By Betty New Orleans is the place the part of me that has no name calls home. I've known that since I was 5. It's like early morning in Paris or Mexico City.
Shop keepers sweep and hose the sidewalk as they chat.
And each block is like a familiar object in a room. I've been to every shop, restaurant, courtyard, nook and cranny on Royal Street, marking it's evolution for 45 years. It' s funny how you can go into a place over and over and not really see it. One day, strolling down Royal, I stepped into the corner gallery of George Rodrigue, just as I always do when I'm in town. As I wandered around the room glancing at the new stuff, my eyes were repeatedly drawn back to the little dog in the painting near the floor.