Jazz and Rain

A Mardi Gras Indian at Jazz Fest '08



Haz and I were walking away from the Jazz Fest food stands with soft shell crab po boys in our hands when it happened:

Rain.

We had been waiting for it all day. We just didn’t think it would arrive when we decided to grab a bit to eat.

Haz stuffed his New Orleans seafood sub into his mouth and quickly, as if on cue, pulled our rain gear out of the small backpack I was wearing. I wrapped my po boy in a napkin and held it in my hand.

Large, thundering drops pounded on our heads, bare arms, and jeans as we fumbled with our rain jackets and rain pants purchased several years ago from a grocery store in Japan. The jackets and pants were tucked neatly into his and hers green and blue pouches no larger than a paperback novel. Attempting to wrestle the gear out of the mini bag in pouring rain was no easy thing, especially with an increasingly soggy, smushed soft shell crab po boy in my hand.

As we fiddled with our Japanese rain gear, a troupe of Mardi Gras Indians started chanting and banging their drums and bangles on the Jazz Heritage Stage directly in front of us.

“Bring the rain, bring it down…. rain, rain, let it rain…”

African American men dressed in huge suits of florescent feathers and masks stomped and danced all over the stage. Mardi Gras Indian groups and parades are a huge part of New Orleans’ cultural history, with dances and costumes inspired by Native Americans. These tradition also takes cues from African cultures, inspiring a decidedly random mix that best exists in cities like this.

The Indians continued to sing as I finally managed to shimmy into my rain pants without falling into the mud. We could do nothing but laugh and vaguely dance as I resumed eating my soggy po boy and Haz struggled to get his boots through the legs of his rain pants.

We listened to the end of the Indians’ song and sloshed our way over to the Jazz Tent, where Terrence Blanchard and the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra were set to play movements from Blanchard’s Grammy-award winning album, "A Tale of God's Will (A Requiem for Katrina)." We stepped through the tent in our wrinkled, dripping rain jackets and pants we last wore while hiking a volcano in Japan. The rain outside stopped as soon as we found ourselves a seat.

I finished my po boy sandwich and we both shimmied out of our rain pants as Blanchard started his performance with two songs prominently displayed on Spike Lee’s documentary, When the Levees Broke. Blanchard’s music dominates the documentary, bringing a distinct mood to the interviews of Katrina victims and hurricane footage.

The tent was completely silent as Blanchard and the orchestra took over, evoking thoughts of Katrina and the extreme side of rainy days.

The last song we listened to was the eeriest. Just as Blanchard and another vocalist started to hum and drone in a low, bellowing tone, the rains came again, as if on cue. The rains grew louder and louder with the music. It all brought tears to my eyes.

We emerged from the heavy overtures of the Jazz tent just as the rain stopped. We both kept our rain jackets on just in case. We finally headed over to the Michael Franti and Spearhead concert, where Franti sang happy, upbeat, political songs like “Everyone needs Music.” The rains came down once again, and we struggled to throw on our pants again. The crowd got louder, Franti got louder, and the mud grew into sludge.

* * *

Haz had a chance encounter with Franti earlier that day, before the rain. I left Haz waiting while I braved the aisles of portable potties and reluctantly selected a stall. As Haz waited, a white van pulled up. Out jumped the members of the band Spearhead, along with Franti, the talented political vocalist who often performs with the band. Everyone was barefoot. Michael ran over and hugged Haz, as if he were an old friend.

“Love the shirt, dude,” Michael commented.
“Michael Franti?” Haz asked, bewildered.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, cool. I’m a big fan. I’m looking forward to the show.”
“Oh thanks man.”

With that, the barefoot band ran off with a soccer ball, dribbling through muddy patches of once green grass.

I emerged from the portable stall and the clouds grew increasingly impatient. Haz told me about his celebrity encounter as we made our way to the soft shell crab po boys at the food stands.

* * *

And finally, as Spearhead finished, a small, hazy sun emerged. The sun was strong enough to lead us over to the main Acura stage, where Stevie Wonder and Irma Thomas were finishing up his tribute to her grammy-award winning album, After the Rain.

Stevie sang “Superstitious,” just before we sloshed our way through mud and crowds out of the gate. The streets surrounding Jazz Fest were plastic wrapped with rain, fallen leaves, and neighbors peddling bottled water and dry porches. We removed our rain pants and jackets somewhere along Esplanade Avenue, the oak lined promenade to jazz paradise in New Orleans.

