the music and the smells (not all of them good), and I’m desperately trying to find coffee. We arrive on Bourbon Street, and I know it’s a lost cause. There will be no coffee for me – but we find a grocery store, and Judye goes in for more hooch.

… And comes out with a most interesting purchase. A MELON.

“What are we supposed to do with that?” I ask. “How are we gonna cut it?” ask the girls. She has no answers. She is dancing and singing an “I’ve got a melon” song, and we figure it’s just easier to join her than argue. We got a melon, and we’re just a few lyrics away from being locked up if you ask me.

What it needs is a mask. This will disguise the produce from being too conspicuous, plus, will make it more legitimate as a party icon, as it is destined to become.

We find the perfect mask, poke a hole for his smoke, and the Party Melon is born. If you can’t eat ’em, party with ’em, right?


We keep calling it “The Melon,” and this just isn’t right. If we’re gonna hang out with him, he’s got to have a name. We should be on a first-name basis, right? We ask a friendly biker what we should call him…

The biker, who was at first a little intimidating, now just looks… confused. “Y’all are hanging out with a melon?”

“Yeah.” We think it’s kind of obvious. “So what should we call him?”


He scratches his beard. “Um… he looks kinda moody. So… Manchester? Yeah. Manchester the Moody Melon. That’s his name.”

“Thanks a lot!” we shout. He never cracks a smile, but waves at us as we leave and shakes his head. Don’t let him fool you – he’s digging the melon.

Now that he has a name, Manchester takes on a life of his own. He’s a magnet for everyone on the street, and before we know it, everyone on Bourbon Street is demanding to party with the melon.

Manchester the Moody Melon has hours of fun. He meets so many characters it is hard to record them all, but here are a few:

There is Kim, who wants to meet our daughters. We tell him he cannot talk to our daughters, but he can carry the melon. We want to see if he is a responsible young man. I show him how to hold Manchester properly, and he follows us for a few blocks, still trying to get to the daughters.


Over the course of the night, Manchester met the following people, not necessarily in this order… a bartender, getting off early for the night.


A Lucky Dog vendor…


A rapper…


A fun guy and his friend, who offered Manchester a ride in his wheelchair…


A waitress in a COFFEE SHOP – YES, there are two places to get Coffee on Bourbon Street.


Two girls who wanted to get pictures of Manchester for their MySpace…


Some random tourists, who asked us if this (partying with a melon) is a New Orleans thing. We told them yeah, it is.


Some locals trying out a Fight Club thing on the street…


And Manchester crashed a family dinner, inviting himself to cocktails with some folks from Iowa. They were a little resentful, but he charmed them and stole some flatware.


And eventually, Manchester has an inevitable run-in with the NOPD.


He’s already calling home to arrange bail, when, luckily, Fight Club goes into action around the corner, and this one leaves to provide reinforcement. Whew.


Last, but not least, Manchester bumps into John, a young drag queen who claims to be from Connecticut. John has a very sad story about his plight. He is stuck in New Orleans with (surprise!) no money for bus fare home.


We tell John we’ve heard this before. His fresh complexion and sparkling eyes cut through the story of heroin-addicted nightmares on the street. We suspect he’s a student at St. Stanislas, cut off from his trust fund for the weekend. He hangs his head with a guilty smile.

But all is not lost. We figure we’ll help him with the fundraising, so we give him Manchester and we stick around for a while, asking folks to contribute to his fund, while repeating his story, even though we know it’s not true. We make him about twenty bucks in ten minutes. We’d be pretty good at this scam artist thing, don’t you think?

We’ve adopted a drag queen, and it’s time to call it a night. We leave Manchester to help with the fundraiser, and the girls say farewell to their new friend. He seems much happier now, and who wouldn’t be, what with Manchester staying to help?


One farewell dance, for the sake of raising money, and we drag the girls home. It’s 2:00 am, and it’s their bed time. Enough with the trust fund drag queen and the party melon already!


Funniest Ad for Vacation Rental – Ever!

This was posted on Craigslist this morning, thought you’d enjoy it!

$200 / 1br – Front Row Seats For Gustav! “Sliver By The River” Ride Of Your LIFE! (UPTOWN – GARDEN DISTRICT)


Are you looking for a once in a lifetime out of this world experience? Do you want to feel the full impact of Mother Nature?? Ride this baby out and you will have a story to tell the grandkids! I will even throw in 6 Meals Ready to Eat, or MRE’s, 6 gallons of water, 2 gallons of gas and a disposable camera, enough supplies to sustain 2 people for 3 days. You, of course, may want to bring beer, batteries and anything else that comes to mind. Do you want to document the event? Do you want to be a first responder? Are you curious to experience a force that is not to be understood?

I have pictures, a website, and all the information you could possibly need. I, of course, am not responsible for you getting yourself injured or possibly killed during this event, but I can tell you this: We did not flood during Katrina. We lost 3 ridge caps on our roof during that storm. We had no broken windows. Our building is made of brick and mortar, not wood. We have off street parking available for 1 or more cars. Our condo is fully furnished and located on the second floor. We were the first zip code to be let back into the city following Katrina.

Sound exciting? Dangerous? Please respond if you would like more details.

Serious inquiries only. Documents will need to be signed limiting our liability. I will be staying 2 doors down, so we can have beers together.

Your choice of MRE’s are: Barbeque Pork Rib, Grilled Chicken, Beef Ravioli (my favorite), and Thai Chicken.

$200/night 2 night minimum.

