Saturday, May 7
4:33 p.m. In New Orleans, there is a street named Desire, and one named Piety. There is also one named Frenchmen. We like New Orleans a lot.



Headed down Burgundy toward the French Quarter late Friday afternoon, the lush Birds of Paradise, the bright hibiscus, the magnolia trees in bloom. The Creole cottages and Victorian houses are pink, blue, green, orange, and all connected by black wires thick and thin attached to leaning wooden telephone poles.

Down one street, a pizza delivery girl sped by on her bicycle, balancing a pizza box on her handlebars. She was olive skin, and golden curls cropped tight.



There is that New Orleans, and then there is Bourbon Street, and the stench of old beer, the woman with her breasts bared and a snake around her neck, the man dressed up as a grenade, and everyone in a state of dazed, desperate excitement. Bourbon Street is a twisted Disneyland, where people walk about drinking alcohol out of Special Edition plastic mugs. The air is thick with the deep thumps of early Nineties dance music. We hung a left for a quick escape.

On Decatur, a down-home jazz band and fancy drinks all around. Walking around earlier, Maud’d said, “I need a beer.”

“I need an iced mocha,” I’d said.

“Chacun son vice.”

“With whipped cream, maybe, and chocolate sprinkles.”

But then we sat, and I saw that the strawberry daiquiri was bright red, and, soon, it was mine.