“Only New Orleans is real.. [3]

The next one was in a building close to Congo Square, which is some of the most energetic ground I’ve felt in the city. Actually, in my life. & not because anyone told me it was. It made me dance once.

I was walking through Louis Armstrong Park where it is, before I knew it was there, and had the feels to stop.. and dance. I was listening to Jerry Munger in the Summertime and did 4 or 5 more times while I gave my body over to it. Danced like nobody was watching. They mighta been, I don’t know. I didn’t care. Something wanted me to dance.

Congo Square is where Native Americans performed rituals, then slaves danced, then VooDoos did ceremonies. Look it up. Another time, this was after I knew, I sat in the middle of it to meditate and I swear I heard anklet bracelets clinking. At least three other remarkably magic things happened to me there that maybe we’ll get to. Anyhow, that’s all to say, it was incredibly appealing to me to live nearby as I love to go there and do whatever wants to be done.

This apartment had a long, narrow, high ceilinged hallway foyer that opened to a donut hole and then the unit I was looking at was on the left. Converted slave quarters. It was two levels. Had two bedrooms. And was honestly one of the tiniest living spaces I ever walked into. Don’t get me wrong, charm galore. But darn if two people would be able to stand in any of the rooms at the same time. Whoever maximized the kitchen must have studied in a European city or was an Ikea-savant because it was intelligently maximized in the ways only a space station would be.

It had a tight, dizzyingly tight, spiral staircase to a second level, the floor of which was definitely slanted a few different ways. Seriously though, so charming that you almost couldn’t or wouldn’t care about any of the smallness. I didn’t. I had no idea where I would even put a desk for work but put the apartment on my maybe list.

The next one was darling and beautiful but divinely nixed on account of a price point being outside of my budget. It was recently remodeled and had everything you would need to entertain. Which I still thought I was going to do. It was half of one of those traditional-looking French Quarter houses on Orleans Street.

I’m about bored with going over the details but will say I saw another that you accessed by walking through an art gallery and that had furniture older than my grandparents, possibly great-grandparents. If there was an armoire that came alive to talk with footstools, it was in that Julia Street apartment.

Somewhere in there, I met my place. A big open says-it’s-a-one-bedroom-but-there’s-only-a-heavy-albeit-elegant-curtain-between-rooms apartment with exposed brick and rafters, high ceilings, and three big windows facing the business district half of Bourbon Street. I knew it when I walked in. This is the one.

Out on the street, at the entrance to the building, there was a cluster of people. You see that most places here. People that don’t belong where they are long enough that they actually come to belong there. Felt like angels to me.

I told my agent I’d take it.