City of Misfits and Dodging the Bullet

The morning after Hurricane Gustav was a huge relief, but also a disappointment. I was all ready to sneak in, flash my press pass, etc. to return to New Orleans, but none of that was necessary. It was too easy to just slide right into the city limits, wonder at the empty overpasses and the silent streets, gloat a bit over the carte blanche parking situation, and open my condo to the same peaceful scene I always see when I get here… the quiet courtyard and my own little tiny place to be when I want to escape. It was as if Gustav had never come. Great news financially, but an emotional downer.I threw my bags on the bed, made a pot of coffee (yes, there was still electricity), and climbed to the wide windowsill, thinking I would enjoy the quiet morning and the empty building, do some soul searching, maybe write a little… That lasted about half an hour, then I was suddenly lonely beyond words, feeling like I was on an island and hadn’t seen other people in twenty years. Hm. Time to put feet on the street, do the thing I do when sadness or loneliness overwhelms me. With no Deborah here, I was stir crazy and just wanted to see some other live humans.

Out the front door of the building, a CNN crew is hanging out looking confused. There is nothing here to report. WTF? They are debating whether to even unload their mobile satellite, and I’m kind of smirking to myself, thinking how gleeful they must have been, anticipating recording all the pain, like before. Sorry fellas, no pain here. Only emptiness.

There’s one place I’m sure there will be people. The French Quarter is the heart of the tourist trade, and surely things will be buzzing there, shop owners cleaning up, chainsaws roaring. I walk the ten or so blocks it takes to get there, amazed at how little evidence there is of the storm. It’s breezy, but warm, and I make it all the way into Jackson Square, finally seeing the street sweeper, who has rakes and a few illegals helping clear the sidewalks of small branches and piles of green, wet leaves.

I look at my watch and realize, it’s only 7:30. Keep walking, snapping a few pictures of a fallen alligator gumbo sign, a broken glass window, a funny board on a window that says, “We don’t run from hurricanes, we drink them.”

I see some National Guard guys, and when they see my camera they puff up their chests and try to look important and busy. I guess they think I work for the paper.

And then I’m at Johnny White’s, which may have been the destination in the back of my mind all along. I never go there. It’s a tiny neighborhood bar between all the fun bars and the gay bars on a lost little block in between. But it’s where Chris Rose and two other Quarterites spent the weeks after Katrina, when the city was a scene from Revelations, and it was the setting for so many unforgettable chapters in Rose’s book that I couldn’t resist going in. I thought I would find stoic locals who rode out the storm. What I found was a bar full of very dirty people who needed to be told that the water was still on – and GO TAKE A BATH.

But because I had come this far, I sat down, ordered coffee, shook hands with the young girl beside me, and deflected a hug from a young punk who smelled like Absinthe and wannabe poets and old attics. I get it. You’re an artist. Now go home and take a BATH. The girl, Amber, tells the bar maid to go ahead and give her a shot now. This girl is wasted, and so is everyone else. Gotta love this town. Alcohol can get you through anything – and so can a bar full of supportive strangers. I just settle in and enjoy the coffee, the newscaster’s voice on TV and the comaraderie of people who have survived – yet another – near miss.

We invent a drink called a Dodge the Bullet. It’s named for Gustav and contains Crown, 151, tonic and two BC powders. The hangover medicine is already in it, so when you wake up, it’s like nothing happened – just like the hurricane.

Amber and I chat a while. She can’t be more than twenty-two or so, but she proudly tells me, lifting her second shot, that she’s a bartender on Bourbon Street. I get her whole life story (all twenty-three years of it), ending with how she came to New Orleans, fell in love with a guy, and the city, and never went home. The guy is long gone, but the city is in her blood now. She’ll die here. I get it. I get it. I’ll die here, too.

And after that, I walk out of the dark bar into bright, hot sun. It’s still only 9 am. Bobby calls and we scream at each other through a bad cell phone connection for a few minutes, give up, and I at least catch the point that he and Michael will be downtown later this afternoon… so I’ve still got some hours to kill.

I walk back to Jackson Square and meet a middle-aged guy on a bike. He starts telling me all about the historic cathedral, and I tell him I know, and thanks, and we go inside, as that’s the only way I can think of to make him quit talking. It’s beautiful and empty and big. I have never seen the place like this, had it all to myself. Just me and God and this chattering person… for a minute, I really do think about coming for mass the next morning. It’s at 7:30 am every day. Hm… it’s a bit too early for me.

So we dodged a bullet. A big fat Category 4 bullet, and this is my city, and these are all the dozen drunk people in it this morning, and I think about something Amber said. She said she never fit anywhere, never felt she could be herself until she got here. “We’re a city of misfits,” she says, and so it is. Everyone I know here is a little whacked, and makes no apologies for it. I don’t apologize, either.

In this place, at this time in my life, I can do this. I can walk empty streets and step over glass. I can walk the distance of the neighborhood back to my little condo, and I am slowed down enough here to realize that what is missing is the music in the air this morning. The saxophones and trumpets are all safely tucked away for now, sitting in old cardboard suitcases and velvet-lined leather instrument boxes, and wherever else the musicians have stashed them until the storm passes.

Just like us, all this humanity floating around, emerging in the morning after a storm, the sounds of the endless party will return. I heard them last night at Preservation Hall. I saw a light in my daughter’s eyes as she tapped her foot beneath the table, letting the horns and the tempo of Misfit City get into her bones. We dodged a bullet. We’re here among the misfits. And we’re going to be just fine.

Voodoo Fest – Louisiana’s Own Woodstock!

You Had to Be There… No, I Mean – RIGHT THERE.After Jazz Fest this past spring, what could be cooler than yet ANOTHER musical free-for-all in New Orleans, at Halloween! We just had to check out Voodoo Fest this year, and I’m sure glad we didn’t miss it.

We really didn’t care about the festival. It was all about R.E.M. to Deb and me, but we went down to City Park in the early afternoon. The Saints were winning at half-time, the weather was drop-dead perfect, and Michael and Spencer were able to stay out a bit late on a school night, so why not enjoy the day?

In all honesty, Voodoo Fest was cool, but not so much like Jazz Fest – it lacked that intense excitement all over the place, and was much like any other festival. I hated that there wasn’t much going on for the boys to enjoy; definitely not their kind of music. But when the sun went down… everything changed.

