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expression on your face that you didn't know that." "No," I said.
"Perhaps your grandmere Catherine didn't know
either. Well, enough about all that. You know the rest
anyway," he said quickly. "Would you like to walk
through the French Quarter? There's Bourbon Street
just ahead of us," he added, nodding.
"Yes."
We got out and he took my hand to stroll down
to the corner. Almost as soon as we made the turn, we
heard the sounds of music coming from the various
clubs, bars, and restaurants, even this early in the day. "The French Quarter is really the heart of the
city," my father explained. "It never stops beating. It's
not really French, you know. It's more Spanish. There
were two disastrous fires here, one in 1788 and one in
1794, which destroyed most of the original French
structures," he told me. I saw how much he loved
talking about New Orleans and I wondered if I would
ever come to admire this city as much as he did. We walked on, past the scrolled colonnades and
iron gates of the courtyards. I heard laughter above us
and looked up to see men and women leaning over the
embroidered iron patios outside their apartments,
some calling down to people in the street. In an arched
doorway, a black man played a guitar. He seemed to
be playing for himself and not even notice the people
who stopped by for a moment to listen.
"There is a great deal of history here," my
father explained, pointing. "Jean Lafitte, the famous
pirate, and his brother Pierre operated a clearinghouse
for their contraband right there. Many a
swashbuckling adventurer discussed launching an