New Orleans Vignettes

1. Druids on Claiborne

They tell us to leave work early because the parades are coming. I do as I’m told. And yet, as I drive down Napoleon, I don’t see anything that would stop traffic. Large, exaggerated homes are decorated with purple, green, and gold ribbons, banners, and masks. Metallic beads from last week’s parades swing from oak trees as casually as Spanish moss tendrils, threatening to fall onto cars. Some vendors set up stands and carts stocked with feather boas, masks, jester hats and beads on the corner of St. Charles. Such sights are common to New Orleans any time of year, especially for those who live and work along the parades routes.

The one true sign of Carnival, of the week of nonstop parades and parties before Mardi Gras, is the police barricades lined up in the neutral ground and the litter— parade loot, napkins, beer cans, dacquiri cups— that sprinkles the grassy median like confetti. Another sign screams at me in the form of a siren just ahead.

The sirens of an NOPD motorcade are screaming and flashing on Claiborne. A cop stops drivers at the Napoleon intersection. My eyes grow a little large and I instinctively turn the radio down as if loud jazz will interfere with what’s to come. Other drivers around me are expressionless, unimpressed as dozens of parade floats crawl near us behind the entourage.

You didn’t leave early enough and now you’re stuck, you tell me when I call from the car. Oh well. It’s Carnival. Daily chores like getting to the bank, post office, and driving to and from work are just a tad too difficult. It’s much better to just resign yourself to slowing down, stopping, or joining in the fun.

Tractors nonchalantly pull the floats down Claiborne and turn down Napoleon right next to you. A hand painted sign tells you this is the Krewe of Druids parade. No one is on the floats yet— no beads, masks, bands, or dancers. It’s the skeleton of a good time slowly crawling towards the birthplace of the journey several blocks up Napoleon. Drivers next to you create text messages, fiddle with handbags, and talk to restless kids as a float with the bust of an enormous naked lady zooms by, followed by a float the size of a ship with a large pile of shit at the helm.

In some parts of the world, commuters tolerate cow crossings, sheep crossings, endless pedestrian traffic, bad weather conditions, Amish horse and buggies, funeral processions, emergency vehicles on the run, or even the various delays and complications that arise from war.

In New Orleans, drivers put up with potholes, flash floods, and debris in the street. They evacuate for hurricanes in cars packed with kids, pets, treasured belongings, and until recently, few cares. Still, the passing of a parade is the only thing that really stops traffic New Orleans; it’s the only nuisance locals have learned to love to expect, accommodate, and consider as a necessary component of living a big easy life.


2. Saturday afternoon at the Clover Grill

We are driving around the French Quarter on an early afternoon Saturday. The windows are rolled down, our favorite jazz station is on the radio, and the backseat is filled with purchases from the local arts market. Natives to New York and New Jersey, we can’t believe this kind of spring is possible in February.

Haz suggests we stop for lunch at a famous local spot, The Clover Grill, located just up the road from the crowds on Bourbon. The inside of the place is an homage to chrome— chrome counters, chairs, and table tops. The floors are tiled, the paint on the windows is authentically peeling, and the authentically ancient jukebox actually plays Beyonce, Whitney Houston, and Rihanna.

The mostly male staff sing and dance behind the counter. The menu encourages us to dance also, as long as it’s not on the tables. It actually reads: “Dancing in the aisles only. Please keep off the tables.” Another menu gem reads: “Please keep your hands on top of the table. No talking to yourself.” A large blackboard yells, “Try one of our weanies!” in pink and yellow chalk. Slowly I’m catching on to the not-so hidden vibe of this place. The menu also exclaims that “our weanies” are made of “100% real beef.”

It’s the kind of place where you expect to find lots of tourists ordering “New OrLEENS poor boys” not a bunch of local gay men having a good time. Tourists in horse and carriages roll down Bourbon taking pictures of us, sitting in the Clover Grill window, eating tuna sandwiches and fries. Later, as our waiter collects our dishes, he asks me if I’m sure I don’t want “those pickles.”

“No pickles for me, not today,” I smile.

“I just have to ask,” he quips, trotting back to the counter where his colleague is rocking out to Patty La Belle next to a jar of free condoms.

1. He’s not all trombone and he’s not short

It’s 11:30 at night, on a warm Saturday in March, a night filled with a wind just strong enough to ruffle palm fronds and feathers of St. Patrick’s revelers somewhere.