Within half an hour, our new hippie-cool peace sign blanket was damp from dew on the grass. We were awaiting R.E.M.’s opening songs, and Bobby pointed out something I had missed – as always. I can never remember to look at EVERYTHING. The sky had been crossed all evening with random lights that make lines, I supposed pointing to the park entrance or something. You know how they put those spotlights on events so that everyone can find them.

Well, these were not random markers at all. If you tipped your head back like a good hippie, just looking for the stars or enjoying your own little trip… those lights made a peace sign in the sky. The lines converged on City Park, over the little group of happy people on the ground, just a little sign from the heavens… Good freakin’ idea. Woodstock in New Orleans. Hell yes.

So, there it was. Peace in the night sky, R.E.M. onstage… Bobby B and the boys had to go… so it was just down to me and my own kids. Within the hour, Deb and I lost our minds. They were singing every single song we love, we were screaming ourselves hoarse, dancing, and NOW my little girl has been to a REAL concert, complete with the sweating and pushing and the hazy smell of tobacco and other substances floating on the night breeze. This is what it’s all about. This is one of those “here and now” times I’ve been trying to remember to live in.

Two miles back to the car. We’re exhausted, Bobby P is already hung over in advance for tomorrow morning. Jen is stealing Voodoo signs off the telephone poles, and we’re pretty damned happy to be together, enjoying this. And this. And this.

When all was said and done, Bobby B told us that you couldn’t see the peace sign from anywhere but our spot on the grass, in front of the stage. They tried to find it on their walk to the car, and it just wasn’t there any more. You had to be there – right there – to see what the lines in the sky really meant. Just like I keep reminding myself… right here, right now. It’s invisible when you try to make sense of it from anywhere else.


Anne (Eye on the ground from Woodstock, Louisiana)

Conversations in Elevators About Frozen Heads

Conversations in Elevators About Frozen Heads…

Thank God I made notes. I swear to you, every single day something unusual happens in New Orleans, and I find myself unable to remember most of them when I want to write a blog. Got three pages of craziness on my desk right now, scribbled on journal sheets and (hopefully) in “note-to-self” code that no one else can make sense of. Hopefully.Anyway, while I was really, really pregnant I was going to the doctor three times a week – enough to make me go into labor just from the parking nightmares. I resented it for so many reasons, mostly because Bryce was perfectly healthy and I hated leaving the Quarter at all during that time… and plus, Uptown is boring.

So, there I am one day, taking the elevator in Touro hospital up to the doctor’s office. A black lady pressed number two for me and informed me I was having a boy. (“You carryin’ him high and round, no doubt, that’s a boy.”) Thanks, I know.

Next, this guy comes into the elevator dressed in a one-piece jumpsuit with a company logo on it. He’s wheeling a tank that looks like R2D2 onto the elevator, and I notice that the company logo, also on the tank, is for a cryogenics lab. The black lady notices, too.He presses the fourth floor button and stares at the ceiling. A janitor and a police lady step in and press buttons. The door closes and I ask the man,

“Cryogenics? Isn’t that like when they freeze those peoples’ heads to bring them back to life later? I saw a movie about that.”

“Somebody HEAD in there?” the black woman asks.

The guy stares at the ceiling.

“Whose head in there?” the cop wants to know.

Jumpsuit head-carrying guy rolls his eyes at me. Look what I started. Superstitious New Orleanians in an elevator, convinced there’s a head in his tank. He shakes his head, and now it’s time for me to get off.

The doors open. I get off, hearing the janitor ask,

“Seriously, man. Whose head is in there?”

Well, who knows what frozen part of what person was in that tank. Maybe it was just a goldfish they are studying. Or something. Fourth floor is the lab. Maybe Richard is right about the Zombies.

Maybe it was Al Copeland’s head. Wow. How cool would that be?

Maybe they are planning to behead Mayor Nagin and store his head to study and prevent future episodes of bad mayorship.

Maybe Edwin Edwards died in jail and they are secretly trying to bring him back before anyone hears about it.

Maybe I was just crazy-pregnant with a wild imagination – but whatever was in that tank… you can bet the truth was stranger than fiction. It’s New Orleans. I wish we had held that guy hostage until he told us.

I love this town.

Notes from our year in the French Quarter

The Bitch at the Grill, The Grouch at the Emporium

What you probably don’t realize about the French Quarter is how easy it is to live here. If you come for a visit, you’ll never even know that it’s a geniune neighborhood.Within these twenty blocks, there are hundreds of actual residences, hidden behind closed shutters, garage doors, iron gates and other forms of distraction, real people live here – not just Brad Pitt and What’s-Her-Name and other millionaires and writers and artists.

(On Kindle: Life, Love and Art in the French Quarter)

The French Quarter is for the outcast, the misfit… and dreamers like us who just want some time off from reality.But my point is, there is regular stuff here. Just within the four blocks that surround our split double on Dumaine Street we have a post office (The Postal Emporium, which sounds better), a grocery store (family-owned Matassa’s, they deliver free), a dry cleaners and laundry, a pet groomer, a vet that makes house calls, a hair salon, a drug store and a florist. Never mind the Bourbon Street bars, just a block away. The last time we walked down Bourbon Street was in May when we had guests… it just isn’t part of what we do and see every day now. Life is rich… who needs tinsel?

It’s like anywhere else. You meet the people who own the stores and the services you use every day. You know the cops. You have your favorite neighbors. You become a “regular” and have “the usual” when you walk into the local diner for breakfast.

So it’s home for us this year, and we embrace it as if we were born and raised in this way. It’s a good and interesting way to live. We are surrounded by friends, and this leads us to a new game: everyone has to like us. We are determined to know and enjoy every neighbor, so any time we are ignored or dismissed or brushed off by anyone, it becomes a test of wills (us against them) in which we will not relent until the person smiles at us and treats us like they like us.

