There comes a time during every trip that I surrender so completely to the place I'm visiting that I wonder if I ought to move there. Granted, alcohol is usually involved. Still, after a few beers at home, I don't feel like I want to move to where I live.

The way I look at it, if you haven't yearned to move to the place you are visiting, if you haven't romanticized it into unearthliness, if you haven't wondered if that may be the most beautiful sky you've ever seen, you haven't really been there. But if you do that, if you say to yourself, This [fill in the blank: city, countryside, shoreline, mountaintop, tavern] is so magnificent, we really ought to get at least a summer place here and believe for a moment that you mean it, then you have been transported.

Each place has its own special character that is capable of lifting you and taking you away. Maybe it is gorgeous scenery, maybe a certain pace of life. In New Orleans, where my wife and I are presently visiting, it is weirdness.

From the sweet, dark, lazy molasses way the word rolls off the local tongue - "N'awlins" - to the city's sad-eyed romantic architecture to the spicy Creole food, New Orleans seems less like a place than a dream. Right now Jessica and I hope nobody pinches us awake.

It is late and we are at a place aptly called the Mid City Lanes Rock 'N' Bowl. It is located up a flight of stairs, which is odd in itself. How many bowling alleys do you know that are on the second floor? But the truly weird part is that it isn't just a bowling alley. It is also a nightclub.

A live band performs on a large stage just feet away from the bowling lanes. On this particular night, a zydeco band is tearin' it up. A girl in a denim miniskirt who looks to be around eight years old shakes and shimmies as a member of the family-run band, which cranks out smokin' hot music so incessant and nonstop that the dance floor stays full. Occasionally a couple of sweating, exhausted dancers take a break and leave a space for a resuscitated couple to replace them.