*This is a post I wrote while in NOLA. Better (posted) late than never. 😉

We have stayed in many Airbnb/VRBOs over the years and by and large they have all been great. We may have had a small hiccup here or there, but nothing that I can even remember. (Not that I can remember much these days.)

Renting in NOLA proved to be a bit tricky. When I started looking, there really wasn’t much available. Glen did “what Glen does” and looked for other ways to solve the problem. He found a few furnished places on Zillow that rented by the month without a long lease. I took it from there. (Turns out that you’re not supposed to be able to rent units in the Quarter for less than a month unless the owner is part of a non-profit? (That could just be bad information I’m passing along…so take it with a couple grains of salt. People get around it somehow, but it does make it challenging for a renter to figure out the system.)

The unit I liked best was in the building that we are in, but it was a different apartment. The unit I liked was “available” online, but when I spoke with the representative it suddenly was not available, but…he had another unit that was “even better”! Yah. Red flag #1.

The unit that was “better” was not online yet, but it would be ready by our arrival. It was smaller, but less expensive. We couldn’t see it because…they never answered that question, but I’d guess because it was rented and the tenant hadn’t moved out yet. And I could rent it by giving him my credit card number over the phone. Red flag #2.

So I started doing my internet sleuthing to see if I could verify this rental, the company behind it, or some information that would give me confidence that it was real. I finally spoke with someone who seemed official and gave me some additional information. We agreed that I would sign the lease, but would not pay the deposit until a month later when they would take me on a “video” tour. All of this with only a few reviews for their other rentals though they’d been in the business for “15 years”. Red flag #3.

When the video tour date came and I didn’t hear from them, I was surprised. I thought that they would be hungry to get our money. Since I needed to know that we had secured an apartment, I reached out and we arranged the tour. Everything seemed fine so I paid the deposit with a promise that when it was furnished, they would send me photos and we would pay the rest upon arrival. We were told that the two bedrooms had queen beds so we went ahead and invited people to stay with us. A couple weeks before arrival, we received photos and I felt pretty good about things. Photoshop is a thing. Red Flag #4.

Fast forward to our arrival. We know what a good photographer can do with photos, right? When someone says that they are “waiting for the arrival of the furniture”, I assume that it’s been purchased and they are waiting on delivery. While there is nothing wrong with the furnishings, it’s not quite as they led me to believe. All the furniture is used, not quite fresh and clean, dinged up and the accessories are definitely from Ross because the price tags are still on them. (I’m a certified discount shopper so I have no problem with the purchase location, but please…remove the price tags!) Also, the bedrooms are small and I swear those beds are NOT queens. In the “main” bedroom, you can’t close the door because the room is so small that the door hits the bed. So we can’t ask our guests to stay in that room. But the back bedroom is on the parking lot with a staircase right outside the windows. When those big pickup trucks come in at night their headlights aim straight in the room and light up like a searchlight! We asked for blackout curtains (the windows are frosted) for the three windows, but received plain curtains for two of the windows. Fair warning for any of our readers still considering visiting us.

I’ve done some more sleuthing on the rental company and in talking with neighbors I’ve learned that they own quite a few rentals in and around the French Quarter. This information led me to believe that they would have the rental process down pat. Not so much. Since we are the first renters in this apartment, I wasn’t surprised that there were a few missing things such as hangars and when I asked for the items, some of them arrived. A few things though promised, were never supplied with no explanation. Not such a big deal. We either got what we needed from Amazon or figured out a work around. Princess problem.

But then things got a little weird. Something about this company is just off. Glen says they are part of the “Costa Nostra” which is probably not okay to say…??? There’s something weird about the circumstances of the people who live in the units in the back of the building. I’m not exactly sure who lives there, it seems to be a rotation for some. The ones I’ve met all work for the company and they are all from Honduras. Keep that in mind for the next paragraph. I’m just gonna leave it at that.

The other tenants since we’ve been here…There was supposedly a “traveling nurse” next door though we NEVER saw or heard her. Some other renters said that they had a “bait and switch” situation where they paid for a two bedroom/four bed unit and were given a studio. There were four of them. They complained and ended up having it resolved, but it eerily reminded me of our beginning situation. A young man (a chef) moved in next door and was obviously expecting to stay for the long haul (based on the amount of stuff his mom bought for him at Costco) and he disappeared in a matter of a two days. No trace of him.

