HOMEWARD BOUND. I have had the good fortune to live in very cool residences my whole life. Even my place in Connecticut, a mother-in-law apartment on a quiet sloping street, was pretty great. Maybe some time I'll write about each of the places I have lived, because each one has an interesting history.

The best and most famous address I ever had was 560 N. Prairie St., Galesburg, Illinois. Unless you are a major scholar of 19th century American politics, especially the foreign service of that time, the address will mean nothing to you. But if you live in Galesburg, you know the house -- that giant one with the wraparound porch. It's the Clark E. Carr House, built by an ambassador to Denmark. It is an exquisite place: incredible leaded glass, pocket doors, molding, gorgeous wood floors, a widow's walk, a ballroom in the third-story attic. The centerpieces of the home are the massive, elaborately carved sideboard and buffet that the King of Denmark gave Carr. Enormous and dark, they were the right tone and scale for the home, which also hosted the only U.S. Cabinet meeting outside Washington, D.C. (if local lore is to be believed).

Sometime in the middle of the 20th century, the Joseph L. Fagan family acquired the property and divided the massive home into two parts by putting a wall up the center staircase. Joe, his wife Leah and their daughter Marilyn Jo lived on one side; Leah's sister and her husband lived on the other. When I entered the story in 1987, only Leah and Marilyn Jo remained. I'm sorry to say I don't really remember how Joe, a railroad employee, and his family came to own the property. I don't really remember why they decided to put up that wall, a decision that rankled some of the local historians.

What I do know is that Marilyn Jo spent the better part of her life on "the care and feeding of old houses," as she was fond of telling me. A consultant to hotel chains, she split her time between a Lake Shore Drive condo and the house on Prairie Street. She was well-traveled, fiercely independent and forever single (I think she was probably mid-50s when I knew her). She had a voice like Harvey Fierstein. I loved her, but this must be said.

Her mother must have been in her late 80s, and she was alert but failing. Mrs. Fagan spent most of her time on a daybed in the dining room, a space dominated by those giant gifts from the King of Denmark. She was very quiet and gentle, and absolutely hated Daylight Saving Time. The autumn was very difficult for her. She couldn't see well and didn't like when it got dark so early. I talked with her briefly almost every day, and always asked how she was doing. A few times she told me she wanted to go and live with Jesus, a goal I share, but found a little disconcerting to consider at age 20.

I rented the sister-and-husband side of the house, minus a few rooms that Marilyn Jo kept locked for storage. I paid $160 a month, utilities and garage stall included, and my upstairs area -- long narrow bedroom, large sitting room, and a tiled bathroom allegedly built for a visit by President William McKinley -- was largely furnished. In addition to my very crappy college-era futon and milk crates, my sitting room featured a gorgeous library table on which I wrote my first professional newspaper stories and most of the b.s. literary criticism papers I had to complete that senior year. Downstairs, I had the use of a complete kitchen, dining room and parlor, with original furnishings.

Some nights I went into the other side of the house and had dinner with Mrs. Fagan, Marilyn Jo and the home health care worker, Donna. These were wonderful times, but also a listening challenge. Marilyn Jo had an enjoyable anecdotal but heavily embroidered conversational style. If you tried to map her conversation, you would end up on branch roads in the middle of nowhere, only to double back two or three times before returning to the main highway -- if you ever did. On three things she never wavered: her love of the Chicago Bears, her father and that house.

She didn't let just anybody in as a tenant. I made the grade because when I called to inquire about the rental, I knew the house had been the location of a U.S. Cabinet meeting. (My first college boyfriend grew up in Galesburg, and he had told me that on one of our long walks. I bet he thought I wasn't listening, but I was, and I remembered it.) I was quiet and kept to myself. I agreed not to have overnight male guests or to drink alcohol on the first floor. I pledged not to steal any of the precious antiques on my side of the house. And I was amenable to an open living arrangement: the accessible restroom was on my side of the house, and Donna and Mrs. Fagan shuffled through the parlor at various times of the day.

The winter of my senior year of college she let me have a Sunday afternoon reception on both sides of the house. I was able to invite faculty from the college and my parents and friends to walk through this architectural treasure. It was a very special thing. Marilyn Jo was very generous that way.

