Jackson Square

Hot yes? Yes. Sweltering hot? Absolutely yes. So hot you end up drinking more than you ever intended because alcohol is more accessible than a bottle of water and the convenience of walking down the street with a beverage dripping in cool condensation is too much to bear without downing it in one fell swoop? Regretfully, yes.

A little memory loss never made it less of a notable life event to experience New Orleans for a couple of weeks from the comfortable confines of our home at the Old No. 77 Hotel, where TJ stayed long after I left for his summer art residency.

The city oozed with a culture so foreign to the likes of our hyper-modern endlessly constructive gridded streets, and refreshed us with its "all good" attitude, making the most complex arrangements of music look like second nature and welcoming us with a hospitality to rival even the friendliest of our midwesterners.

The iron balconies and their intricate shadow play mingled with draping arrangements of greenery, providing a fresh place to rest only in that it allowed the beads of sweat resting on our skin to dissipate rather than repopulate.

I would trade one cool for another any day of the week for another stay in this wonderland.