The other day the workers were scurrying around painting and cleaning two of the units, including the one that the young man had suddenly vacated. It was definitely an “all hands on deck” situation. One of the workers told me (in Spanish) that some “VIPs” were coming so they were getting the units prepared.

The “VIPs” arrived the evening of the eclipse. There were a bunch of them dragging suitcases into the units. By a bunch, I think maybe seven or eight? All men and one woman. They had a truck with Texas plates that had a roofing company logo all over it. Dug and I were out watching the eclipse that evening and when one of the men came out, we introduced selves. He told me he was here on business and was from…Honduras so I thought that maybe he was connected to the company and I said, “Oh, do you know the people living in the back? They are from Honduras”. He paused and sputtered and said no. It was just awkward. And weird. It felt like I had asked something I shouldn’t have…Costa Nostra?

This evening as in after 6:00 pm, the workers are power washing and blowing the brick in front of the building and our doors. And they are washing the table that has been outside the whole time. I tried to clean it once, but I only had so many paper towels. Interesting that nobody thought to clean it for our arrival. And for the last few days…we can’t seem to keep our wi-fi working. We’ve been promised they are working on it, but no improvement. I think they are bandaging it and not fixing the root problem which is that they have a full building without enough capacity for the number of devices.

So apparently, my VIP status is not enough for the special treatment. And that, my friends, is my princess problem.

*And now in Europe…we’ll see how our VRBO/Airbnb rentals work out!

I’m a little worried that this “Home” thing will become like the “Home Alone” series and never end…just sayin’…

Yet, this theme of “home” continues to rattle around in my head. I was thinking about my literal homes and stories that they tell. I vaguely remember my first home and recently I walked to it while I was in LA. It’s a lot smaller than I remember it – isn’t that true for you, too? My second home was on Dunsmore Ave. (I’ve written about that weirdness in an earlier post.) It’s where I learned independence – riding my bike up the hills to visit friends, walking down to the liquor store, going to the park all day every day during the summer, smoking my first cigarette (and other things)…

My next home was brief and it wasn’t part of the plan. As I was the last kid at home, my parents were looking toward their “golden years” and they wanted to sell the house, buy an apartment complex and move to Glendale which was actually not even a different town, just a different part of town. As a very selfless, confident, mature 14 year old, I fully supported their decision…NOT!!! I threw a toddler tantrum EVERY time they talked about it and eventually, they backed down so the compromise was that they bought the apartment complex and we rented an apartment where I could finish high school with my classmates. Who says temper tantrums don’t work?

I eventually left that home (which always felt temporary) and moved to Chico for college where I lived in three different places over three years. My definition of “home” broadened at this time. It definitely became more about the town, the people, and the experiences. And yet…every time I returned to LA (less frequently referred to by me as “home”) and I breathed in that smoggy smell at the top of the Grapevine, I thought…no, I felt…at home. Sadly and strangely, that smell was a warm fuzzy. (I was in LA visiting my mom in June and that smell was there – the first time I’d smelled it in years…and it warmed my pointed little heart as I dropped into the valley).

While I was traveling during college, my parents bought a condo (That whole apartment-living thing didn’t ever pan out. They eventually sold the condo and bought another house. I guess apartments just weren’t “home” for them.) After my travels in Europe, I returned to LA to finish junior college; it definitely did not feel like home.

Later, my LA “home” became my sister and brother-in-law’s house. They always welcomed me and eventually my family. This “home” was more about the family time, the holidays, the parties, the memories, the people. And sadly, when my sister passed, I lost that sense of home. But that was not really about the house that I lost, it was the sister I lost (who in many ways was more of my mom…but that’s a different blog post).

So time passed, I moved around before Glen and with Glen. We had kids. We got old – ish. And still my definition of “home” continues to evolve, though I think that I can definitively say that our house and community of 31 years feels like “home”. I love our house, but I really love our family and friends. That’s what home is, right? It’s a feeling. A belonging. A knowing. A familiarity. Hey – is that where family comes from?