We are standing, sipping some cold drink, listening to a local DJ spin tunes that range from Fats Domino to Nelly. We are standing here, among locals, tourists, and teachers. Your school’s principal, special education staff, and guidance counselor are here with their spouses. Some are dancing. I teach second grade and I am here. Some individuals across the room are also teachers, across town. We are all tired, waiting. Waiting.

Rebirth comes on just before midnight- all sousaphones, sax, trumpet, and drum. We shimmy, shake, groove, move, stomp, and yell. You and I have seen this band a dozen times but the thrill never quits. Truly, they were the first New Orleans band I ever heard. I first heard them 6 days before Katrina and the Waves took over the city. That was at the Maple Leaf Bar. Now we’re at the Howlin’ Wolf. Downtown.

Rebirth finishes. We’re all sweaty, laughing, and thirsty for another one. But the show isn’t over. Not at 1 a.m. A certain fellow is the main feature, is the new mister of jazz here in the jazz city. He’s not all trombone and he’s not short, but his name is Trombone Shorty. His band is Orleans Avenue, a street located a few blocks from ours.

Trombone, whose real name is Troy Andrews, nonchalantly walks in, tall, slender, and unsuspecting in a suit during the Rebirth performance. You see him first, then point him out. This is always how it is in New Orleans- the local musicians living and hanging with the local non-musicians. Musicians live in rich neighborhoods, poor neighborhoods, black, white, mixed neighborhoods. There is no elite musician class here.

(I have a theory about this. It’s because everyone is some kind of musician here- an individual that appreciates the presence and purpose of a thumping bass drum, bellowing trombone, screeching trumpet, or fidgety fiddle. You can’t live here and not like music. It’s like being Christian and not celebrating Christmas.)

Trombone comes on stage full of vocals, trombone, trumpet, and eventually drum. His music is jazzy, seasoned with R-&-B and hip-hop, flavored with rock. I don’t remember much about it because when he plays I’m in the music, inside the horn, my mind a mere reflection of the instrument I am. I do remember that the show featured a second line procession (a local tradition in which Shorty and his band lead a line of dancers and revelers through a crowd of dancers and revelers). I also remember being on stage.

Shorty invited the entire crowd to join the performance as the hour passed 2. We squished and shimmied on stage, perilously close to the edge, close enough to see sweat on his face. We stayed through a half dozen encores. One encore featured Shorty’s signature trilling on the trombone and an note that lasted much longer than a Superbowl commercial break.

(All this hooplah led me to recall the last time we saw Shorty perform— at the First Baptist Church on Canal. It was Christmas, and the sold out crowd of churchgoers and non-churchgoers was treated to a performance in which the Trombone man played popular holiday tunes with his signature Orleans band, with local legend Irvin Mayfield, and, perhaps most surprisingly, with the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra.

Ray Nagin, our city mayor who became internationally famous during Katrina, most notably for his angry rant about governmental failure, was there. City Council member Jackie Clarkson and Louisiana Lieutenant Governor Mitch Landreau were there. It was a family affair, a distinctly New Orleans affair. In a church, with blacks and whites. People brought together by music.

The stage dancing and second line procession also made me think of a memorable Rebirth concert at Tipitina’s last May. We were there with your Principal and a fellow teacher you call “twin.” Rebirth’s show lasted well past 2 a.m. and a second line led by Rebirth brought the entire crowd into the street— onto residential, Uptown Napoleon, not far from the banks of the Mississippi. Rebirth played their loud horns, drums, and sousaphones while the crowd danced, clapped, laughed, and sang. We moved in front of houses where families were sleeping. We yelled and cheered in the neutral ground— the grassy median dividing Napoleon—once the music stopped. Nobody complained. It’s all very expected here.)

Our night at the Howlin’ Wolf ended somewhere before three, after you magically won a raffle that earned us a pile of brass band CDs. The proceeds of the night went to local schools to buy young students instruments. We saw some of these youngsters play Rebirth tunes as an opening act before the evening truly began. These talented kids, the nervous kids, the kids who are cautious about playing such locally necessary rhythms, the ones who get more kicks from trombones and saxophones than video games— it’s up to them to keep it like this. To keep New Orleans musical in the sense that no other place is. And us? We need to support them as best we can.

Big Easy Holiday

The St. Charles Streetcar on Canal Street near the French Quarter

Part One

This year in New Orleans, the holiday season arrived in the form of a streetcar.

