Wanderers Still

There are two things I know about New Orleans: one, avoid Bourbon Street at all costs, and two, make room in your schedule for the unscheduled.

Locals will tell you not to hit the kitsch, to stay on side streets and to try small-room Gumbo. Whatever you do, they say, stop and listen. There's music everywhere. Every street corner a new flavor, every open air cafe an easy slide back into a simpler time when jazz was everything and dancing in your chair was normal.

Tourists, of course , will say nearly the same things. Surprising, perhaps, but not earth shattering. New Orleans is a city unlike any other, and to experience it fully is to give into your whims. A good general rule? Don't stop there if you can get it on Main Street. You didn't travel to remain fixed, after all. But that's just good sense.

I was 17 when I first made it off the bus and into the French Quarter for the first time, and everything was incredible. First: beignets. That's just a given. Stop at Cafe du Monde for extra powdered sugar.

Second: flee market shopping. You'd be surprised how much damage you can do with $100 and a re-usable tote.

Third—and this is important— stop and smell the flowers. No, really. Sense memory is a powerful thing. It can transport you back 10, 15, 20 years to a place you've all but forgotten. The scent of cigars and pastries and po' boys will stick to your clothes, but the magnolias— you'll never forget those magnolias. The air is heavy with them.

I booked a seat on a riverboat with some friends and we ate our fill of sticky cakes, melted from the muggy heat, tipping back bottles of Coca Cola and pretending we were drunk. The pace was slow, but steady. Warm breezes stuck my hair up at odd angles and plastered my bangs to the sweat on my forehead. That's another thing— waterproof makeup. Don't forget it.

We laughed and laughed and joked about boys on the opposite deck whose hormones were having the best of them. But as the stars start to come out, something quiet takes over that great big city.

Leaning over the railings, I stretched out my arms and pretended I was gliding through the clouds. If you close your eyes tightly, it sort of feels like something real.

I watched the stars blinking overhead. That does something to your ego, seeing the universe under the clear night sky of the Mississippi— puts you in your place.

If I close my eyes right now, I can still smell those magnolias.