Two nights ago I left my moms on the North Shore and moved in to Brian and Ellies digs in town. And what do I have to say thus far? That I am bursting at the seems with life, love and this here pursuit of happiness. What can I say other than this city makes me gitty with goodness. My mom was kind enough to lone me her bike, recovered from the Paleolithic Era, so I have been able to cruise this town day and night till Im gross n sweat.

Last night, I ducked out for a midnight cruise in the cool humid night. A massive yellow moon sat low on the horizon, just above the citys rooftops, covered oh so lightly by the nights misty fog. I cut through back streets, zipped across dark alleys and punched through chilly patches of fog sitting low on the fairways of the Audubon Park Golf Course. The high guilds of the Catholic Church at Loyola University made for a dramatic silhouette against that moody moon. It felt great to be in New Orleans. Back home.

Yesterday I called the family that moved in to the house we moved out of when we left the Garden District and headed across Lake Pontatrain 20 years ago. I introduced myself over the phone, shared stories about the house (it really is wonderful) and then asked if they might have any information about the where abouts of Helen Jacksons family. Helen, or Heidi Bear as we called her back in the day, was the woman who helped raise me and my brother in that very house. From the day I was born till I moved when I was 6, Heidi changed my diapers and spanked my butt, rocked me to sleep and chased me around the house, made me cookies and held me in her big chubby arms. She was a large dark lovable soul with a husky voice, gold teeth and an enormous heart. I have nothing but beautiful memories of that beautiful woman.

When I was 17, Heidi died of brain tumors and left 10 children and a husband behind. My mom made it to her funeral, but I couldnt. To this day, my mom says it was one of the most emotional experiences of her life. The all black Baptist gospel choir stomped their feet, raised their hands to the heavens and belted their big notes straight to Jesus Christ himself. My mom tells stories of people collapsing in the isles and throwing themselves over the casket, one after another. Heidi was loved by so many and is missed dearly to this day.

Now that Im back in her old city, I feel compelled, interested and invested in helping her family in any way I can. I can only assume they were pounded by the storm. After all Heidi did for me, its the least I can do.

Well, when we moved, Heidi continued working at the same house, for the new family to move in, The V,s well call them. She worked there for the next 7 years, till she finally moved in to the hospital. It has been almost 10 years since then, but the Mrs. V still had some numbers of a friend of Heidis. I have left a few messages, so well see what happens next.

Its worth noting that before hanging up, me and Mrs. V chatted, laughed and shared stories of the house. Also before I knew it, I was taking down the number and email of her daughter who lives in Paris. I will probably be traveling there again with work in the next few months, so Mrs. V insisted. How wonderful this place and these people are? This kind stuff just doesnt happen in New York.

People here are so damn friendly. Thats just the deal. Kind souls. I have talked for no less than 3 minutes with everyone I have come in contact with. The waitress. The guy Im asking direction from. Some guy on his porch I was passing who somehow we just started talking. Theres just a (Lifes Short, Theres No Time For Dumb Stuff) mentality around these parts these days. And I like it a lot.

Yesterday, I needed to put air in my tires, but all the gas stations machines were broken, so some guy lead me to his truck and powered up a small generator and filled up my bike on the spot. He just offered and did it. I asked another guy directions and after taking them and heading out on my way, he came chasing behind me apologizing saying that it was actually the other way. WOW. Thats big time coming from New York where a local pastime is INTENTINALY giving tourists wrong directions. One woman invited me in to her house to make copies because I couldnt find a print show that was open. I mean, youve got to be kidding me!

This place rules.

P.S. The entire time Ive been writing this, two true New Orleans characters have been banging away on the piano and trombone in the restaraunt Im in. It is 10 in the morning and Im in a no name cafe on a side street.

Who are these wonderful people and were do they come from?

Oh, New Orleans.