One other thought…I just finished a great and easy book called London’s Number One Dog-Walking Agency. It’s a memoir and the author mostly “thinks aloud” throughout the whole book. She’s funny and witty and thoughtful. And much of her thinking hit home. Pun intended. She struggled throughout the book to identify what home meant to her and at one point she concluded that “Family homes need a bit of messiness, a bit of tattiness, a lot of noise…Matter and clutter, telling the story of the family and the people who lived there. It shows that there are ideas and interests and arguments going in here that are too much fun to stop and tidy every last envelope. It tells you that there’s love.”

So I wonder…is “home” simply where the “love” is? Will Walnut Creek always be my home, sweet home? My home is where the heart is? My there’s no place like home?

Time will tell.

And in the meantime…stay tuned as our travels have begun! Here’s our “home” this week.

It’s been a whirlwind month (actually less than a month). Since arriving home on June 4th I’ve been away from home 6/22 nights and we leave in 3 days – spending our last night in CA at an SFO hotel prior to our 6:00 am flight to the UK on Friday.

I love our home. I love our community. I love my kids, my friends and yes, Dug, the dog. I am always conflicted about leaving. Last week my weird, anxiety dreams began and I know it’s because we’re getting ready to leave. And yet…it’s a big world and while home, I’m always dreaming of the next destination. Glen and I have always laughed that we spend our vacations planning our next vacation. Gotta work on that “living in the moment” thing! I think we are getting better at it.

I spent two days in Chico this week. The early morning drive up to my alma mater is always beautiful. I remember when I lived in Chico for school and later work, I always took a deep breath – a sigh – as I turned off the freeway. It just felt like I was home. As years passed and life got busy, I sort of forgot that sense of comfort that I got from arriving in Chico. This time…as I drove through the farm fields and watched the sun rising in the east, I reflexively took that long, deep sigh…ahhhhh… As I pulled into town on this early summer morning and I breathed in the fresh, clear air and felt the warm summer sun, I was reminded of why I absolutely love Chico in the summer.

There’s a calmness. There’s a sense of hope about the upcoming (academic) year. The sky is blue, the clouds are puffy white, the leaves are green and there’s just this sense of….ahhhhh. I remember my first summer in Chico. Every morning I woke up and looked out the window to that blue, blue sky and those green, green leaves. I remember thinking as I ate my salted cantaloupe for breakfast (why I remember that so specifically, I don’t know!) that I’d never known so many summer days of crisp, clear, blue sky. After all, LA ‘s summer months began with “June gloom” followed by July and August smoggy haze. The lazy days of a hot summer in Chico are a sweet, sweet memory.

I’m wandering with my words as I write this post trying to think…what exactly is the point of this post? I think that maybe I’m trying to express coming to understand that “home” is a word, but mostly it’s a feeling. As life bends and turns, we find many “homes” and they are not all literal places.

Yesterday, the four of us (Glen, Niels, Blair and I) traveled to Aptos to attend the baby shower of the daughter of our dear, dear friends – The Johnstons. “Grammsy”-to-be, Kimmy married a college friend of mine, Barry. In the 80s, Glen and I moved to Orange County and soon after, so did the Johnstons. Our lives ran parallel for a bit as we happily attended Lamaze classes together in preparation for our first-born children, Niels and Christina and then they moved to Oregon. While we never “broke up”, there were long periods where we rarely saw each other or even talked on the phone. (Remember when calls were “long distance” and expensive?) This relationship was one of those rare instances where as a couple, each of us instantly bonded and we became a very close foursome and two twosomes and we continued our deep friendship over the years, from near and far (mostly far).

And here’s what I’ve been trying to get to with my thinking today…Kimmy and I are what we call “potato sisters” – I’ll just let you wonder about that – and we have that connection that can’t/won’t be broken no matter the distance, time, or…break up. (That’s a different story.) So…short story long…Kim is another “home” for me. She gets me. She knows my history. She loves me in spite of my weaknesses. She laughs with me. She cries with me. And I love her because when I see her I just instinctively, reflexively take that big, long sigh….Ahhhh…I’m home. Love you, Kimmy.

Wishing that each of you have a “Kimmy” in your life…one of many “homes”.

I’m human. I am also pretty sure all reading are as well.

It is my normal ritual to review my calendar in the evening before the next day. Monday evening I knew I had a bit of a complicated Tuesday morning. There was a scheduled noon video meeting with the Murphy / Densmore family and advisors that was important not to miss. I also had a 10:00 AM follow up / diagnostic procedure scheduled at UCSF Parnassus campus. If you’ve been to the Parnassus campus you know two things; it is wonderfully situated with amazing views and it just isn’t easy to access via public transit. Coordinating things so I could exit and get home by noon as free of stress as possible would be tricky, or so I thought.

