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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