Still on the list of those to conquer… Cat Lady. Won’t speak, ducks out of her third-story window into the house when we look up and wave. Her car (another story!) always has a low front tire, so Bobby even brought an air pump, hell-bent on taking it to her to make her talk to him. So far, no luck.

Also on the list… Old Boy Scout. We’ll write more on him another time, but he’s an interesting figure, always dressed in camo pants, red shirt, red beret and a backpack. He strides by with quick, military precision each night, always in the middle of the street, back erect and facing straight forward. IF you can get him to look your way, he will raise one arm in an odd two-fingered salute (really a heil-Hitler kind of action) and won’t even break his stride. He never smiles. A big reaction is that he forms his lips as if he’s going to whistle. He doesn’t whistle, but maybe this is his version of a smile? We still don’t know, and he ALMOST smiled at me once. He did nod, but he won’t do this if Bobby is on the stoop with me. Could he be flirting? Wow. If so, someone needs to explain how it works to him.

Now, about the Bitch and the Grouch.

BRYCE gets ten points each in this particular game, because in both cases, he made ’em welcome him to the neighborhood.

The Bitch works at Clover Grill. We are such regulars at Clover Grill we even know the employees shifts. We know what to order when and who cooks it best… and we know what NOT to order when the little Bitch is working. Bitch is a pretty mullato boy, around twenty years old, very feminine, and certainly the bitchiest queen ever to work on this street.

I don’t know if he cross-dresses, but he wears his hair in many braids, then piles them up in a fancy twist. He is delicate. He is beautiful. And he’s a bitch. No matter what you order, he will undercook it to the point I would like to nick-name him Sal (short for Salmonella). He cannot cook an egg to save his life. I would love to know how he got (and keeps) his job as a cook in a diner that brags about 24 hour breakfast. Worst of all, he makes a point of throwing little public fits and acting put upon the minute you order anything.

For the last six months, Bobby and I have tried in vain to conquer the Bitch.

Anyone who knows us knows that we are the most charming couple within ten miles. No one can resist us. Seriously. We are loved. If one or both of us decide to charm someone, they are a deer in the headlights. We will not stop smothering them with attention until they invite us to dinner or pledge their first born to us. It’s part of our game, and we’re damn good at it.

But no matter what we tried… the Bitch continued to give us the cold shoulder. He has glared at us each and every time we sat down at our favorite table, and he has thrown his prissy little hips out of whack doing his little stomp-fit when we continue to insist we want our eggs COOKED.

We’ve smiled, waved, offered small talk… we’ve sat at the counter; an in-your-face kind of stalker move that would force him to look us in the eye. No luck.

Two weeks ago, we walked in and – WOW. We looked at each other, disappointed that he was working since we really wanted breakfast, and then heard a squeal.

“Oh my GOD…. look at the BABY,” he cried. He threws his hands up, wrists limp and a simpering delight was all over his face. “He’s ADORABLE. Oh my GAWD!”

Yes. We had brought in the secret weapon without even knowing it.

We placed Bryce’s seat on a diner chair and marveled at our accidental victory. Bryce cooed peacefully, the Bitch cooked our eggs to perfection, and we chalk up one more friendly neighbor on our imaginary score board – at last.

(On Kindle: Life, Love and Art in the French Quarter)

New Orleans Condo Renovation – Cotton Mill in the Warehouse District

New Orleans Condo Renovation – Cotton Mill in the Warehouse District

For those interested in the possibilities of remodeling, I thought I’d show the before-during-after pictures of our condo at Cotton Mills.

I purchased the condo two weeks ago. We’re giving it a total makeover, and I thought it would be fun to show the progress as we go along.

When complete, this will be a rental condo, a great New Orleans location in the Warehouse District, perfect for medical students, a vacation rental, or as an executive rental for those visiting New Orleans to work for a while.

This is unit #150. It is a one-bedroom unit, about 600 square feet, and included a “loft area,” but not a finished loft. Here is a picture of the first part of our project: the loft.


The picture above is the “loft area,” which may or may not have been intended for a loft. The left side is over the bathroom, which had an 8′ ceiling and no finished floor above, in the loft area. The right side is over the closet. There was no ceiling in the closet, just a gaping hole all the way to the 18′ ceiling above. The wall between them was solid, and seemed to have no function at all. We weren’t sure what we’d run into trying to unite the two sides of the loft, but that was our plan – to cut a doorway, build a closet ceiling/loft floor on the right…

So… the floor came first…


Then, we cut the doorway. It turns out there were metal 2x4s in the wall, but no plumbing or electrical wiring. We did bring an electrical outlet up from the bedroom wall during this step.


You can see in this picture the finished result of the snap-in bamboo flooring. It was rather easy to lay, and made a finished floor that is very inviting if this loft is used for sleeping.

Last, we added some iron railing. This is for safety, and also looks great from the bedroom below. It gives a sense of having a balcony in a courtyard, in keeping with our overall plan to “bring the outdoors in.”


And the finished railing project view from the bedroom below:


Curtains will be hung on the rods above the railing for privacy and to hide items in storage. We plan to use the loft as my daughter’s sleeping area when we visit, but the area would also be great for storage for someone renting the condo.

And last, but not least, here is the view from upstairs, inside the loft. It needs furniture, but the colors are great, the trim is complete, and we’re off to a great start.


Right now, the condo is being painted, and a major floor demolition is under way. We’re going down this weekend to inspect the progress so far, and will add a new blog about the next steps in our renovation of this New Orleans Warehouse District condo… soon available for rent.

This site contains information on New Orleans condos, condo rental, corporate condos, Warehouse District, French Quarter, Uptown and Downtown Condominium rentals. Most of our clients and condo owners provide furnished condos and cater to vacation renters and corporate rental markets.