A streetcar line named St. Charles, one of the oldest operating street railway systems in the world, resumed its route for the first time since Hurricane Katrina in the first weeks of November 2007.

Adorned with a red-ribbon wreath and garland on its front and rear, the St. Charles Streetcar first greeted me on my daily commute to school, a drive that takes me down Napoleon Avenue across St. Charles. It was truly startling and wonderful to see the festively dressed streetcar stopped on the St. Charles tracks for the first time since living in New Orleans, dizzying to see so many crowds crossing the street waiting to ride its historic route. I have never known St. Charles to be this way— having moved here post-Katrina, I am used to seeing joggers run on the vacant tracks, and the streets of St. Charles empty.

This sudden activity and color reminded me of how we all feel when the Christmas decorations first pop up in stores just after Halloween— we are startled the sudden flood of color and memories of past Christmases, surprised that it’s already “that time of year.”

Though I have no memories of the St. Charles Streetcar, every friend, acquaintance, and stranger in New Orleans does. The mere sight of it symbolizes recovery and return. Many New Orleanians find themselves startled to have such a symbol of Big Easy normality so suddenly back.

The St. Charles Avenue Streetcar, which earns the title for the oldest continuously operating street railway line in the world, dates back to 1835. It ran continuously, without interruption until Hurricane Katrina hit in August 2005. Newly opened, it now runs only half of its original route, from Canal Street to Napoleon Avenue. Its ride up South Carrollton is still delayed.

In addition to the St. Charles line, two other lines comprise the New Orleans streetcar system, the very system of cars that inspired Tennessee Williams' to write “A Streetcar Named Desire” in 1947. The Riverfront line, which has operated since 1988, is the youngest of the city’s three streetcar lines.

The Canal Street Streetcar, which runs from the French Market on Decatur Street to the New Orleans Museum of Art in Mid-City, first ran in 1861. Thought it was closed in favor of buses in the 1960s, it reopened in 2004 and its run was not interrupted by Katrina’s damage.

In our new New Orleans neighborhood dominated by above-ground cemeteries and shotgun doubles, we are close to the Canal Street Streetcar stop called “cemeteries.” The stop, located at the corner of Canal and City Park Avenue, is usually littered with tourists who have ridden the streetcar down Canal from the French Quarter to here, where they can freely wander a huge variety of dizzyingly large above-ground cemeteries with graves dating back to the 18th century. Locals find themselves among the tourists, talking about weather, the holidays, or the latest LSU or Saints game. This is the first scene we pass through, on the way to work, every morning.

Although we have called the city of New Orleans our home for a year and a half, there are many “essential” New Orleans experiences that I, as a New Orleans newbie, still haven’t had. For example, have not ridden the steamboat Natchez on the mighty Mississippi. I have not attended a single New Orleans Saints Football game. I have never eaten raw oysters.

And, until recently, I had never ridden the streetcar.

Viewing the sudden presence of the streetcar on St. Charles inspired me to finally ride the line down Canal. Two days after Thanksgiving, one day after Black Friday, Haz and I took a short walk down to City Park Ave. to the cemeteries stop. Locals looked cold and talked about Thanksgiving while tourists chatted in French, Spanish, and English while clutching cameras and waiting for the car to arrive. We couldn’t tell where we fit in— did we look like locals to the tourists, or tourists to the locals?

The wreath-wearin’ streetcar slowly pulled up with a screech at 12:30. We needed to catch it in order to view a movie downtown at 1:15. The ride was scheduled to take 30 minutes, even though a car ride of the same distance might take you as little as 10. An older African-American lady, an undeniable local, stepped nonchalantly off the car after the tourists poured out. She switched the sign around, fussed about the weather with some locals that could have been friends or strangers, and loudly and slowly tried to explain the need for exact change to a French tourist.

We grabbed a wooden bench somewhere in the middle of the car, between locals and tourists. As we pulled away, ever so slowly and lazily, the Canal Street I drive down everyday started to look very different. Buildings seemed grander, more exotic, while the decrepit houses on impoverished sidestreets looked even more shocking. The sudden presence of the homeless community, huddled under the I-10 overpass, sent a instant blast of cold through my stomach.

New Orleans looked so old, full of so many contrasts, and so unlike anywhere else. I was looking at it through the eyes of a tourist with the knowledge of home. Driving in your car, on the way to work, simply does not afford you the luxury of looking closely at a city that a 10 mph streetcar ride does.

