On Friday, I drove to the French Quarter with no plans — no set time, no person to meet, no reservation. The lack of a schedule was glorious.

My goal was to meet someone interesting enough to write a column about. I had mentioned to a co-worker that I would love to meet one of the painted people who pose like statues in the French Quarter. However, I realized learning their stories might be difficult since their whole schtick was not moving or talking.

On Decatur Street, I tried to speak with a tap dancer, but he said, ‘No ma’am, time is money.’

I understood.

Undeterred, I kept walking. Jackson Square was right around the corner. A band was playing under a tent in front of the Cabildo. A lone psychic baked in the sun. The henna artist was working on a mother and daughter's hands.

I wa

See Full Page