New Orleans Summer Blues

     I can’t help but get nostalgic for New Orleans when I think about all the lovely outdoor spaces we enjoy so much.  With our mild winters, inspiring springs and tropical fall seasons, sometimes we forget… summer is inevitable.

     One of the things I’ve always loved about New Orleans, and the South in general, is the green, green décor of our natural surroundings.  We embrace what nature gives us, and it helps define the space we live in, emphasized so often in the architecture around town… balconies – courtyards – back porches… it’s hard to say which are my favorite!  How can one choose between the wood planks and columns of a balcony high above the street, ferns and flowering things in pots, ivy crawling up the spindles… a courtyard, with its brick walls and floors, echoes of fountains splashing, dark, secret places behind iron gates and doors… or the downright lazy atmosphere of the back porch (hammock, anyone?)

     And we spend as much time and money on these spaces as we do our interiors, because it’s who we are; this is what we do.  We are busy, very busy, being grateful for the abundance of nature around us, and we are dedicated to the practice of enjoying it in style.

      So why are all the porches, courtyards and balconies deserted right now?  Why the layer of dust on the wicker chairs, why the wilting ferns and abandoned clay pots?

      Well, it’s June.  Late June.  Hurricanes are laying low for now, but there’s a palpable weight on the air, thick with afternoon storm clouds, bustling with evening mosquitoes, driving all of us inside for relief from the harshest season of all… SUMMER.

      Even here in New Orleans, it’s hard to find a parade in June.  Or July.  Or August.   I haven’t seen spontaneous revelry since school let out.  Swimming pools are the only cool relief to the sweltering, humid afternoons.

      You won’t see us again until September.

      We’ll go to work.  We’ll be grateful for air conditioning and the lack of tourists in the streets and we’ll feel sorry for friends with kids who play summer ball… We’ll do what we have to do, and that’s all you can expect of us until fall.  We’re just hot and tired, and bored.

     But don’t worry.  It’s just three little months of misery, then we’ll be all rested up and ready for football season.  You may even see us on our back porches, grilling some delicious things and letting kids play in the water hose… in September.  When the Saints get suited up for pre-season, that’s the marker.  Hot or not, you can feel it in the air when the worst is over, and just like a really bad hangover…

This too shall pass.


Preparing for Carnival in New Orleans

No matter how long I live here, I just never get tired of Mardi Gras.

Believe it or not, there are many realtors, so disgusted with the congestion and craziness in the city, who throw up their hands, give up on working through the traffic, and just take a cruise during Mardi Gras!

Well, as much as I think that annual cruise would be a blast, I would never consider leaving home and missing all the fun this time of year.

Just thought I’d share a few fun things from our Carnival Season this year. First, see that little king cake and the gorgeous purple, green and gold ice cream? We had that at Emeril’s after an awesome “business dinner” a few weeks ago… Not sure most people would want to eat purple, green and gold ice cream… but if you love New Orleans, those food dyes and already part of your DNA, so slurp it down and enjoy!

And my four-year-old son asked when we were going in the attic to get the Mardi Gras decorations down… yikes. I had left the “Mardi Gras Tree” up so long last year, that I was able to move it into his bedroom and change the decorations – just in time for Christmas! So, I wasn’t even planning on getting it back out of the attic until – maybe never. Then again, when someone is four, everything must be celebrated somehow, so… I made a wreath for the front door, which I think turned out really well. Then, with the leftover ribbon, I decorated his tractor, and “Yard Carnival” began. Yard Carnival means Bryce, and sometimes his three-year-old friend next door, driving their little cars and tractors around, throwing all the stuff they caught at parades out into the yard, over and over and over again. They never tire of it. Even now, with Easter and St. Patrick’s next on the agenda… Mardi Gras is still in full swing each afternoon in our back yard.

So… it’s not over ’till we say it’s over. Keep it coming, New Orleans, let’s just celebrate until after Jazz Fest, then maybe we’ll settle in for summer.

Anne Beck
New Orleans Realtor, Reveler, Etc.

Condo Leasing During Mardi Gras… Or Not.

I get tired of explaining that leasing condos “short-term” here in New Orleans does not include vacation rentals. Our real estate office is focused on leases of a few months or more, catering to those who are here to work or enjoy an extended stay. The week of Mardi Gras, everyone assumed we were “full,” and the week after, the phones rang off the hook. Still… even though we avoid vacation rentals, it does affect everything we do during the Carnival Season!

While parade schedules made it impossible to get much work done, we still had a great time, and so did many of our owners and tenants.

From the office, we are just a walk through the breeze-way away from all the action of the parades on St. Charles Avenue. For the last few years, we’ve done a Friday night party at the office on the weekend of Mardi Gras, just because it’s a fun way of sharing the comforts of the office with friends and family, and tenants and owners, who want to enjoy the parades with a base nearby for those two essential Carnival needs: Bathroom, and Beer storage. We’ve got all that, and this year was the best ever.

My husband, Bobby, and son, Bryce, were the first on the parade route, practicing the art of keeping Bryce’s hands up and shouting, “FOOTBALL!” to request the throws he likes best. Some of our favorite tenants walked over from their condos in the Warehouse District to enjoy the night, neighbors from Destrehan braved the Downtown parades from our cozy spot, and even my Mom, notorious “Parade Pooper,” got right in the middle of it all, trying to get videos of the Marine Corps band and the beautiful costumes that strutted in front of our spot at the Intercontinental Hotel.

We spent Sunday in an equally wonderful, work-related venue. Our gracious hosts, the owners of 1722 Jackson Ave B, invited everyone to experience Bacchus from the parking lot and front porch of the lovely condo. Once again, we landed in the perfect place for a beautiful day of parades, walking just a half block away to parades, and having the magic Bathroom and Beer storage spot at Ginny and Annette’s place.