The tourists on the car were predictably obnoxious and exaggerated. On the way downtown, Spanish-speaking children practiced English expressions while their parents talked loudly in their native tongue. College students joked about adventures on Bourbon Street. Adolescents from Baton Rouge made jokes about “Ho-bos” and “Nawlins” and yelled at each other in bad French. Locals looked annoyed but not surprised.

Once we were downtown, I felt much closer to “tourist” than local. I snapped a picture of our streetcar, and marveled at the streets which were filled with fans for the annual Bayou Classic game in the Superdome— a historic football rivalry between two traditionally African-American colleges, Southern University in Baton Rouge, and Grambling State University in Grambling, LA. Southern’s blue and yellow colors spoke almost as loudly as the red and green, and the loud hip hop blasting from souped-up cars with SU and GSU flags was almost loud enough to silence the screech of streetcars stopping on historic tracks.

The local newspaper, The Times-Picayune, tells us that the St. Charles line may soon resume its original route (to include South Carrollton Avenue)— maybe even before Christmas.

I can’t help but think that if a true Santa Claus ever visited New Orleans, he necessarily would ride a streetcar named progress powered by eight alligators across the tracks, cracks, potholes, and poverty of our city, all the while singing, “hope, hope, hope.”

Anatomy of a shotgun

In front of our new NOLA shotgun...

One of the first things that impressed me about New Orleans was its architecture. While I found the grand, Greco-Roman mansions located in the Garden and Uptown districts to be awe-inspiring, and the antiquated, French and Spanish-feel of French Quarter residences, businesses, and cast-iron balconies to feel otherworldly, the style that truly captured my heart was the shotgun.

Here in New Orleans, a shotgun is a style of house—not a type of a weapon or way of riding in a car.

Shotgun shacks, shotgun cottages, single and double shotgun houses are littered all over New Orleans, in every single neighborhood. Some say these narrow, long structures received their namesake largely due to the idea that if you were to fire a shotgun through the front door, the bullet would go straight out the backdoor.

Others say both the name and architectural style of the shotgun house traces back to Haiti and Africa, where shotgun-style houses are still prevalent in many areas. Shotgun architecture was probably brought to New Orleans by Afro-Haitian slaves whose name for the style (“to-gun”) may have been misunderstood and mistakenly renamed “shotgun.”

Shotgun architecture in New Orleans is, without a doubt, inextricably linked to the history of this city and Afro-Haitian civil rights, which started to take shape in the beginning of the 19th century.

In 1803, there were just over 1300 free blacks in New Orleans; just seven years later, that number grew to more than 10,000. By 1810, the population of free blacks in New Orleans outnumbered whites in the city nearly 3:1. The ensuing housing boom employed many Haitian builders who were building houses for a majority of Haitian dwellers. The builders constructed a style that was natural to them, a style that felt like home.

Shotguns in the Haitian capital of Port-au-Prince closely resemble those of New Orleans today. In the United States, shotgun architecture originated in New Orleans and eventually spread to many different cities, including Memphis, Louisville, Chicago, and Atlanta. Construction typically started in the early 19th century and lasted until the 1940s, though many “new” shotguns are being built and rebuilt in New Orleans today.

So what exactly does a shotgun look like? Across New Orleans, there are many different variations of shotguns within the shotgun classification. The specific style of shotgun often depends on the neighborhood. Typically, a single shotgun will feature a front door, window, and front porch. The first room you walk into is the living room, followed by a bedroom, kitchen, and a back entrance. There are usually no hallways. The city’s first shotguns had no bathrooms (outhouses were usually used). Today, bathrooms are often added on in the kitchen or bedroom space. Shotguns are usually no more than 12 feet wide, though they often boast lengths of 35 feet or more.

Two single shotguns are often housed in a single structure known as a double shotgun. A single wall separates the two single dwellings. The two dwellings usually share a porch. Each half has its own entrance with its own stairs. Depending on the neighborhood in New Orleans, you may find more single shotgun structures, more double shotguns, or a variation called the “camel back shotgun,” where an upstairs “hump” is added on to the back of the house. Some neighborhoods include all of these styles.

