I don’t know what I can say about New Orleans that hasn’t already been said by people far more talented and observant that I am, but I feel compelled to capture our last visit before too much time passes and too many other cities fill my brain. We came in from Gulf Shores, Alabama, and we arrived well before dark. Immediately there were things that haven’t changed since our last visit (horrid road conditions, thick traffic, litter and graffiti, people on the streets who haven’t had the easiest life). There were also things that were new to us. The looping concrete overpasses now sported vividly painted support beams. Pinks, yellows, greens, with artistic floral swirls held up the roads. It was literally a bright spot in a sea of gray. It was something pretty to rest your eyes upon and it felt like a hopeful welcome. As we made our way through familiar streets towards the Irish Channel neighborhood, we smiled. Everywhere you looked was something beautiful and something decrepit: shiny beads, flaking paint; the wafting stench of hot garbage, the intoxicating ubiquitous jasmine; elaborate cast iron fences, brick walls topped with dissuading shards of glass; sandwich boards beckoning happy hour guests, plywood and spray paint warning people away; charming cobble and brick, heaving sidewalks and crumbling streets; lush floral bushes and vines, vacant lots strewn with rubble. It’s like no where else I’ve ever seen, and it’s one of my favorite cities in which to linger overlong, chatting with locals.

One Uber driver was particularly talkative and happy to discuss the city, his beloved forever home. He told us that there was a new mayor, replacing one who was indited while in office. The new mayor was providing a new hope. He was quick to point out that she was not a native, but that she was still accepted. She came in as an investigative reporter during Katrina, and from there built a career where she would try to affect change. She didn’t have hands in anyone’s pockets and was very transparent. He spoke hopefully about her has he brought us to our little temporary home in the Irish Channel.

The house we stayed in was a little love letter to the city. It was a double shotgun, and the owners shared a wall with us and poured in so much love and knowledge into the apartment. They provided a beautiful, tidy little home, full of history and NOLA detail. Purple and orange with a squeaky green porch swing, it was a charming house that fit in perfectly with neighborhood.

We love staying in the Irish Channel. It is a dense neighborhood contained between Louisiana Street to the east, Jackson Street to the west, and the Garden District to the north. The mighty Mississippi is its impenetrable southern border. Not the scenic Mississippi, though. From most of the Irish Channel you can’t actually see the river at all. This neighborhood has the commerce side of that imposing river. It’s where the trains meet the barges and the barges meet the trucks. There’s constant loading, unloading, hauling. Boat horns, train horns, truck horns. The main street between all that industry and the homes, Tchoupitoulas, is wide and busy with a lot of traffic. There are six blocks of from Tchoup to Magazine Street, the bustling High Street heart for the Irish Channel. The streets between the bordering boulevards are narrow. Parking can be a challenge. There’s one green park, a few schools. Most businesses are on or close to the main outline. Tchoupitoulas is the direct connection to the highways and to downtown. It’s home to many businesses, breweries, stores, and restaurants trying to gentrify this little corner of noise and movement. Jackson has the hipster vibe with vintage stores, food trucks, sandwich shops scattered around. Louisiana is a wide boulevard with ancient live oak trees and the street car track. It has churches, bus stops, and other neighborhood businesses like groceries, gyms, bars. It also has a couple excellent restaurants and music venues. The core of this neighborhood is the homes. Between Louisiana and Jackson lie roughly a dozen blocks of packed homes, colorful houses, barely separated from their neighbor by more than a few feet. Shotgun and row homes, many quite colorful and festooned with seasonal baubles, Mardi Gras flowers, tidy gardens, and iron fences. Some houses are rougher. Surrounded by chain link and in need of paint. Most have half a postage stamp worth of front yard. And in early April the hedges of jasmine fill you with a dizzying, delightful breath of spring.

We spent three days this visit. It was at least 30 days too few, but we tried to make the most of it. We spent a day wandering the Garden district, admiring the architecture, the literal gardens, the various decorative choices owners made to their little (and not so little) slices of Creole Heaven. We admired the trees and cheered their stubborn control to upheave the sidewalks as they needed. We stuck our noses in every available jasmine hedge. We greeted folks in passing, tourists and locals alike.

We ate locally: oysters, beignets, muffeletta, gumbo, oyster stew, cornbread, sno-balls, collard green melts, ham biscuits, red beans and rice, crawfish etouffee, duck hash, Creole trinity with popcorn rice. Most of it did not photograph well, but all of it tasted exceptional.

We listened to as much live music as we could find. That meant hanging in the Quarter and on Frenchmen St, where we got to enjoy the legendary Kermitt Ruffins and Irvin Mayfield, at Felix’s; we saw Sweetie Pie at the Spotted Cat; and we wandered in and out of clubs and bars listening to such talented musicians and bands filling the days and nights with music and song.

We finally visited the WWII Museum, an incredibly well done museum that was so powerful and beautifully curated with relics and artifacts. Full disclosure: I was so emotionally moved by the stories, death, and horrible similarities to what I’m seeing in the world these days that I could not stay past the Tom Hanks movie. Openly sobbing, I removed myself to the sunshine and blue skies and the here and now. I left Larry to continue experiencing the museum. I told him when he was done to find me along the banks of the Mississippi where I was chatting with a fellow visitor and listening to a local read Scriptures while a second line parade band blew brass in the distance.

After we caught back up with each other, we made our way through the Quarter, but there was a very different feel. The power had been out for about an hour. The gas lamps were the only lights shining. No businesses could take credit cards, so very few tourists were around. No electric speaker could blast music so it was relatively quiet. The only busker was playing an upright piano wheeled out to the curb and an accordion. We happened to have cash in our pockets and familiarity with the lay of the neighborhood, so we found an outdoor table, a glass of wine, and we sat and enjoyed an early morning energy with the golden hour afternoon light while chatting with the locals. It didn’t last longer than a couple hours, but it was pretty magical.

We spent our last afternoon and evening in the quarter, admiring the architecture, the music, the people, and the best muffeletta in the city at the Verti Marte (fight me, Larry). And with that, our short visit was over, but our love for the city remains. We will be back.