I considered the Uber-BART-Muni option (preferred choice). I haven’t ridden BART since before our NOLA experience so I was unsure of the “load”. I worry about that as standing in one place for an hour would put my back in a condition that would not bode well for the day to come. Niels is using BART these days for his occasional forays into his SF office. We chatted. No assurances. I decided to “sleep on it”.

I had an amazing night of sleep (slept through to 5:30 with one or maybe two old man get ups). I had my coffee, Citrucell and smoothie. It was 6:30ish. I used Apple Maps on my phone and it said I could drive and be there (28 miles) in a bit over an hour. I decided to get dressed, jump in the truck and drive over.

I was treated at UCSF Mt Zion from mid July through early September 2008. This involved every weekday for six weeks driving into SF. PLUS, Fridays were “special” as I was radiated twice and I usually came home for a nap between sessions. So, with all of that plus more I had much experience crossing the bridge. It is unusual that it isn’t accompanied by a bit of angst. Usually a worry as to being late (thanks Dad!).

Traffic was quite light all the way to the approach to the toll plaza. AND it crawled. This is normally where the angst builds. It began that way. But, I glanced at my phone and it said I would be to UCSF by 8:26. I asked myself what if it was much worse? Well, I might be there at 9:26? Ease. My phone was right.

A unique experience occurs for me when I enter the UCSF realm. The sense of being in my Mom’s arms. I feel cared for – deeply. I believe I am weird this way. AND it is so real for me. As I was sitting in the parking lot underneath the campus I took several minutes to let it wash over me. To consume me. I then headed up and into one of several buildings. Each time I passed through a screening (there are multiple) I was sure to warmly greet and thank them for all they do to keep us safe. Each seemed to appreciate. I then found a bathroom, relieved myself and washed my hands. The hospital soap at UCSF has a one of a kind smell. It sends me right back to the 7th floor Mt. Zion and the infusion center. The home, for me, of the most wonderful care a person can imagine.

I navigated my way to 5th floor suite 501. I again greeted the receptionist, announced I was early (9:05 for a 10:00), completed the easy-peasy reg process and found a comfortable seat to hang out, read and wait patiently. AND amazingly they called me in for the procedure at 9:15. We were wrapped by 9:30. I reversed my steps and drive and found my way home by 10:45. AMAZING.

THERE CAN BE A DIFFERENT WAY. IF ONLY I AM OPEN TO THE POSSIBILITIES.

Feels a little weird around here. I have one toe in Walnut Creek aka home and one toe in Google researching our next stops. I feel like I’ve barely had time to bask in the golden glory of our time in New Orleans (and it really was a golden time) and I’m already moving on – all while enjoying time at home with family and friends. (Plus taking care of those pesky house/home tasks that build up while we are gone.)

I’m not complaining…such a problem some might say…I’m just sharing the reality that our current lifestyle creates. And trust me, it’s a challenge I embrace…mostly.

So where to next? Where will we be dwelling? It’s actually a combo of dwelling and visiting. Our first two stops are in the UK. We have one week on the Isle of Arran which is in western Scotland, followed by a month in Canterbury, England which is southwest of London. You might have heard of a cathedral? Or a tale?

Believe it or not, and I might be a little embarrassed to say this…we selected these two stops (5 weeks total) with VERY little research or information. We are really stepping out of our usual pattern and just throwing a dart at the board. Now as I start researching things to do, places to eat…it looks like our darts are bullseyes! Stay tuned!

In the meantime…just enjoying California!

So…where will the path take us?

NOLA is a beautiful and it’s a beautiful place to walk. It’s obviously flat which makes it an easy walk (except when it’s 90 degrees and 80% humidity). We all know about the architecture and of course, there’s the people watching, but beware! The sidewalks are not in tip-top condition!

I’ve had this post in mind for the entire time we were in NOLA. I took TONS of pictures of the ground/sidewalks. I can now say what I was afraid to say out loud…because I was afraid I’d jinx us. It’s a miracle neither of us tripped and fell while walking on these incredibly uneven surfaces. The photos do not do it the reality justice!