Some mornings I would come down my staircase and watch the light come through the leaded glass in the parlor. It was so beautiful. It was like stepping into 1930, in some ways. I don't have many specific memories about living there, except for the morning my dad had a heart attack. I was in the bathtub when my mother called. I was dripping on those incredible wooden floors and I remember three things: (1) drying the floor on my hands and knees (2) Donna coming to hug me (3) sitting in the parlor for what seemed like forever, waiting for someone to come pick me up so I could get to the hospital.

Leaving college was not hard for me. Leaving that house was. About three months after I moved, I was standing in my apartment in Connecticut on a Saturday morning. I was incredibly homesick and sad. I was lonely -- probably the only time of my life when I could ever say that -- and Mrs. Fagan had been on my mind. I called Marilyn Jo. Her mother had died a few days before. That's the closest to "psychic phenomenon" I'll ever get, but I cannot express how strongly she had been on my mind.

When things weren't going so well in Connecticut, I fantasized about coming back to Prairie Street and living there. Marilyn Jo enticed me by offering to clear out the main storage room and make it part of my living quarters if I did return. Living in Galesburg would have been completely impractical, so when I did come back to the Midwest, I had to let that dream go. I went and had dinner with her a few times, then lost touch. She had a beau, and it sounded like they were going to get married. They did not.

HCB wrote me late last year to report that Marilyn Jo had died of cancer. She was the last of the Fagans. No husband, no children, no shirttail relations, even.

"What's happening with the house?" I asked HCB last week when we met in Galesburg for our occasional Friday afternoon beverage. "Did she bequeath it to any group or person?"

"It will be sold on the general market," he said. "She didn't leave it to anyone. And the contents are going to be auctioned off."

I sat, stunned. I was devastated.

This may sound stupid to you that I would be upset that some old lamps and end tables are going to be sold, but it's more than that. I can't imagine those pieces anywere but in that house. I stopped by 560 N. Prairie St. on my way out of Galesburg, as I do every single time I visit the town. I took a bunch of pictures. I peered in the windows. The rooms looked exactly the same. I walked around and looked at my favorite window. I just ached for the house. I wish I had videotaped every inch of it, or taken a million photos, or memorized it better.

I stood on the front porch and got a little teary. I'm a little teary writing this, and I don't expect you to understand. I had a 40-minute drive back to Peoria to consider it, and I can't even explain it myself. Why does this make me so sad? Not because I want to go back to my final year of college, which was pretty downbeat. Not because I wanted the house for myself, even though I think it's an incredibly special place. Not because I didn't appreciate it when I lived there -- I truly and wholly did (I just didn't do a good job of recording it).

I think it's because I know what that place meant to Marilyn Jo. The house was hugely important in her life, and in the lives of people around her. The thought of her knowing -- deciding -- to relinquish the house just strikes me as sad. I know it must have been very difficult for her to let it go into the unknown. Who will buy the pieces from the King of Denmark? Will they be split up? Will anyone tell the story of how they came to the United States, and who was the recipient, and why?

We're more than our address and Danish furniture, and there are Bible verses (not to mention trite truisms) that remind us of this fact. Still I can't help but feel a pang of empathy for someone who had such a sense of history, of place, of beauty and of dedication to her homestead.

That's why this post is so, so long. Because I wanted you to know what she did for me, and what that place meant to her, and what it means to me. I hope that whoever buys 560 N. Prairie St. [and dear Lord, I just pray with my whole heart that it is someone who does not own a bulldozer] has that pang of empathy too.

SISTER CITIES. What do Peoria and San Diego have in common? Well, for this week at least, the weather. It is unbelievably gorgeous here right now. Sunny, clear, high of 75, NO HUMIDITY. I am in heaven. I'm back for some work-related meetings and I've been able to squeeze in time with family and friends too.

What do Peoria and Nashville have in common? Well, I've been able to continue my Saturday morning tradition of visiting an outdoor market and taking a walk by the river. There is a new market downtown so LRT & Family suggested we give it a try. Beautiful!

Last night we braved the big suburban mall to eat at Flat Top Grill. Dad thinks it's a little too labor-intensive, but I loved it. Having dinner together were my parents, brother, sister and I (or as I like to call it, the original Broadway cast). That is rare and special, although we spent a considerable amount of time talking about how much we missed having our sister-in-law and nephews with us. Then my mom, sister and I saw "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban" at the newest movie theater in town. What a clean, nice cineplex. It's a result of more migration to the north. *sigh* I fear that when I eventually do come back to Peoria there will be absolutely nothing south of Northmoor Road.