In a city where livable land is scarce, the shotgun provides a convenient, practical solution to real estate, since several narrow shotguns can fit on lots normally meant for one structure. As a result, shotguns are very economically viable. The narrow width of both single and double shotgun styles allows them to be built on narrow lots that were traditionally exempt from property taxes. Double shotguns were most heavily constructed in poorer areas, while single shotguns comprised middle class areas.

Shotguns are also traditionally flood and heat proof. Historic shotguns are raised several feet off the ground on wide stilts so a light breeze naturally flows through the houses. This sometimes eliminates the need for fans and air conditioning in New Orleans’ steamy climate. The stilted style also protects the houses from flooding in New Orleans’ frequent sudden downpours and storms.

* * *

I have always wanted to live in a colorful, quirky shotgun. For me, the shotguns resemble shoe boxes, colorfully and individually painted to reflect a unique style of living. The roofs look like they can easily be lifted up to reveal a pair of long, slender shoes inside. Shotguns are quirky, functional, and very New Orleans. No two shotguns are exactly alike. Some have bright colors (pinks, blues, greens) others are more muted (cream, white, beige) and some are in between (pine green, yellow). Shutters and steps are usually painted in a way that complements the predominant color of the house.

Hazim and I stumbled upon a darling shotgun for rent in late August. We moved in a few weeks later, leaving our smaller apartment in a predominantly vacant, devastated area of Lakeview behind. Our shotgun is a traditional double in the Navarre neighborhood on the edge of Lakeview, a neighborhood comprised of shotguns. When we stand on our porch and look to the left or the right, we can see our neighbor’s shotgun porches, perfectly aligned. Our shotgun is taupe and blue, while our immediate neighbor’s is a loud pink and black. Shotguns across the street featured stucco beige and green facades, and the porches showcase cast or wrought iron trim that is very New Orleans.

Our particular shotgun has a very Alice in Wonderland feel about it. Though it is a double shotgun, the divider wall has been eliminated so that halves of the house perfectly mirror each other. There are two front doors, two back-to-back fireplaces, two matching bathrooms (in the same exact spot on opposite sides of the house), and two matching bedrooms. The divider wall was left in tact in the kitchen, creating an extra bedroom on one side. The two back-to-back fireplaces in the kitchen and bedroom don’t function, but they give a special antiquated feel to the house. Also, unlike most shotgun dwellers, we have no back entrance, as it is part of the back apartment, rented out to a local seamstress. Double shotguns can sometimes house as many as three or four different apartments, though ours has only two.

The whole house has pine floors, which managed to survive the storm* and the 3-5 feet of water it brought to this area. During the day, light pokes through tiny cracks between some of the floorboards, revealing the dusty, cluttered underbelly below. At night, light drips through the floorboards into this dark, exposed area of the house, home to the structure’s support beams (its sturdy stilts).

Hazim and I spend a lot of time on our front porch, with it’s two matching doors and two matching front steps. On weekends we can hear the marching brass bands play at the area high school football games in Tad Gormley stadium in City Park, just a short walk away. Because this is New Orleans, the bands are good, really good— we’ve heard B.B. King, Rebirth Brass Band, Erykah Badu, and Roots covers played by some of the area’s best high school brass groups, groups which dominate the soundtracks to various Mardi Gras parades every February. Tubas bellow and trumpets ricochet rhythms through the breeze that gathers on our porch as we sit and sip coffee, wait for pizza delivery, or chat with neighbors.

Though our street is live with activity, streets immediately surrounding us are quieter, and more devastated. We’re not sure why, but our street, named after a 170-year-old above-ground cemetery, breathes with the confidence of New Orleans pre-Katrina. There are no vacant lots, no advertisements for demolition, and no debris piles or random patches of broken glass (one such patch occupied the front lawn of our former apartment for well over a year). People here sit on porches currently home to pumpkins and Halloween lights, laugh out loud into late hours of the night with no apology, and unabashedly support their Saints and LSU Tigers (Saints banners and and LSU flags hang proudly on several shotguns here).

From our shotgun, we can walk to a local bar on Canal Boulevard, spook ourselves in one of three above ground cemeteries (curiously surrounding the bar), or walk to where the Canal Street streetcar line starts and take historic transportation down to the French Quarter. We could bike or walk to City Park, or just saunter over to Café Navarre, a small eatery specializing in po-boys (New Orleans style subs). It’s housed in a shotgun.

No matter how you look at it, living in New Orleans is never dull, and neither is living in a shotgun. Hazim and I are very happy here, and would be jazzed if you joined us on our porch sometime.