Life in the French Quarter: Dealing with Porn and Saving Your Relationship

If I had never gone in there, my experiences would have been entirely different, and I probably wouldn't have stayed in the Quarter as long as I did. I certainly didn't intend to.

A lot of people do that: They go to New Orleans for Super Bowl or Mardi Gras or Jazz Fest or whatever, but when it comes time to leave, they don't. They get caught up in the lights, the sounds, the smells, the flavors, and they stay. That's what happened to me when I walked into that blues club-that was my spider web. That's where all my entanglements began.

Allegedly, it was the former stomping grounds of Mark Twain, Jean and Pierre Lafitte, Walt Whitman, and a bunch of other famous dead guys. I walked the same streets, leaned against some of the same walls, and possibly even breathed in some of the same dust that they had. I never saw any ghosts, but I had some strange dreams, and I met a lot of interesting people.

If the bricks and cobwebs in the French Quarter could talk, they'd have a lot of stories to tell, I'm sure. Mine is just one.