Top 5 Most Romantic Cities

An easy-to-navigate grid bounded by Canal, North Rampart, and Esplanade streets and the river, the Quarter is where the tourists wander from the courtyard of Pat O’Brien’s with plastic containers full of wickedly potent rum drinks, muttering, “Mabel, where the hell’s Bourbon Street?” “You’re standing on it, honey,” she’ll say, as they stare pie-eyed at a beautiful boy and girl making out. Bourbon Street gets a bum rap. True, you can find yourself facing an unsmiling Pakistani vendor purveying tubes of grain alcohol, Bud, and thongs, and wondering how your errant sweetheart would look in a T-shirt that says “Hi, I’m a dick and my best friend’s a pussy.” But if you proceed to Preservation Hall and get a seat on one of the benches, you’ll hear jazz legends pouring their souls into trumpets and saxophones, and sway and nod, feeling the pulse of one of America’s great artistic achievements all around you.

You can start a morning by sauntering over to the Moonwalk Promenade for a beignet, a cloud of fried dough rolled in powdered sugar, at Café Du Monde, then read the Times-Picayune with a jolt of strong coffee. Then go on over to Jackson Square and check out the stoned, entertainingly belligerent palm and tarot-card readers arrayed under their umbrellas. For about $35, they’ll tell you like it is.

Of course, the first question I asked was about my former lover: Should I give it another shot? Through narrowed eyes, my reader glanced at a bench, as if she could see him sitting there, and contemplated the vision. She said, “Anybody who lets his socks fall down like that ain’t strong enough for you.” It was as if she knew him! Probably all men’s socks fall down, but still.

To rub elbows with purest New Orleans royalty, there’s Galatoire’s, where the grandees line up outside in dresses, coats, and ties for their traditional Friday lunch. But addictive cuisine of all stripes abounds, from the traditionalism of Antoine’s (faded glamour; French-Creole) and Dooky Chase (suave Creole; shrimp étouffée and gumbo) to Bayou (nouvelle; succulent garlic soup and grilled shrimp), and even the healthful (but who cares?). As I made my way back to the Soniat House after dinner one night, it began to rain. I was passing the Old Ursuline Convent, when someone tapped my shoulder. “Miss?” I started. (It should be said that New Orleans is not the safest city, and you should be alert.) “What?” I said guardedly, hanging onto my purse.

“My friend here says you’re too pretty to talk to him. I agree.” Then his tall, blue-eyed friend stepped forward into the drizzle beneath the convent spotlight. My mouth popped open. The first guy continued, “You see, I told you she was.”