I've lived in Nashville almost two years (!) but I still find some things easier to do in Peoria, just because I know where everything is and I know whom to trust. So I had some pictures framed, bought supplies for my vacuum, had shoes repaired, had my car looked at and got a full-service car wash.

Yes, you read right about my eventual return to Peoria. I'm not ready yet. But I'll get back here. I don't know how I feel about it or what the timeline is. Both of those things depend on the kind of day I'm having. Every visit here occurs at breakneck speed. Ever since I've been home it seems I've been on the go, and that's how every trip home is. It's wonderful and exhausting at the same time.

In many ways it is hard to go to back to Nashville after a visit home because I am reminded of how many people I love in Peoria and I realize how much I am missing in their lives. Sure, I'm missing some dramas, but I'm also missing some triumphs, too. Mostly I'm missing the very simple things. Tonight we went to watch my brother's softball game (BRT led me on a pinecone hunt), then had a picnic at the Old Fon Du Lac Park, a real sentimental favorite of mine (BRT made me run up and down the hill). Then my aunt and uncle came over and we sat on the patio and talked until it was dark (BRT and I played baseball until I complained I am too old and tired).

My life in Nashville is wonderful but extremely self-centered. Nothing reminds me of that quite so much as coming back to Peoria.

My grandma just moved out of independent living and into a nursing home and that is more emotional than I expected -- more emotional for my mom, especially. Pretty much I have decided that I am simply not going to live past 75, so I hope that will take care of it.

I enjoy seeing E&A and their family, but they also give me the greatest pause. I don't think my magical presence in central Illinois would make E&A's adolescence any easier, yet when I moved away, I abdicated an important responsibility. They are pretty hardcore Jehovah's Witnesses now. E told me he goes to church three nights a week -- I'm not sure if he told me that because he thinks that's what I want to hear, or if it's true. Well, at least he's not in a gang or dealing drugs.

My experiences with E&A were among the richest and most fulfilling of my life. We are coming up on 10 years of friendship, and sometimes I think we have made tremendous progress. Other times, as we sit politely in their living room and I try to fathom what is happening in their world, I realize that I cannot communicate the most basic emotion in Spanish.

After two years in Nashville, I realize that I have contributed virtually nothing to the community. Nothing reminds me of that quite so much as coming back to Peoria.

ADVANCE WARNING. I'm on the road AND I'm switching over to a new computer. Yep, I broke down and bought a gorgeous Dell laptop. And a new digital camera.

The log should now start being AMAZING. One problem: I don't know how to move it from one computer to another, all that FrontPage and FTP and whatnot. So if you come back here over the weekend and get an error message, don't worry, and please come back in July.

All for now.

BUT I DOUBT IT. There may be a cooler happy hour spot than Yazoo Brewing Company, which is housed in the old Marathon Motor Works, but I doubt it. The owners (a married couple) brew a couple kinds of beer, which they distribute at restaurants and, in their tiny "tasting room," make available to the public. Yazoo is only open about 5 hours a week since it's in the 'hood, but this does not dissuade people from going there ... at least it didn't on Friday afternoon. It was standing room only.

There may be a restaurant with a nicer downtown view than from Germantown Cafe, but I doubt it. I like looking at all the buildings from the north, because you can see the State Capitol that way. I also think Germantown Cafe is a really stylish and fun place, with great decor and a great menu. We had a wonderful dinner there after our time at Yazoo.

There may be a more enjoyable way to spend a Friday night than integrating two groups of friends (work and non-work) and dragging them with you to new places. But I doubt it.

MUSICAL CHAIRS. Well, as previously mentioned, it's been a marathon of concert attendance. June has just been chock-full of tempting shows. Seeing Glenn Tilbrook (power pop) and Scott Miller (anthemic rock, folkish ballads) back-to-back were very interesting, because those two seemingly different shows had a lot in common. My friends M&M went to both shows, and they are very good people to accompany, because they go for the music; they socialize between sets, not during the songs. They get to the show early to stake their claim and are extremely well-informed about the acts. I can't say that -- but I do trust their judgment. (One M&M-recommended show I am skipping, however: The Cure. Thanks but no thanks.)

