A Brooklyn transplant who we met on our last day in the Quarter said it best:
"Look up, and the beauty you see is magic. Look down, and you see the filth that lies at our feet...vomit, cockroaches...you just have to stop looking down."
The people, the architecture, the food, the bars, the thick, lazy sensuality that hangs in the air even when the humidity of warmer months have disappeared—somehow, the city is more than that.
It’s the lagniappe, as it’s termed, the little something extra the city offers. Like the locals who nod their head and wish you good morning with a smile as you stroll down the street or stop to give you some information about the art/restaurant/building/dog/horse you’re looking at without even having to ask….for no other reason than because they love their city as much as you do.
The spicy green beans in my Bloody Mary at Lafitte's; even the drunk woman on bourbon who pees her self at 4pm after one too many hurricanes has its special place.
Walk around the Quarter with a "to geaux" cup from Sidney's on Decatur. Note the Spanish influence on it's architecture as you walk around, stop to admire a busker's performance on Royal St, take a break at one of the many bars and listen to some jazz, or munch on a muffaletta in Jackson Square while you scout the psychics to foretell your future—and if someone asks where you got your shoes, tell them on whatever street you're standing on. You'll be sure to garner a smile.