And to your left you can see....

My first few weeks of living in the French Quarter I bounced from a couch from Royal Street to one on Saint Ann Street to finally land at my own place on Toulouse. One thing that took some getting use to was the mule drawn carriage tours constantly cruising by during the day.  One day while unlocking my front door on St Ann, a carriage stopped in front of my building and the guide barked "This is a classic example of an American townhouse, you can tell by the design with a large open hallway to each of the apartments." About that time I had got the door open so I swung it wide and stood there gesturing grandly like a Price Is Right prize model. I then held up my half empty  Community Coffee cup and gestured like it was a box of Rice-a-Roni.

I have nothing against these guides who are trying to make an honest living by providing tourists with the rich history of this great city. I often listen to their narration as they pass by. I learn something about my new home everyday. Once while taking a walk down Decatur Street, I heard my name called by a man in a straw hat on a carriage. It was a former neighbor from when I lived on Jeff Davis in Mid City. "Hey Bob, I didn't know you did this." "Oh yea, for about ten years, I grew up around horses and I love history."

There is one woman carriage guide who dresses up like a pirate complete with boots and a riding crop that I would love to get to know. I would rather see the multitude of tourists doing something educational during their visit than making complete assholes of themselves with hideous green drinks on Bourbon Street. Although I do believe the majority of residents would delight in watching a van load of "Katrina Tours" drive into the river and drown anyone who takes it.

Even though I am Facebook friends with a few Ghost tour guides, I have to admit the walking tours piss me off to no end. After working a ten hour day in the heat painting these fine structures, all I want to do is hit Rouses for my dinner go home and shower before bed.  Instead, a block from my front door the sidewalk is obstructed by a large group of gullible tourists with mouths agape staring at a rustic old building. The Gothic dressed tour guide is dramatically telling them what they want to hear about the supernatural world on New Orleans.

"In 18blah blah, the countess blah blah, today blah bla can be seen and blah is often heard at night..."   Oh please people, it's bad enough that you are foolish enough to believe in ghosts, but then you pay good money to stand outside of an old shotgun house inhabited only by two gay guys who work as dance instructors at the mall.  One night walking home after a long day of climbing ladders I look down a narrow sidewalk on a lonely gaslight lit street to see my path blocked by a group of ghost groupies as a guide does his well rehearsed shpeal.

Rather than to try and push my way past, I cross the street to the empty side and walk past the average building that they are all mesmerized by while the narration describes a murderous rampage. I don't know what you hope to see, but you are making my walk home a few steps longer. I overhear something about evil spirits and what have you. About the time I get in front of the building in question, I am the only person on that side in view. When I get up to the front doorway of the building I let out a shriek, dive into the doorway as if being pulled in by unseen forces and start to scream for the entity to let go of me.

I thrashed about in the dark doorway for a few seconds, then dove onto the ground as if I had been slammed there by the hand of Satan himself. Total silence and shock from across the street. In fact a few of the tourist start to step back in fear. I pick myself up, brush off and continue on my way home as if it was a regular occurrence in the Quarter.