So “read” on at your own risk!

And here are a few hazards I ran across…

There was another kind of danger that I didn’t take photos of…it’s the kind that shows up after those late night Bourbon Street drinkers head home in the wee hours and they don’t quite make it before…And that’s all I’ll say about that.

But there was also lots of messaging on the sidewalks.

And I probably have 50 more photos of the sidewalk. Maybe another day! But I think you get the gist.

Our last day. Something old…I meandered through the Bywater taking more photos, talking with a few people and eventually I walked back along the Mississippi. It was hot. Dug was hot. I forgot water again. And why is it that in this climate, even on a walking trail, there are NO water fountains of any kind? Luckily a few of the corner stores and restaurants provide dog water bowls for bad parents like me.

Anyway…the day meandered along like the Mississippi – slowly and winding this way and that. It was a big day at the French Open and I admit to watching more than I might have knowing that it was our last day, but did I mention that it was hot? And humid? And that Rafa was playing? Against Djokovic?

Back through the Quarter to our home.

Finally after 5:00, I headed back down toward Jackson Square. That place is always a bustling beehive of activity – performers, artists, tarot card readers, tourists, tourists, tourists. It was eerie this evening because there were so few people there. It really was actually kind of creepy and I couldn’t walk through it quickly enough. The whole point of my walk was to go to this little store that had a fanny pack I’d been eyeing. It’s nothing special, but I decided I wanted it. Please tell me how cute it is when you see me wearing it. (I’d take a picture of it, but I already packed it in the car.) I stopped at Rouse’s, the market in the French Quarter, to pick up a couple items for Glen and meandered back to the house. As I approached our house I stepped back to take a photo. There was a guy on a bike nearby and he saw me and came over to talk about the house. I thought he was going to tell me about it. Turns out he wanted to ask me about it. I shared what I knew…

It was built in the early 1780s in St. John’s Bayou near Lake Pontchartrain. In the mid 1780s, it was disassembled and trekked down St. John’s Bayou Road on wagons to be rebuilt in its current location. At the time, it was owned by Gabriel Peychoux, a French grain supplier who married a French Creole woman from a wealthy landowning family. Nobody seems to know why he moved the home. It is the only Creole-style French Colonial plantation house with exterior stairs in the Quarter and it sits back from the Governor Nicholls Street like it would on a plantation. This placement is most unusual here in the Quarter where most of the buildings are right on the sidewalk. The house is at least 25 years older than any other structure within 16 blocks and averages more than 80 years older than most of the buildings.

In 1795, the home was purchased by John Ossorno of Spain. It is still called The Ossorno house, as his heirs continued to live in it for generations. Until its recent purchase, the house has only been owned by two other families. Today, it has six units with one or two bedrooms and is rented for short and long term rentals. Lucky us.

As I shared what I knew, Steven introduced himself to me and asked how I knew so much. I told him I was just curious and had gotten pretty good at noodling around on Google to get information on neighborhoods and houses. We talked about Airbnbs in the Quarter and I told him what I knew about the regulations and the current owner of the Ossorno house. The whole short term rental situation here is…as Glen would say…complicated. Steven asked where I lived and I explained our current travels which got him to asking more questions. He asked where we had eaten and our favorite places that we’ve visited, etc. etc. When he told me his last name I asked, “Like the restaurant?” and he was so impressed that I knew about the 100+ year old restaurant, Mandina’s. (No need to go there. Sadly disappointed.) He asked about our next destination so I shared our plans. Then he asked if we had plans to go to different continents so I told him that Africa was high on my list. He told me the story of a friend of his who when on safari saw two guys come running out of a bush and he thought to himself, if they’re running, I’d better run, too! So he ran…away from an elephant! LOL. I love talking with strangers. You never know where the conversation will lead.

After about a ten to fifteen minutes of chatting (in which I missed the end of Nadal beating Djokovic!!!!!), he hopped on his bike and as he left he thanked me for chatting with him and for bringing “culture to New Orleans.” I’m not exactly sure what he meant, but I know that it was a compliment and he meant it sincerely. And…after almost two months of “dwelling” here with the goal of digging in and learning what it means to live here…I feel like I have accomplished my mission.

Isn’t it weird how just at the right time…there’s a sign? Steven was my sign.

Good night, Nola. I love you.

