A good friend of mine had a wild and wacky experience down there; the kind of thing that could only have happened in New Orleans.
He was a musician; a Ukranian who immigrated (LEGALLY - can you imagine?) to the U.S., with dreams of hitting the big time in the American blues scene. A couple of our local "hip" guys convinced him that he was wasting his time in Cincinnati; a true "blues cat" needs to make it happen in New Orleans.
So, that's what this wide-eyed babe in the woods did. While his wife and newborn son stayed behind, he moved to the Crescent City. He got a job at a furniture factory, and rented a little apartment. By day, he built tables and chairs; by night, he pounded the N.O. pavement in search of that magical jam session.
Now for the punchline. Over the Memorial Day weekend, six years ago, some of N.O.'s sharper characters correctly concluded that my friend was a clueless rube, who didn't have a friend within a thousand miles. So they gained entry into his apartment, and spent the weekend ritually torturing, mutilating, and murdering him. One of my musician acquaintences, whose life experiences have given him access to the shadier side of humanity, informed me that the final positioning of my friend's body has great significance in the voodoo religion. The fact that he was left face-up shows that his tormentors had no personal animosity toward him; he was a mere target of opportunity. Leaving him face-up allowed his soul to ascend to heaven. Oh, well - at least there's THAT.
What a charming, exotic city. I sure hope the American taxpayer can restore New Orleans to its former glory.