How were the two shows similar? Two kick-butt bands, each comprised of a lead guitar/vocalist, bassist, drummer and keyboardist. You really don't see that line-up too much. Also, both guys apologized for their sets! Here's a little advice: unless the audience is throwing stuff at the stage, do not apologize. And in both cases, there was absolutely no need. The crowds were completely into the shows.

For me, each show was a great discovery.

I saw Squeeze with KNS a few times and I like their music, but I wouldn't call myself a fan (I don't own any of their albums, for example). Tilbrook's post-Squeeze material was just as strong, I thought, and I will buy his latest album, partly because half of it was recorded here. His show featured two bands, as a matter of fact -- one British band (Simon, Lucy and Stephen -- aren't those names great?) and a separate band of some local folks, including Bill Lloyd. The British keyboard player (are you keeping up with all this?) was fabulous. He had the most aerobic keyboard-playing style I've ever seen. He also was especially skilled in playing with his eyes completely closed. I think he was channeling Ray Charles a little bit.

Glenn Tilbrook apologized for the last time he played in Nashville, but I can't understand why. He was completely fun and engaging.

I can't say enough about Scott Miller and the Commonwealth, except to offer my highest praise: I felt the kind of joy that comes from Springsteen. Honestly. They played a cover of "Janey Don't You Lose Heart" and I was in heaven. They were fabulously loud and fierce. I was dancing inside and wondering, "Where has this band been all my life?" (Well, for a while, Scott was in the V-Roys, and I somehow missed all of that.)

The band looked straight outta Bartonville. These guys could lube, oil and filter your car and then rock your world. Scott Miller seems like one of those really smart but scary guys -- he had a look in his eyes like he could just go off at any minute. He also apologized at the end of his set, which M&M said is kind of a tradition with him. I think it insults the audience and wish he would stop that.

I have a short list of bands I would drive a healthy distance to see, and Scott Miller and the Commonwealth are now on that list.

YOU WOULD IF YOU COULD. So why haven't I been writing in the log? Three words: Live music, baby. There's been a lot of it. Check it all out on the musicalog link. Don't be bitter. Move to Nashville and this all could be yours.

Well, a lot has happened since I last wrote, and I have many thoughts to share, especially about the movie "Supersize Me," which everyone should see. Reason 5,231 why I can never have children: this movie makes me want to lock them in a basement, away from the marketing manipulation of large fast-food chains. Nephews, be warned.

I also saw two killer shows, Glenn Tilbrook (formerly of Squeeze) and, the next night, Scott Miller and the Commonwealth (formerly of the V-Roys). I will have to write more about these earth-shaking events after the Cracker extravaganza on Wednesday.

I must give an update on the Dave Alvin concert. I will get to go after all. I am not going home to Peoria until NEXT weekend, because that coincides with a work-related conference. My dad has agreed to celebrate Father's Day a week later in order to accommodate this schedule.

Reason 5,231 why he is the best dad in the world. That, and he took us kids to McDonald's.

SPLIT PERSONALITY. My very first weblog, I guess you could say, was my dorm room door. I put up quotes, advertisements, pictures and posters that struck a chord with me. I had two big heroes in 1984: Bruce Springsteen and Ronald Reagan. One day I put up a blurb from USA TODAY that told how Reagan, stumping in New Jersey, quoted Bruce and referred to the patriotism in the current hit "Born in the USA."

Sadly, he had missed the point of the song, but worse than that, the incident prompted Bruce to denounce Reagan and to say, in effect, "I want nothing to do with you."

For me, this was like Superman vs. Batman. This was like my parents fighting. I was heartsick. This has been the dilemma of my adult life: liking two things that are in direct opposition to one another.

In the immortal words of Guy Who Broke My Heart (1988 titleholder), "I just don't understand how you can like Reagan AND like the Replacements."

I thought of this as I sat in the Ryman Auditorium last Sunday morning. KNS was here and on the way out of the apartment we learned that Reagan had died. [Most of my friends gave a silent cheer at this news. People here, at least people of my acquaintance here, HATE Reagan. I am aghast. I was saddened, but not heartbroken. I can't think of anyone whose death would make me glad, unless they were a serial killer or something.]

