This past Saturday, Chris & I hopped a flight down to New Orleans. We got a room at Hotel Peter & Paul on Burgundy, and every morning, I woke up early and went on a neighborhood cat hunt.

I drank coffee on doorsteps that weren’t my own, petting other people’s pets. We drove the Louisiana Scenic Byway (Don’t. It’s not that scenic), and walked to Bacchanal, across the train tracks and down through the Bywater.

New Orleans is very dreamy in her quieter moments; in her cooler, April mornings.

You can always sense a crowd or a summer temperature coming. One time we literally stumbled into high school marching band practice. Another, a West Indian procession through old Algiers.

Yet, in her corner hours … in those spaces between the last Daiquiri sloshing into Styrofoam and the Keurig cranking up … there’s a city without pretense. She’s got her glasses on; fingers smudged by the Times Picayune. There’s no hangover here. No wild story. Just a bathrobe and a bank statement. A smattering of freckles and crow’s feet. Bare toes and laundry piled in the corner.

If you dated her … you’d love her best like this. All clean and soft and simple. No tangled sheets or five o’ clock shadow. Just real life, calm and collected. Trouble is … the fishnets are ripped. Now the day’s grown wanton, and you’re batting too far above your average.

She’s New Orleans. It’s 11am, and you can’t keep up. No one blames you for trying, though. Just look at her … being New Orleans.

– all images in this post were taken with a Lensbaby Twist 60 lens –