A VERY PERSONAL CONFESSION

Cafe Maspero, Pen in one hand, martini in the other.

All right, this is something I tell few people. See, people think I'm strange enough as it is. I try to make them understand my life, I really do, but I'm not surprised by the perplexed responses I get:

You mean you spend half the day with the shades down writing? And you make no money from it? Those little honorariums you get from literary magazines? No, those don't count, honey. We're talking real money here, the kind that pays the rent, fills the gas tank.

Then the other half of the day, you (unwisely) open the shades as you walk around the house thinking about your imaginary friends, excuse me, "characters". I see. Come to think of it, a couple of times I've seen you through the windows, nodding in agreement with this one, violently disagreeing with that one. Wouldn't it be more productive to, er, do a little dusting or something? Knit sweaters? Learn to speak Swedish maybe?

Explanations are useless. Either you get it or you don't. But here's a confession I've never made to my family, but which I decided to disclose for some unknown reason on the worldwide web: I hate vacations. I know a week in the islands, lying on the beach, drinking Bahama Mamas is some people's idea of a good time. But I'd rather stay home. Nor is the idea of traipsing around, dutifully eyeing every tourist attraction that any fool with a camera has already captured all that appealing. I mean, I don't altogether hate it, but still...I'm sorry, but I'd rather stay home.

Why? Because my work, that crazy and unrenumerative pursuit I've already described, is at home. And I love my work. More than a strip of white sand and some turquoise waters. More than the midnight buffet on a cruise. More even than the world's most avidly photographed attractions.

And besides, I live in an area frequented by tourists, and I frequently wonder how much they actually see. Sure, they visit all the right spots. As anyone in a tourist zone knows, they visit places that the natives never get around to checking out. Why? Because the natives are too busy living. Which brings me to my point:

I don't like vacations, but I absolutely love going to a new place to live for a week or two. The difference is that when you live in a place, you get up in the morning and go to work. You interact with the people of that place in a different way because they're working and so are you. You establish routines. And yeah, you'd love to go to some of those highly touted tourist attractions, but like the natives, you're too busy living.

This is where the great part of being a writer comes in, the part that almost makes up for the disapproval of friends and family, and the lack of monetary compensation. You can go absolutely anywhere in the world and LIVE there for a week or a month or as long as your budget allows. You don't even have to speak the language or get working papers, because you can carry your work in a leather satchel or a moleskine (as Bruce Chatwin famously did.)

(Note the black satchel.)

Last October, in fact, I did exactly that in New Orleans. While my husband attended a weeklong conference, I got up early every morning and went to work. I wrote in Cafes and on benches in the shady area behind the French Market; one day I took the trolley and wrote on the beautiful campus of Loyola University. I wrote looking out on the Mississippi and late in the afternoon, I slunk into dark bars, ordered a martini from a table in the corner, and wrote some more.

(Ted, trying out a potential writing spot for me)

I developed favorite spots where the staff recognized me, and knew my peculiarities. Most days I spent at least some time, scribbling on one of the benches in Jackson Square. There, I met musicians and painters and mimes, all of whom had come to do what I was doing: the work that some crazy God had given them to do. The work they loved more than a vacation. More than money. More than a week at the beach, drunk on Bahama Mamas.

And thus, I mourn New Orleans, a city and a people and a spirit that may or may not ever return in a particular way. I mourn it as someone who, however briefly, once lived there.