Where to Shop for a Swap

I live in New York. But I also have flats in San Francisco and Los Angeles, and I keep a condo in Miami, a château in Switzerland, and a pied-à-terre in every Paris arrondissement. You see, I'm a house swapper. As an avid traveler with a (very) limited budget, I've discovered that trading apartments with people I meet on the Internet—they stay in my place while I'm crashing at theirs—is an excellent way to save money on vacation. In fact, after seven successful trades, I've become addicted to swapping and have made converts of my boyfriend, Alex; my sister, Lucy; and my mom, Jean—all of whom have accompanied me on trips. Sometimes I can't imagine ever shelling out cash for a hotel again. My virgin house swap was, fittingly, in the city of love: Paris. My mom and I had long dreamed of visiting together, but our lack of funds forced us to keep postponing the trip. Finally, in 2006, I decided that enough was enough. Instead of being scared off by pricey hotels—and break-the-bank exchange rates—I went on craigslist.org to look for an apartment swap. After I clicked on the "Housing Swap" link and typed in "Paris" and "September," the ideal place popped up: a one-bedroom apartment owned by Olivier*, a 30-something software company founder who wanted to visit Manhattan with his girlfriend. His home looked decent in the photos, and the central location on the Left Bank couldn't be beat. The timing also worked out perfectly, as we both wanted to travel to each other's cities in the first week of September. I e-mailed him photos of my apartment, and after a few polite exchanges, we were all set. I put my house keys in the mail, and I received Olivier's keys a week later. I couldn't believe how easy it was—or how free. Two months later, my mom and I were on Olivier's tree-lined street, which was so beautiful it was almost clichéd: chic couples strolling arm in arm, children playing soccer, a wine bar on the corner. Olivier's fifth-floor apartment was equally charming, with huge windows overlooking a sunlit courtyard, and a cute kitchen where Olivier had left us a bottle of wine. "You can tell a bachelor lives here," my mom said with a laugh when she noticed the mattress on the floor in lieu of an actual bed. The mattress, however, was surprisingly cozy—and proved to be a perfect spot for reading maps in the morning and Voltaire at night. House swapping not only allowed us to drop into the city, but into a Parisian lifestyle, too. I often feel like an outsider when I visit new places, and I observe with an anthropologist's fascination how the locals go about their days. I'll mimic their eating habits, gestures, and pastimes until it's time to go back to my hotel. Staying in Olivier's apartment, however, enabled me and my mom to slip into his life. We bought our morning espresso from the neighborhood café he had recommended. We roasted a chicken in his kitchen one night and ate at a nearby bistro the next. We chatted with the neighbors on the stairs, fiddled with the leaky sink in the kitchen, and read Paris Vogue on the sofa. And, like Olivier, we felt Parisian—at least for a week. A born-and-bred control freak, I've always chosen my hotels after scouring magazine articles and grilling my friends for recommendations. When you book a room that way, you know what you'll get—and you pay for that reliability. House swaps, however, force you to take a leap of faith. There's usually no contract or security deposit. And you never receive a reservation confirmation. When I arranged my Paris swap, I had to trust that Olivier was telling the truth about himself and his apartment. I was a bit nervous on the flight to France, with images of serial killers, con artists, and rats flashing through my mind. But after a few glasses of wine, I got over my fears. House swappers quickly realize they need to be open-minded and have a sense of humor about the unexpected inconveniences that can pop up. And, browser beware: Some swaps do come with surprises. This past May, my sister and I traded places with Michael, the owner of a club in San Francisco, and Sabrina, his girlfriend. The second-floor apartment was gorgeous, with hardwood floors, a flat-screen television, and a large, comfortable bedroom. And I especially loved the claw-foot tub—a real treat for a Manhattanite. Michael and Sabrina had also left us free tickets to concerts and recommended we eat at Patxi's, a deep-dish-pizza restaurant they love down the block. On a sunny Saturday, we purchased fresh vegetables at the farmers market and tried out a few recipes we found while flipping through their cookbooks. We just weren't prepared for something else they had left behind in the apartment. While I was watching a movie in the living room one morning, a mouse suddenly scampered under the ottoman. I shrieked and threw a magazine beneath the chair to try to scare it out. Later that day, my sister suggested we call Michael at my apartment in New York to tell him about it, but in the end, we decided against it. We figured that our fuzzy new roommate was just part of the experience—and the disturbance was offset by all the perks, such as the six-pack of beer that Michael and Sabrina had left on the counter as a gift. On another swap, I learned I had to be better about trusting my intuition. In the afterglow of my Paris vacation, my boyfriend and I arranged to swap homes with a couple from Los Angeles for five days over Christmas. I noticed something strange about the pestering nature of the wife's e-mails from the start. "I take pride in keeping my home neat and hope you do the same," she wrote. It will be fine, I assured her. "Do you have a washing machine?" she asked. In Manhattan? Hardly. "A dishwasher?" Nope. After the fourth or fifth e-mail, I was starting to have second thoughts about the swap, but I went ahead with it anyway, figuring that everything would turn out alright. When we arrived at the couple's bungalow two months later, my concerns had abated. But then I discovered a typed list of instructions on how to keep the house spick-and-span—down to the correct way to wipe the fridge. As the week went on, I felt as if I was in The Odd Couple: I was messy Oscar Madison, and the woman who owned the apartment was fastidious Felix Unger. Every time a crumb fell, my heart skipped a beat. A friend gave us toffee for Christmas, and I promptly banned it from the house. "Look at those nuts!" I gasped, imagining them scattering on the floor. The wife seemed to be keeping a close eye on us, too. She phoned twice from New York to make sure we were taking care of her house, and twice to complain about my place—she couldn't turn the key in the lock, and the radiator was rattling too much. In the end, the stay was worth the trouble. By laughing at the situation, Alex and I were able to enjoy the California sunshine without worrying about our over-attentive host. Not to mention that her idiosyncrasies made for great breakfast conversation. Of course, apartment swaps raise logical concerns about safety and privacy. When I tell friends about my trades, the first question they inevitably ask is: "You let strangers stay in your house?" That's usually followed by: "Do you hide your computer?" Allowing people into your inner sanctum is rattling, to say the least. At first, I couldn't picture strangers sleeping in my bed or drying themselves off with my towels. But I've found that I can usually get a good sense of people through their e-mails—friendly and enthusiastic people who open up about their lives naturally put me more at ease than those who come off as guarded. Plus, once we become chummy over e-mail, I don't feel as uncomfortable about having them in my home. In fact, I begin to look forward to their stay, as if they were friends, not strangers. Alex and I don't take too many pains to safeguard our house; we don't lock up our valuables or laptop in a closet, and we don't even have renter's insurance. Yet the only thing that's ever disappeared was a small part of our coffeemaker. (If you're reading this, Olivier, where is that missing piece?!) I've also never returned to a messy house—our guests always make the bed and put the dishes away before they leave. The other concern I had about opening my home to strangers was that my life would be on display. Alex and I were in a tizzy preparing the apartment before Olivier and his girlfriend came to stay. "Do you think they'll like us?" I asked as I fluffed the duvet. "Will they think our place is too small?" "They'll think we're obsessed with World War II," Alex quipped, looking at our shelf filled with history books. "Is that odd?" I replied, suddenly panicked. "Should I hide a few?" Partly because I was curious and partly because I have a masochistic streak, I recently e-mailed the people we had swapped with to ask what they thought of our place. Olivier was the first to respond. "We were happy for your West Village neighborhood," he wrote in his broken English. "Yours was the first American place we had seen with interesting books." I gave myself a pat on the back—we are fabulously literary, c'est vrai. But I wasn't prepared for his next observation: "I wondered if you were single, as your bed was small and not very, let's say, adapted for two." A very French thing to say. And a bit rich coming from a guy who sleeps on a mattress on the floor. Next, an e-mail arrived from the Los Angeles couple. The wife started out nicely enough. "Your many books made you seem like the intellectual type," she wrote. But then she moved in for the kill. "The shower was grimy, and there were dust bunnies on the floor," she wrote. Her husband chimed in next: "And the bedroom smelled like old saddles from the shoes." Ouch! I felt as if I had been socked below the belt. It's one thing to slam a girl's shower, but it's quite another to disparage her shoes. The critique of my lifestyle notwithstanding, my house-swapping experiences have been extremely positive. I've saved thousands of dollars and gotten remarkable insight into the lives and habits of San Franciscans, Los Angelenos, and Parisians, among others. I've also learned that no matter where you go, you can always find people who share your values and mind-set—my swaps worked out well because I found a community that was as curious, trusting, and adventurous as I am. I'm currently house hunting for my next vacation, in Tokyo. So if you see me on Craigslist, hit me up for a swap. I promise to move my shoes out of the bedroom.

