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I called my mother when I got home from New Orleans today, and she said, "I've got to tell you about this nun I met last week. She is just like you."

I was doubtful until she described the longing in that nun's voice, the way she missed New Orleans in the sense of an addict missing crack, and her conviction that there is no better place, no matter what anyone says, than the town we call the Crescent City.

That nun... she was teaching there in the seventies, was reassigned somewhere else, and still cannot get the Big Easy out of her blood. She told my mother, "It's the music, the way everyone touches everyone else, whether they mean to or not. It's the neighborhood they call a city. It's just what it is, and there is nowhere else like it." The nun is Irish, with the brogue and the whole nun-thing of being very savvy, having seen it all, and still finding ways to love the world. It's her job to love the world. She probably enjoys happy hour as well, and Mom is right. She does sound like me. I have missed the hell out of New Orleans.

Things have changed. It's not the same place I escaped to every weekend in my high school and college years. It is not the sinful slime pit that so attracted me during the rebellious era. It is family-friendly to the point of being Disney-like (and I am not saying Disney-like in a good way). The police are very professional now, there are no t-shirts that make you blush, confronting you from every corner shop. There is no sense of being stalked by gang members. I don't even feel the ghosts the way I used to...

Native New Orleanians now have a point of reference around which every conversation revolves. Things have happened "since The Storm," buildings used to stand in certain places "before The Storm," and certain neighbors and friends are still "away because of The Storm," and this reference is embroidered almost unnoticeably into each casual comment, but is as distinct as A.D. and B.C.

I think B.C. may stand for "Before Katrina,' but spelled wrong. I'm not sure. I'll have to ask a local.

So it's different, but also the same. I feel safe there now, even alone with a sixteen-year-old daughter in tow, walking the streets of the warehouse district late at night, off to see the tail end of another Mardi Gras.

We're safe, but also blessed with the random-ness that I remember and love. That music. That coming-from-nowhere, who-is-playing-that-horn, does-it-just-float-up-from-the-potholes jazz that just "happens" all day long. Silence in the streets. Horses hooves clopping, a few tourists with yankee voices chattering about red beans and rice... ("Do you have a Rolaids, George? That was a little HOT)."

And then a sudden intro from a trumpet - out of nowhere. GOOD trumpet music. It's just some guy, but he pulls the horn down from his mouth and grins as all the heads turn, and the pace on the street picks up a bit, so he continues, talking to the neighbors through the notes, orchestrating the rhythm of the afternoon. That guy... he's just a guy, and he's just there. He doesn't work at this, it is just a song on the wind and will be recorded nowhere but in my bones. Even after The Storm... we still have this.

Speaking of which, there are now souvenirs that fight back at Katrina. They say "Cafe Du Monde. Hurricane Katrina couldn't blow the sugar off the beignets." So there.

We've also got some new stuff. That is what this blog is about. I'm now a part-time resident of the Arts/Warehouse District. It's not the French Quarter, it's a... suburb, I think. It's about a ten block walk from Canal Street. It's kind of half-slummy, half artsy-bohemian, and historical enough to be authentic New Orleans. I'm liking it. I'm learning it.

I'll tell you all about is as I find out more, but my new part-time neighborhood has some interesting features. We've got a Dumpster Buddha, a Courtyard Cat, condos with a "Peter Pan factor," and I just learned why there's no great marching band action in Lee Circle at Mardi Gras. One of my neighbors told me. She swears her wheelchair is not a gimmick to get more throws at parades, but it kind of worked out that way.

There's just too much to tell. And there's so much to learn. I have got to uncover the mystery of the Silver and Gold Men. Are they zombies? Mimes? So much research to do, plus a condo to renovate.

I'll keep you posted.

Anne