What about zydeco bars and a good, fat, filling shrimp Po' Boy? What about getting a steaming black cup of French Roast coffee and three powder-covered beignets at the Cafe du Monde and crossing the street, climbing the steps up the floodwall and sitting on that old Spanish cannon while you savored the mixture of black coffee and those sweet, powdered-sugar-covered pastries as you gazed over the dawn coming up over the chocolate-colored waters of the delta. What about browing in the bookstore in Pirate's Alley that sells first-edition Faulkners, and where Faulkner lived (it was an apartment then, in the '20s) as he wrestled his way through his first novel? There were a million places like that. A million. Cheshire Cat