Trying to meet a client on Julia Street Saturday morning took 3 hours to move less than half a mile… but that’s okay – I wouldn’t trade our “job” for anything. It’s great to be so spoiled with the perfect set-ups for enjoying the city, and being able to offer those same comforts to those we serve. Just awesome. Just way too fun to stay home and complain that New Orleans is inconvenient to work in during the season.

If you call this work…

Anne Beck
New Orleans Realtor, specializing in not much of anything the last few weeks!

Hollywood South… The Glamorous Life of Two New Orleans Realtors

We have a new agent in the office who laughs when I tell him I should be at the office “around 11.”  My mother brags about our contact with behind-the-scenes film crew members, and Jennifer has recently spent some time watching the filming of American Horror Story.  In truth, working with corporate housing does have its perks… we enjoy weeks where all of our furnished condos are full, our tenants are content, our owners are satisfied with the income we produce, and work is just generally interesting and filled with people who appreciate our services.  Don’t hate us… that’s not the whole story!

Our beautiful office on Camp Street is another perk.  We rented a space that was a “fixer-upper” last summer, adding some new flooring, fresh paint, and new décor.  Now it’s a cozy and attractive three-suite office with an enviable address, downtown between Poydras and Canal, in the heart of the business district.   Since Jen and I both spend a lot of time thinking about our wardrobes, it gives us an excuse to dress up for work, eat in all those great nooks and crannies around the CBD and become familiar (i.e. “research”) all the interesting places our clients want to know about when they arrive in New Orleans.

When I describe my job, it sounds like a dream… and it kind of is.  Our condo leasing company specializes in fully furnished corporate rentals, so we usually work with tenants who are coming into town to do something interesting… an internship at a hospital, a stay at the military base on a short-term assignment, making a movie, moving to New Orleans and looking for a permanent home, and some of our clients are artists, writers, etc. who come here to “find the Muse.”  It’s rarely boring, and when you combine that with about 34 equally interesting owners of the condos we lease… that’s about sixty-eight fascinating people in our lives at any given time.  What’s not to love?

Then sometimes I burst out laughing, seeing the underside of it all, which is not so glamorous, and thinking, “New Orleans is like my life; all fun and games on the outside, with some gritty infrastructure that’s kind of… out there.”

For instance… I come into the office around 11am each day, not because I’m asleep with my satin eye mask on, recovering from a night out.  It’s because I have a four-year-old who can’t be dropped off at school until 8:30, then I go to the gym to meet my trainer.  Aha!  There’s the glamour… except that my trainer just texted me a picture of how she spent her weekend:

Baby alligators!


Yes, that’s a baby alligator.  Kristine’s husband owns an alligator farm, so she spent the weekend hatching baby alligators and drinking to the good health of each new hatchling.  She was a little under the weather Monday morning… so we pumped a little iron and discussed how busy we are at work.

Thanks goodness for weekends!

I, on the other hand, spent my weekend in Destrehan, which is where my “real life” is these days, and didn’t do anything very exciting at all.  My husband’s boss’s daughter was in town, stayed in our condo in the city, and, as usual, enjoyed our glamorous life more than we did.  Then again, she didn’t say much when my husband opened the first Bud Light at lunch time at the Ugly Dog Saloon.  She seemed relieved to be “working” in New Orleans and doing things the way the locals do.  Goodness knows, Bobby is good at orientation.

And lately at the office… the glamour has worn thin and we’ve stopped wearing pretty shoes – ever.  And I’ve pretty much decided that my next car will not be a Mercedes, but a John Deere Gator.  Yes, I mean it.  It has become positively dangerous around the office.

Never mind the daily fear of being towed, booted, or ticketed.  Never mind what you’ve heard about violence in the streets.  Never mind the general dangers of driving in a city where we ALL love to pretend we work at NASCAR.  The problem is actually under the city.  I think in Florida they are calling them sinkholes.  Here we call them pot holes… They seem much the same to me.

Call it what you want, our building is sinking.  Our whole block is sinking.  My car will eventually be swallowed up while I’m at work one day, and I just pray that the license tag number (and all the tickets associated therewith) will just disappear along with it.  That would be nice.

No one believes me, in spite of the fact that cat-sized RATS have started jumping into and out of each new hole in the street, and the corners that frame the sidewalks have become so sloped I can hardly drive my car in the high-ground middle of Natchez street any more.  So… I’ve been conducting an experiment.  In early spring, this hole opened up wide enough to hold an upside-down vodka bottle.  The bottle filled the hole nicely and I thought was a good solution to sinking asphalt in New Orleans.  An appropriate fix:

sinkholes in new orleans

Sinkholes in New Orleans

Now, I can’t even take another picture to demonstrate what has happened.  The surface hole is the same.  The vodka bottle is no longer showing.  That’s because the layer below the street has fallen down about three feet.  This is true.  If you look into that hole, you can now see the bottle, three feet down.  And further scientific evidence is that there’s been a bubbling hole across the street from it, full of water that is clearly active.  So.  No more pretty shoes.  No more Mercedes.  Alligators being texted by my trainer… what next?


Oh!  I know… farm animals in the office.


Wait.  We’ve got that, too.





Jen's Office Rabbit, Pipp

The REAL New Orleans

StreetMusic    I love that the photos we used on the home page of the website are actual photos of things we’ve seen and condos we manage here in New Orleans.  No need for stock photography here… our city is a hot-bed of opportunities to catch beautiful things on film.  That’s probably why we’re such a popular spot for film industry professionals…

But for those of us who just live it and work in it, New Orleans is a personality.  It’s like a batty old aunt – some people just can’t stand her, and others can’t get enough.  It’s because she’s such a character.

