Here’s a little story about the rest of my Free Friday in the Quarter.  What is it about wandering in the French Quarter alone on a warm, breezy, sunny afternoon that’s so appealing? I think it’s being there without needing to accomplish anything.  I’m not on vacation so I’m not trying to cram a bunch of special experiences into my day.  Even as a local, I find the Quarter a bit exotic.  There’s so much to see, hear, smell, notice.  There’s a texture to the neighborhood, from the slate sidewalks to the crumbling red bricks.  Every step I take provides another photo opportunity or a chance to chat with an interesting character, or both.

I wandered.  I strolled.  I sat.  I watched.  I listened.  I smiled.   I didn’t wear a watch.  I didn’t have an agenda.  I brought my journal just in case, but this is at least the third time I’ve gone to the Quarter with a writing intention and abandoned the plan.  I have this vision of sitting at Cafe du Monde, nibbling on beignets and sipping café au lait and writing.  But what I end up doing instead is people watching.  There’s just too much to see.

I walked up to the river and marveled at the exposed mud flat at the water’s edge.  I watched a giant tanker make its way upstream.

I walked around Jackson Square and admired the artists at work.

I complimented a buggy driver on his beautiful lavender carriage and his matching purple suit. He told me ruefully that his wife dresses him. He asked me where I was from, told me the ride was cheap.   I laughed, told him I’m local and said, “You know you love that your sweetheart picks out those fantastic outfits!”  He grinned.  I wonder if he has a wife.  I kind of hope so. I wish I had a photo of him to show.  You’ll have to imagine.  Next time, maybe.

I'm wondering if I've ever really noticed the giant trees in Jackson Square before. You can see the cathedral in the background.

I stopped in a couple of shops.  I am a new fan of Lush.  I came home with a massage bar, a bath bomb, and some other bubble producing concoction.  I felt pretty decadent.

I discovered the National Park Visitors’ Center – with bathrooms! – in a stretch of Decatur that I never traverse.  I’ll remember it for future reference.  It’s set back in a lovely courtyard.

I peered through gates into bricked alleyways and secret gardens.

And then I found my bicycle, unlocked it and slowly pedaled home.