I visit four years after the storm and I'm unsure what to expect. On the drive into town, I can see that some of the houses are still spray-painted with a cross and a number by the door.
The cross marks the water level. The number shows how many bodies were found inside. But as soon as I arrive it's clear it would take more than a storm to kill a city with this much spirit. The French Quarter sizzles - with heat, jazz and colour: blue, rust red, yellow. The quarter's crumbling facades are pitted with age, yet dignified.
Iron-laced balconies are draped in greenery and occasionally the fuchsia flash of bougainvillea in flower.
Everywhere there is music - jazz, of course, but also country, soul and delta blues. I stop to watch a bluegrass band on the street playing harmonicas, a handsaw and a home-made bass.
When I buy one of their CDs, it comes in a brown paper bag with a recipe for bacon pie. I wander down Decatur Street, unearthing vintage clothing, cookbooks and records. I spend an hour in the beautiful Lafayette Cemetery, where family crypts contain the bones of up to 100 people. I browse the sumptuous waterfront market and while away the evening watching paddleboats on the great Mississippi River.
Dinner time is a revelation. The food is Creole - a mixture of French, African, Spanish and Cajun, which is more heavily spiced. Jambalaya, crumbed catfish, muffaletta, andouille sausage, stuffed crabs, crawfish bisque and the king of N'awlins cuisine, gumbo. It's a dark brown roux stew packed with "shre-ump".
I try the gumbo, then count the number of days I have left compared with the number of dishes on the menu. I want to try everything. One fine afternoon a crinkly-eyed man takes me touring with his mule and buggy. As he drives he muses on life and flatters me with comparisons to his mule. "If you in a hurry," he tells me, "you in de wrong place."
In sweet time, we drive through the Garden District, past graceful mansions framed by wide avenues of oaks. I have an aunt who lives around here. We planned to meet for lunch in the quarter. Instead, I ask her to drive us through the Ninth Ward, to witness Katrina's legacy.
The NinthWard is the Harlem of New Orleans and it bore the full brunt of the storm. The devastation is still evident as we drive down Caffin Avenue. Even before the storm the "shotgun houses" (from the front door, you could shoot clear to the back) were no mansions. There are many empty lots now, a few with governmentissued trailers parked on them.
Some houses are boarded up and abandoned but the place is far from deserted. It is Saturday and families and friends are sitting on their front porches, passing time.
Music is playing in a juke joint on the corner. A sign advertises "Big Ass Beers $3". We venture inside. Though I'm not sure if curious outsiders are welcome, the atmosphere is relaxed. It is the NBA playoffs and the basketball is on TV. The waitress calls us ‘‘honey'', pours us buckets of iced tea and tells us how her house was destroyed by the storm, with no insurance.
Her family was evacuated to Houston, she says, but neighbours stayed. When the levees burst, they clung to their rooftop for hours. Katrina, she says, was a "human disaster", not a natural one. The seeming apathy of those in power stung the most, worse than the storm or the flood.
Back in the French Quarter that evening, we do what New Orleans did after the disaster: we celebrate life. "That's just what we do," says my aunt. "We entertain - come hell or high water."
We stop to watch a swing band playing in a record shop. The place is packed, everyone dancing, sweating, among the rows of records. When we spill out on to the street a few hours later, the air is a sweet relief.
As night deepens, a darker New Orleans is born. It reminds me that voodoo is a practised religion here. In Bourbon Street and beyond, music drifts from the bars. Absinthe signs glow in neon and hookers sass from their doorways.
All kinds of thirst can be quenched here. Eventually I lose my resolve to try everything on the menu. But I keep coming back to the gumbo. I can't get enough of it.
In a slave-market-cum-restaurant, I eat gumbo. In a house where Napoleon was invited to exile, I eat gumbo. And at red plastic tables in Johnny's Po-Boys, I eat yet more gumbo.
New Orleans will be rebuilding for a long time. But its spirit remains as vibrant as ever and the city is back in working order: airports, all major highways, bus lines, the St Charles streetcar, major museums and universities. And there are more restaurants now than there were before Katrina hit.
The historic French Quarter was spared the flooding. Even after the storm, New Orleans has more registered historic buildings than any other city in the US.
The city has regained more than 70 percent of its pre-Katrina population. Visitor numbers are approaching pre-Katrina levels and several of the city's festivals, including the Mardi Gras, have drawn record crowds since the storm.
On my last day I indulge in a daydream of staying here forever, in the shade of one of these balconies, training grandchildren to fetchme iced tea with a sprig of mint.
Inevitably the road beckons but I know I'll be back, if only for more gumbo.
FAST FACTS
Staying there New Orleans is full of beautiful, historic hotels. The House on Bayou Road is one of the oldest, built in the 1790s. It has elegant rooms from US$135 (NZ$190) a night; see houseonbayouroad.com. Impressionist painter Edgar Degas visited his family in Degas House during the 1800s. Rooms from US$125; see degashouse.com. Sleep on the cheap at HI Marquette House Hostel in the Garden District, beds from $US17. Or treat yourself to a suite in the decadent Melrose Mansion, rooms from US$220, see melrosemansion.com.
Eating there The old society establishments of New Orleans are an education in fine dining: Commander's Palace (1403Washington Avenue), Antoine's (713 St Louis Street) and Arnaud's (813 Bienville Street). In the French Quarter, Louisiana Bistro does contemporary Creole cuisine (337 Rue Dauphine). Try the doughnuts at Cafe du Monde (800 Decatur Street). Dine in the vaulted courtyard of Napoleon House, where the deposed leader was invited to exile (500 Chartres Street). Or grab a huge "po-boy" sandwich at Johnny’s Po- Boys (511 St Louis Street).
