New Orleans is calling my Name

I have had this wicked obsession lately with New Orleans, Anne Rice, and specifically the Garden District.
I have never been to New Orleans, but it has been calling my name for a very long time. It's one of those southern cities that I dream about like Charleston and Savannah, places where there are so many beautiful houses I'm afraid I might pass out from the overwhelming beauty.

I called both Bank of America and Citi Mortgage this morning and there is still no news. If they still can't get their crap together and we still don't have to make mortgage payments for July 1, I think I'm going to have to buy a plane ticket to New Orleans and give in to my overwhelming desire to walk through the streets of the Garden District.

I almost feel as if I am in a city I don't belong in here in Flagstaff since we have nothing that could be called decent historical housing. We have one house, the Riordan Mansion, that while interesting for the area, is nothing like the houses I grew up in in Illinois. I have such a need to walk in and see and feel old houses, that I am purposely depriving myself of one of my one true loves by living in a city that prides itself on it's western heritage and abundance of log cabins and railroad depots.

I can pore over my Dover Victorian house plan books, and check out every architectural picture book at the library, but it's not the same as walking into a huge historical home with light fixtures, door hardware, and woodwork that smells of history and well-crafted housing. Oh it's giving me the shivers just thinking about it....metal push button light switches, butler pantries, back staircases, leaded glass windows, banisters and railing that seem to go on for miles, libraries, the front hall, hexagon tile floors, and built in dressers, creaking wooden floors, worn carpets, deep verandas and sun rooms and sleeping porches.

Oh I need to see an old house before I melt into a puddle on the floor.