In other “music cities,” you can hear amazing bands and acts, enjoy a certain atmosphere, and appreciate the unique quality of life that evolves around the art of sound and vision; but in New Orleans, you don’t need tickets.  I love Chicago, but a good blues club has a cover charge and the good stuff happens behind closed doors.  You have to get in…   Same thing in New York.  She’s got Broadway and music and class and culture… but seeing R.E.M. at Madison Square Garden is an organized event.  Assigned seats.  Yuck.  Seeing R.E.M. at Voodoo Fest – it’s bare feet in the grass, ant bites, sweating in the evening heat, bumping into the neighbor on the blanket next to you in the park… It’s raw and pulsing in the night.  Even the poorest citizen can stand on the sidewalk outside and enjoy the immediate-ness of the outdoor concert.  And here, Michael Stipe will walk into the audience like an old friend and sing something he wrote when he was a teenage punk, staying on the streets in New Orleans, writing it all down.

So it is with everything here.

Stand outside the door of any bar on Bourbon Street and get an icy blast on the July street from the open doorway.  Canned or live, the music is yours, and it’s free.  Go inside or don’t.  It belongs to the streets and the people…

That’s the difference, for me, between New Orleans and any other place that claims to love the arts.  Ours are on the sidewalk, under the bridge, in the park, through the open doorways.  There is rarely a door or a ticket closing anyone off from the source… it just floats.  And we breathe the thick air like creatures who live under water, and those who visit learn to breathe like that, too.  Inhale trumpets, exhale sax.

Some like it, and some don’t.  Some evolve and learn to swim in the sticky air we call home.  Others don’t.

We’re okay with that.

Gossip in the Salon…

Two days a week my three-year-old, Bryce, goes to day care. He spends the other days with us at the office, but those two days are my window for doing things like… getting a hair cut.

Still, it’s during the work week, so it’s great that I found a salon right across the street from the office. I popped over this morning for a trim, and realized that even beauty salon gossip is better in New Orleans.

Sadie fit me in while coloring a beautiful little redhead. Last time I was there, wine was flowing freely at 11 am and an Elvis impersonator held my small son in his lap and had his photographer practice some tricks with the camera while the girls worked on his hair – and drank wine. It was Mardi Gras, so none of it was surprising at all. Just another day at the office.

Today, though, was very cool. While the redhead sat to the side, waiting for her new, brighter red to take hold, I was in Sadie’s chair, describing how my hair should be cut and highlighted to make me look ten years younger. Since she and the redhead are in their early twenties, she had no idea what I meant and did the same layers and highlights she always does.

Now the redhead was in a chair beside us, hunched over a black journal, reading intently. Sadie asked, “What’s that? You’re keeping a journal?”

“No,” she answered. “I found this journal on the streetcar.”

We all gasped and turned toward her. A secret diary?

“Read it!” we all shouted. Everyone in the salon was dying to know the private thoughts of the journalist who left her journal on the streetcar. Wine anyone?

“It’s a HE,” she told us, and proceeded to read aloud, as if from a text in one of her college courses.

The content of the actual journal was a bust. He was a guy on a diet, journaling each meal and every exercise, just like a girl. Then there was a tiny bit of “smut” about a girl he was going on a second date with… he felt he should make a move.

Sadie said, “Yeah, he has to get to a “base,” I guess.” We all agreed that he should get to a base, and Red kept reading.

To make a long journal short, he didn’t kiss her, then regretted it, then texted her to come back out of the house, then did kiss her, then regretted it.

And that was the end. Our journalist lost his notes on the streetcar, and women in a salon read it and got inspired.

Left with not much content to chew on, we decided it would be fun to start a journal. The redhead wanted to start a journal, then leave it somewhere on purpose; perhaps after plotting a killing or having a great affair with a politician within its pages. It would be read by some unknown person, like us, and perhaps shared. Then what?

We decided it would only continue to be interesting if the person who found it continued to write it, then also “lost” it somewhere. So we debated where she should leave it so it could be “found” by the right creative mind. It was decided that the cafe in Pirate’s Alley may be a good choice… but how to convey to the finder that he was to play a role in our game…

It fell apart from there, since we really didn’t know how to play this game without telling people it was a game. Besides, how would we know the outcome?

We gave up on it after all, little redhead girl got shampooed and blown out and went away looking twenty-something and carelessly beautiful and bohemian. Sadie made an appointment for my Bryce for Thursday, and we all went about our day.

Because that’s what we do here. We meet strangers, share these quick little moments of intimacy (even if they are someone else’s) and we move on, a little inspired and knowing that we have small conspiracies around us at all times.  I go back out into the bright sun, looking exactly the same age – but feeling lighter.

Progress on the Infrastructure…

All of us in New Orleans were amazed this year by the expedient manner in which the city readied itself for the onslaught of Super Bowl visitors. I understand that consultants from Disney were sent in to teach us how to host this event, but I don’t think we needed them.

I will acknowledge that things happened very quickly. The street car line was re-routed and all of downtown detoured around the “progress” for about a year… but still, it was fast and efficient, and completed in time for the big day.

The same can be said of the magical disappearance of homeless persons and grafitti beneath the overpasses. Don’t get me wrong… now that Super Bowl has come and gone, our friends with signs have returned as if nothing happened; but any visitor passing through a few weeks ago would have asked, “What homeless problem?” if anyone had mentioned such a thing. Of course, having been trained by Disney, I don’t think anyone did.

I kind of missed them.

But still, now that the spotlight has turned away from the Big Easy… what is being done about the problems that remain below the surface? We still need improvements, and what will motivate the Powers That Be to continue with this agenda of civic improvement?

A friend who is in town working on the last season of Treme told me an inspiring story. In the Uptown area, neighbors were fed up with a monster pothole that threatened the alignment of their cars and swallowed small dogs on a daily basis. To no avail, they cried out for help and repairs to the street, only to be ignored. A pothole Uptown is not really newsworthy… so these savvy residents did what any resourceful New Orleanian would do. They used the materials at their disposal and fixed the pothole themselves. How? they filled it with Mardi Gras beads.

