The smell of spice and seafood slowly envelopes me as I cross Chartres Street, a block or two from Canal Street. I’m in the French Quarters of New Orleans, Louisiana.

Ten minutes later I’m sitting in a little bar having a cold beer, enjoying a plate of ‘Cajun Pasta Bayou’, which seems to be a cajun shrimp menu with lots of fresh spices, mushrooms and served in a cream sauce with fresh linguini. ‘It’s just something the cook whipped up’ the waiter tells me, smiling, as I compliment the food. Jacob looks very pleased with his ‘Gumbo’ which is the cajun version of bouillabaisse, added a lot of spice I presume by looking at his face. He’s trying to put out the fire in his mouth with crackers. Futile but worth a try.

I’m looking out the window at the locals, who have started the preparations, pushing around barrels of beer and carrying around the industrial size sacks of pretzels that will be served when the humid heat lowers. They’re all grinning, these lovable sellers of leisure and temptation. Next to me someone orders a Mint Julip, reminding me of another thing I’ll have to give a go, but not now.

We pay the waiter and go for a stroll and decide to locate the bar where we are meeting up with a journalist later. The ladies of Bourbon Street are slowly coming to life and are starting to appear on the streets as the dawn of a new evening in The Big Easy starts to spread its rays of light. Music starts to play in every bar, in every window and you can see the smiles starting to appear in the faces of yesterdays casualties.

Every bar, every cafe, every restaurant we pass is inspected to see what temptations they have chosen for the night - be it a menu, a beer, a cocktail or a lap dance. Everything is a possibility, everything must be felt, tasted, seen, loved - it’s New Orleans and here I come.