I went to the banks of the Mississippi River on my first visit to NOLA 20 +/- years ago. It is iconic. I like to use landmarks to set my directional bearings. It almost always helps me navigate an area new to me. To feel comfortable, even confident. As you face the Mississippi River at the foot of Canal Street (my first vantage point) it clearly flows right to left. So I assumed this meant south was to my left. It had to be the 2nd or 3rd visit before I realized this wasn’t true.

Last week on our steamboat excursion the captain served as our tour guide that narrated as we began our journey downriver. As we began he briefly mentions Algiers Point on the West Bank. Huh? I thought I had misheard. We headed downriver a fair distance and turned around and headed back upriver to complete the out and back. As we neared the French Quarter and docking, the captain mentioned Algiers Point and the West Bank again. I hadn’t heard incorrectly.

Algiers is very clearly to the east of the French Quarter and what most people consider central NOLA. So, why is Algiers Point considered the West Bank. Could this be a result of river navigation? I would have loved to have asked the captain.

Glen alluded to approaching the “end” of our time here in New Orleans. It’s no different than many other “endings” that we as humans experience. There’s a sense of loss and of sadness. And yet, there’s also excitement at the thought of returning home. Home to family and friends. To the comfort of a place that I love.

AND this time, there’s also a sense of urgency because you see…we will be home for something like 26 days before we head out again; this time for our longest and furthest journey…

So what do we do in my last days here? I return to the places I have loved and I continue to do some of the things that are still on the “list”.

Yesterday, my something “old” was a return to Bywater Bakery with Dug. We wandered through the neighborhood enjoying the architecture, the people, the flora and fauna. Then we had an especially enjoyable breakfast chatting with others seated around us. What fun to have become the “semi-local expert” as everyone seated around me was visiting and they were asking me for recommendations which I am always happy to share! And bonus – then…the “bacon” lady came out to give Dug his treat. I love the neighborhood aspect of the Bywater. It’s very welcoming and friendly and I find myself returning again and again. On our return to the apartment, we chose to walk through Crescent Park and enjoyed the eternal breeze that comes off of the Mississippi River. I guess Dug didn’t really have a say in the direction, but he’s like a cow going home when we head back…it’s hard to slow him down! One thing of note…this city is a late-rising place; I guess largely due to the late nights that people enjoy. So even at 10:30, there were few people out and about as we strolled home along the great Mississippi.

For my something “new” I went on the “Secret Gardens” tour hosted by a local charity. Seven French Quarter homes opened their gardens (and three opened their homes) to raise funds for their annual “caroling” event that is held in December. I learned about this event from a woman who is renovating an apartment in the building next door to us. She gave us a great restaurant list and this hot tip. (She’s in the business and is opening a restaurant a couple blocks away later this summer.)

As I have been wandering the streets of New Orleans, I’m always trying to get a glimpse into the courtyards and even into the homes to see how they live. For the latter, it’s easier to be a voyeur at night when the interior lights are on! While it was a super hot afternoon to be hoofing it around the streets of the Quarter, this tour gave me a great sense of how these homes and gardens provide the residents an incredible oasis from the heat, noise and even smells of this city.

A highlight was a Creole cottage that’s actually in Marigny just a couple blocks from us. I’ve passed it bunches of times and have as it’s an historical landmark, I’ve always thought that behind its walls, there were a lot of secrets, a lot of stories, and a lot of history. When I arrived and realized that it was on the tour, I was excited to get a peek into the home, the yard and its owners, past and present!

Bernard de Marigny was born in 1785 and died in 1868. His French family was wealthy, owning a plantation just outside the French Quarter. His father died when he was 14 at which time Bernard inherited the estate. He was sent o London to be educated and be trained in the ways of running the family fortune, but he did not apply himself and was brought home.

As the population of New Orleans grew, he realized that he was sitting on a gold mine and started selling the plantation off as plots for homes. He named the community Faubourg Marigny. Faubourg means false city in French which alludes to it being a suburb of a city. Some say that this development was the first suburb in America.

So back to the Creole cottage. One thing that Marigny did bring back from England was his love of gambling – be it cards or dice. It is said that he brought the English game, Hazards to New Orleans where it was called crapaud which means frog. I’ve read a couple versions of how it got its name. One thought is that it was named for the French in New Orleans who ate frog legs and another thought is that it was named after the Americans who began moving south from Kentucky and who were looked down upon as being inferior, therefore frogs or possibly after the frog-like squat that a craps player takes while throwing his dice. All for a good story!