Apparently it worked very well. The plastic beads, readily available in any New Orleans home by the ton, created a solid and lasting solution – and a flat surface – and cars packed them down until this sparkling patch melted down a bit and became a permanent part of the road.

This is a true story. And now I’m told it will also appear in an upcoming episode of Treme… real life providing inspiration once again.

Behind our office in the “Alley of Sighs,” I was encouraged to see that our citizens are taking responsibility for the ongoing progress on the infrastructure by taking matters into their own hands as well. A disturbing little sinkhole appeared in the alley about a month ago. The surface opening is about six inches in diameter, but it appears to go WAY down. It’s kind of creepy. I park my car next to it every day in hopes that it may swallow it whole and I will get a free new car.

But no. Someone has fixed it. Not the city. Someone who cares enough to recycle and repair the roads in the best interest of the city. And also, finding a way to finish off a bottle of booze in an alley and call it “taking responsibility” for civic improvement. I’m proud to see it, and glad to see that our neighbors and friends are not waiting around for officials to solve the problem. Kudos, New Orleans.

Accidental New Orleanians – Buying Condos on a Whim

It may sound irresponsible, but there is a definite trend in New Orleans to just “up and buy” a condo after a great visit to the city.

For me, it happened after spending New Year’s Eve here in 2008. It had been twenty years since I spent any time in the city, and I fell back in love with it immediately. With my daughter and my best friend’s daughter in tow, we enjoyed the fireworks and celebration in Jackson Square; then, no one was ready to go back to the hotel. Since the girls were only 16, we spent the next few hours riding the street car all the way across town and back…

After one day back home in north Louisiana, I called a realtor. I knew I was going to need a place to stay, because I wanted nothing more than to call New Orleans my second home. Within three weeks, I was the proud and excited owner of a tiny unit in the Warehouse District, Cotton Mill #150. It became my little haven, a thrilling renovation project, and eventually, when I really got the bug and moved here full time… a corporate rental.

The same thing happened to my friends, the Bordens. I took on leasing out their condo for them last year, and she told me the story of how they bought it. It sounded familiar… a vacation, a whim, and a throw-caution-to-the-wind purchase at The Bakery… and when they recently sold it… she cried. And her husband wouldn’t even go with us for the final inspection. He was too nostalgic and afraid he might want to call off the sale!

Last week we took on the beautiful one bedroom at the Barker House Condos on Chartres St. I spoke to the new owner, and she advised me that they will be using it for the many events coming up this spring… then we can lease it. She emailed me saying, “We just bought it without thinking about it at all. Can you believe that?” Of course I can.

So what happens?

My theory is that New Orleans is like one of those “power points” on the map… like Stonehenge. There is something in the rhythym of the city that absolutely repels some people. Some people just don’t “sync” with New Orleans.

Others are drawn to it in a way that’s almost mystical. It was always that way for me. The music in the streets, the open, welcome smiles on people’s faces, the energy – pure adrenaline – that courses through the cells of everything that lives and breathes in New Orleans. It’s a buzz. It’s a natural high… we gotta have more of THAT.

So we visit, we fall in love, and then we figure out how to make it our own… and by calling it home at least some of the time, we become “accidental New Orleanians,” and we’re still not sure why – but we’re here to stay.

Garbage City

This blog may entertain you.  It may make you laugh.  It may make you wonder if you’ve landed on a strange planet…

But the “Enjoy New Orleans” category of our blog is just that – a place to make note of the things that make our city so unique.  A simple walk outside your door will confirm it… there is rarely an hour that passes without some strange sight, some quirky advertisement, or some interesting character interrupting our complacency.

A quick example… it’s just a Monday.  It’s President’s Day, which (gasp!) does not even warrant a parade in New Orleans.  I am working from home today, in hopes of catching up on some tax preparation, but even here in our quiet neighborhood, I am still clearing away the rubble from Mardi Gras.  This will take approximately three months to accomplish.  Every resident of New Orleans knows exactly what I mean.

In our fine city, we measure the success of each Mardi Gras by weighing the trash.  For real.  On Ash Wednesday, the day after all the celebrations are over, garbage and clutter in the streets is quickly raked, swept, scooped and loaded.  Then it is weighed.   If we have more tons of trash than last year – it was a success.  I think 2013 is probably the all-time winner, but I haven’t heard the official numbers.

Here are the official numbers from my house – mine are based on left-overs.

1.  Half a king cake, two boxes of beautiful, dying truffles from Sucre.

2.  Four full bottles of wine.

3.  A soggy ice chest full of water with two Bud Lights, apple juice and another bottle of wine still in it.  This is at the office.

4.  Two large wicker baskets full of Mardi Gras throws.  Sixteen no-longer-working Hermes light up necklaces.  Four scepters (which also no longer light up).  Approximately 500 strings of beads, eighteen stuffed animals and characters, and miscellaneous logo panties, paper flowers and plastic balls.  This stuff will be around for a long time because our three-year-old, Bryce, will not part with it.

5.  Same things as #4, but duplicated at the office from our open house the Friday before Mardi Gras.  Also three mini umbrellas with purple, green and gold fringe.

It takes a long time to get rid of all this stuff, because in this first week or so after the parades, the excitement is still living in it.  It sparkles and shines with recent memory of lighted floats and drum beats and spangled costumes and friendship and laughter and hoarse throats.  It seems too valuable to be discarded… but give us some time.  By the third week of Lent we’ll be sufficiently sobered to realize that some of it can be weighed, then thrown away, measured and recorded as another fabulous season, gone for now.

So for today, I’m finally going to dump the cakes.  Mold was spotted on a raspberry.  I may even empty the ice chest of the water… and consider what to do with perfectly good hooch that will probably not re-chill.  Be patient with me.  Tomorrow I’ll take care of the half mason jar of moonshine the kids made… and so it goes.

Happy 2013 everyone!  Enjoy New Orleans…