What brought this schizophrenia to mind in the Ryman Auditorium was a group of young musicians who were acting as the praise band for the Revival at the Ryman, a celebration of the 10-year anniversary of the restoration of the famed venue. In 1994 Gaylord Entertainment reopened it, and as a celebration of the building's original use -- the Union Gospel Tabernacle -- they held an honest-to-goodness church service. With a sermon. And an invitation. And hymns!

I looked at the program and was delighted to see "The Old Rugged Cross," "Sweet Hour of Prayer" and "In the Garden." Three stalwarts of congregational singing. What a glorious time we would have at the Ryman. But it turned out this was more of a performance than a participatory event. And these were hymns, Opry-style. As one singer's band moved into the instrumental, she told us her guitarist's name and said, "Listen to God speak to you through his guitar."

I'm more accustomed to God speaking to me through other people's discussion, or through things I read, or through a minister. Not the electric guitar. Only two people have ever spoken to me though an electric guitar. One was Will Kimbrough, and he was saying, "Buy all my albums." The other was Pete Townshend, and I really can't express here what he was saying. But it was powerful.

When it comes to music, I'm very accustomed to God speaking to me through robed choirs and Handel and offertories and four-part harmonies. And through hymns with rich, inspiring language, hymns like poems, hymns rife with metaphors of war and the sea and with imagery of cleansing blood.

How can a person who loves music -- all kinds of music -- get so upset when modern music is used in a church service? To me, they are as different as Reagan and Springsteen. I like both of them, but I see them as diametrically opposed to one another.

I have to say, I think I've had a pretty rich musical education. I'm light on classical and jazz, but I had a pretty healthy exposure to the great American songbook, bluegrass, folk, rock, classic rock (esp. bad classic rock), blues and, first and foremost, hymns and gospel music. In my upbringing, never the twain should meet. I consider Christian rock to be an oxymoron.

Which brings us to the praise band. Revival at the Ryman included one, and they were fine musicians, but after about 14 minutes of their chorus, I felt almost nothing could revive me. A praise band, for those of you who have not been in a mainstream church in the last five years, is really no different than a lineup you'd see on a stage in a bar or club, except the musicians tend to be quite young (high-school age) and they play repetitive choruses. The lyrics are projected onto a screen. I have no theological beef with this. And I understand that "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" doesn't really ignite the evangelistic ardor of the OutKast generation. But a PowerPoint slide with words on it, no staff, sung in unison, with no other musical instruction than "repeat" really, really does not seem like spiritual music to me.

In my family we have had longstanding discussions about the nature of worship and the place of music in worship. There are two distinct camps: contemporary and traditional. Let me tell you, contemporary is winning. Eventually the only people singing hymns are going to be me and two blue-haired women named Edna and Gladys. I hope at least one of them is a soprano, because I have the alto part covered.

The short answer is, worship (and especially praise music) is not about me. It's not about what I like or what I need. It's about what God wants or needs. That's fine, and intellectually I can nod my head to that, but I honestly have to ask, why do we think God doesn't want hymns sometimes too?

Listen to these words:

In seasons of distress and grief
My soul has often found relief
And oft escaped the temptor's snare
By thy return, Sweet Hour of Prayer.

I get a lump in my throat just typing it. Pretty incredible.

I don't know what heaven is like, but I hope there is a place where we get to sing hymns. I know I don't get to decide. I'm just saying.

LIVING HISTORY. Of all the things I've done in my nearly two years here, The Hermitage somehow never got crossed off the list until Saturday. KNS made a particular request to go there, and I am so glad we did.

Just when you think you're pretty smart about American history, you go to a place like President Andrew Jackson's home, you watch the little movie, and you realize, "Hmm. I'd better go read more about this."

We had gorgeous weather and it was so relaxing to walk around the grounds, which include a beautiful garden, a big open field and pretty streams.

It probably took me so long to get out to the Hermitage because it's outside the I-440 loop, and my life is happily contained within the boundaries of Briley Parkway / Thompson Lane / 440. Pretty much everything on my "Top 10 Best Things about Nashville" is within a mile of my place.

Two of them are the Frist Center for the Visual Arts and Union Station, and that's where we started the day. We sat out on the Frist patio and talked and talked, and since KNS is taking a photography class, she found it an ideal place for pictures. We decided to walk over and see the hotel lobby, and maybe it was her camera that was the tip-off, or the fact that we were pointing at the ceiling.