So here’s where the house comes in…Bernard de Marigny may have used this house (or one like it) for his quadroon. A quadroon was a free-woman of color who was a mistress to an elite man. By law, men were allowed one quadroon and they had to provide for her and her children as if he were married to her, including educating the children. It was here that his friends came to play craps. (Note that there is growing discussion that the number of quadroons in New Orleans was not as large as the story goes. And in fact, historians are debunking the story because records indicate that free women of color married at the same rate as white women and were successful businesswomen and pillars of the community.)

This Creole cottage is now owned by a lovely couple who have lovingly and beautifully created an oasis and finally…here are some photos of their incredible back yard. And mind you, the size of this yard is an anomaly in New Orleans. The house sits on a corner and sort of wraps around it which creates a “C”-shaped house wrapping around the yard.

I really feel my own adaptability increasing. It is great to experience. This morning, we headed over to Brennens for breakfast without a reservation (adaptable point #1) . Our plan (some things still held onto tightly) was to arrive as they opened. AND if we were not able to get a table, we’d head over to Cafe Du Monde. A plan within a plan. My happiness. While we were outside queued up behind a few others, a hostess came out and told us that they were “closed” this morning as they had a wedding. Nothing on the website. Oh well. Pivot. We headed over to Cafe Du Monde. Tomorrow we’ll try again (adaptive point #2)

We’re coming to the end of this adventure. We hadn’t yet been to Brennens for breakfast during this stay. Our last visit was 7 or 8 years ago before they remodeled. So, we’d really like to go to breakfast. They, purportedly, “invented” Eggs Benedict. Our adaptation to Cafe du Monde was our fifth visit during this stay. Once every 10 days seems about right to us. Is it a cliche? Yes. AND a bit more than a bit more.

We’re really enjoying watching a little bit of the French Open early mornings. We’re at the beginning of the second week of the grand slam event. It is my favorite time of slams. The chaff has been eliminated. Round 4, the final 16 remain. AND at the 2022 French Open 8 of the top 9 mens seeds have advanced.

We are at Cafe Du Monde. Our usual routine. I snag a table, clean it off (whole separate post) and set up camp. Seems especially busy. JDT points out later – holiday weekend – Memorial Day Weekend. Weekend? Memorial Day? Huh? Oh yeah! I so much enjoy the dynamic of being there. The often combustible intersection of locals and tourists. I realize I am an agitator. I believe the common perception of agitator is negative. As one, I perceive differently. Is it sometimes negative? Of course. Is it often times negative? Perhaps. Is it always? NEVER!

I think about the difference in the way I engage people on the street in NYC and NOLA. I was out wandering the other morning and overtook a grandma, mom and daughter. As I passed them a military jet passed overhead. A fairly normal occurrence here. And I quipped, “Don’t worry, they will not bomb US?” And their reply? Crickets! Nothing! Had I done this in NYC, I’m reasonably certain I would have received some kind of reply. Mind you, I DON’T CARE WHAT THE REPLY IS! I JUST WANT ONE!! Noted. This morning, as we began our walk back to 913 GNS, we walked through Jackson Square. Jackson Square is this very complicated scene that includes performance art, painters and their works, psychics of all kinds, the homeless, etc. We came across an artist that was standing some 30 feet or so from his work in process. I quipped – “amazing how much standing back and observing helps.” He smiled, we had a brief moment of interchange and we head back. I SMILED.

While we were eating our beignets at Cafe Du Monde, I was on my phone checking live results at the French Open. Coco Gauf bageled Mertens in set two to win. And the Rafael Nadal – Felix Auger-Aliassime match had begun. I gave JDT an update or two. JDT loves Rafa. LOVES! AND we saw Felix play while at the US Open last year. And like most, when you see someone in person, you tend to become a fan. JDT said, I’d rather have Rafa lose to Felix than play and likely lose to “the one she hates”. That be Novak Djokovic. I agitated on this a bit. BTW – I can be a bit like Dug with that beef short rib bone we gave him a bit over a month ago. And then is when JDT said it – “I don’t care, I’m just a hater.”

I GET IT!