The lure of New Orleans

 At first glance its a shithole.  Tourist shops, frozen drink machines, the sidewalks wet from clearing of last night's piss and vomit.  Blech.  But there must be something about this place.  let's look a little closer.  

The history is there.  you can see it in the architecture.  The buildings are detailed with wrought iron and gingerbread.  Many corners are commemorated with chipped tiles informing any who care to read, the former Spanish names of the streets.  Jackson square is in the middle of the madness.  St. Louis is still a church.  Then there are those who make their living telling stories.  They can tell you about the pirate Lefitte.  He helped save his city when called by Andrew Jackson to fight against the British.  They might even show you his old smithy.  Its a bar now that sells, sigh, booze slushies.  But notice the lack of electric light.  The fire still burns.  History is still important even if it must be funded by Purple Drank.  

Next they might show you the home of Marie Laveau, the Voodoo queen.  It still stands, now with offerings here and there to help keep her memory alive.  Also it's an AirBnb, yet another concession to the tourist business that keeps this place alive.  

there are others.  Famous whores and famous writers.  When looked at through this lense, it's almost romantic in a libertarian sort of way.  Who can resist loving the men and woman that lived as they pleased, outside the law, or the artists that were drawn to the debauchery and the mystique of voodoo?  Maybe now you don't think all the cheap booze and bad behavior is really so, well, bad.  Honoring the history of this place means getting shitty drunk and pissing in the streets.  Ok, maybe not pissing in the streets, but a pub crawl/history lesson is appropriate.  I'm still a lady, ehem.  

So there's the history, then there's the trees.  you know how I love trees.  i don't know what kind they are but their roots filled every unpaved nook and cranny.  then the roots lift and break the walk and send the clear message that they will survive.  Their beauty comes from the gnarled misshapen branches, big and many, along with those determined roots.  After all is said and done, after all the pavement and houses, it's clear they'll thrive regardless.  Turn your head for just a moment and the trees might take back the streets turning the place back into a jungle.  

This is the Garden district. Not only do the trees remind you, you're one step out of the swamp, but there's a cemetery.  The above ground cemeteries house crumbling tombs, and sure, a few new ones, but its the old ones that remind you where you are.  The homes feel haunted too.  It's just the constant fight to keep nature at bay.  Nothing lasts forever except maybe the trees.  

Now there are gems.  Few on Bourbon Street, but gems still.   We'll talk more on that later.