"Can I answer any questions about the building?" a man with a friendly face asked us. And so began our personalized tour of Union Station from Howard, a leather restoration expert (aka shoeshine man) and retired librarian, formerly of Newark, N.J.

Because my dad debriefs me on the history of the Louisville & Nashville Railroad every time he comes to visit, I have some knowledge of the place. But Howard definitely put me to shame. He pointed out the "alcoholic angel," told us why the restaurant is named Arthur's, and led us into the original pedestrian entrance. That was the coolest. In the original flooring is a winged wheel -- just like the one on the outside of the train station in Antwerp, Belgium (and probably all the train stations of the time ... not to mention the Detroit Red Wings' jerseys).

Too much history is never enough, so we drove over to the City Cemetery and walked through the beautiful (but still neglected) grounds there before proceeding to the Hermitage. [Half the people who are reading this entry are probably groaning, thinking, "Worst. Vacation. Ever." The other half is planning how to get to Nashville to experience these historic joys. If you're part of the second half, please bring some singles to tip Howard.]

Our outings weren't all about the good old days. KNS and I went to the pedestrian bridge and surveyed downtown in all its Saturday night glory. A scary glory it is. We hung out at Drunken Fish and then walked up the hill past many historic buildings, which fortunately were closed, so we finally got some sleep.

JANET RENO DANCE PARTY. There was something familiar about the way she sat, with her long, long arms and legs at precise right angles. Her feet were flat on the floor, and her shoulders were kind of stooped, the way tall people hunch over sometimes to try to conceal their height. She looked like a very kind librarian. And her profile looked exactly like Janet Reno's.

I told my weekend visitor, KNS, this and jerked my head toward the kindly librarian. But why would Janet Reno be at this tiny club in East Nashville? Was she, like we, waiting for Tim Carroll to rock her world?

KNS said yes, that woman kind of looks like Janet Reno. They could be sisters, maybe. There was some kind of facial resemblance.

Oh, come on, I said, she is a dead ringer. KNS looked again. She had been evaluating the woman next to the kindly librarian. Then she saw the woman I meant.

Holy cow, she said. Do you think ... ?

It was such an absurd thought, that we started talking about the equally implausible "Janet Reno Dance Party," that old "Saturday Night Live" skit featuring Will Farrell in drag. We laughed and laughed. KNS said she loved the night Janet Reno actually walked onto the dance party sketch. You've got to respect someone who can laugh at herself, we agreed. I confessed that she was probably the one official I'd ever thought about writing a letter to, because I thought she held firm in the days after Waco, a nearly impossible situation. KNS said Janet Reno would have made a good governor of Florida, and it's too bad she didn't win, after campaigning all around the state in her old pickup truck.

We tried not to stare. We really did. But the more we talked about her, and glanced sideways, the more convinced we became.

I heard a woman at the next table mumble something about "Janet Reno." Just about that time, the opening act was done, and everybody else was swarming around the kindly librarian, who was indeed the former Attorney General of the United States.

The woman at the next table went over and used her cell phone to take a picture of Janet Reno. "I'll do just about anything if I've had enough beer," the woman told us as she returned to her seat.

Not so KNS or I. We were satisfied to sit on the sidelines and marvel that KNS had been in town a whopping five hours and already had the most unlikely of celebrity sightings. So why were Janet Reno -- and her sister -- in town? To raise money and soak up the sights.

They left before Tim Carroll (finally) took the sage, which was too bad for them. He played a great set, as always. Peter Cooper of the Tennessean was in attendance, which always validates a show for me in some strange way. I think he has great taste in music (because it seems to parallel mine) and I completely dig that he expresses his fandom so openly.

I'm the Most Inhibited Woman in North America (I'm having T-shirts made), so I don't ever dance or shriek or do anything, but I did yell out "Girl That's Hip" during the request portion of the program. He played it immediately. I was in heaven. The song has the immortal couplet, "I want a girl who knows the town / And not the other way around."

I wish Janet Reno could have been there.

HAVING A WONDERFUL TIME, GLAD YOU'RE NOT HERE. A friend wrote me about her recent trip to New Orleans: "I had some really fantastic meals and got to see quite a bit of the city, so it made for a good trip. Things I did not visit include the following: the library, any museum, monuments / plaques / statues of New Orleans, and the public radio station, which means it would have been a bummer of a trip for you."

Too bad.