Magazine Street really exploded into THE STRIP after the flood. Blocks and blocks of busy shops and restaurants appeared, while just five minutes away, the formerly bustling South Claiborne Avenue looked like a ghost town. Yes, the strip had its share of blinking traffic lights. The crazy drivers of New Orleans impressively learned to treat each intersection like a four-way stop sign. But besides damaged roofs, most of the buildings in the Strip bubble were unscathed.

We strolled the Strip “30 minutes each day, no excuses!” we shouted. Not to get all Confederacy of Dunces, but the daily sightings of neighborhood characters (henceforth referred to as “stripsters”) was comforting. There was an older man with a gray beard and long dreads who dutifully hobbled the Strip with his walking stick, greeting us cheerfully “Hey ladies, how y’all doing? God bless y’all!” There was the pixieish blond girl, always clothed in a vintage sheath dress. She disdainfully sighed at the clothes I dared to sell at her second hand clothing store.  And there was also a small child of about ten years old, shilling miniature pies outside the neighborhood A&P. His life’s story was mapped out in my mind, that his mother had no choice but to bake delightful miniature pies to make ends meet.… Read the rest