Central Europe Top Bicycle has trips through Austria, Slovakia, Hungary, Poland, Germany, and the Czech Republic. Routes range from easy to challenging and include accommodations, luggage transfers, and a local cell phone. 011-420/51-951-3745, topbicycle.com, from $1,715 for an eight-day trip. New Zealand Independent Cycle Tours offers GPS trips to the West Coast, Kaikoura, and the Banks Peninsula, with more routes to be added next year. Lodging ranges from B&Bs to luxury hotels. 011-64/3-329-9496, cyclehire.co.nz, from $297 for a two-day trip. The Netherlands Tulip Cycling specializes in custom tours. You decide what you want to see, how long your trip will be, and the type of lodging you want, and Tulip will take care of the route, book your hotels, and transfer luggage. 011-31/33-246-0040, tulipcycling.com, from $472 for a three-day trip. China Bike Asia offers one- and two-day tours through Yangshuo in southern China; the two-day itinerary includes a boat ride on the Li River. 011-86/773-882-6521, bikeasia.com, from $28 per day. France Discover France provides GPS units on its Provence and Dordogne tours, which include lodging, luggage transfers, most meals, and emergency support. 800/960-2221, discoverfrance.com, from $1,769 for a six-day trip.

You know how sometimes you make ambitious travel plans and the trip turns out to be even more delightful than you ever dreamed possible? Every adventure you anticipated lives up to your expectations, everything you didn't anticipate turns out to be even better, and the weather is picture perfect from start to finish? This isn't a story about one of those trips. It begins like this: My boyfriend and I were supposed to go on an eight-day bike trek from Salzburg to Prague organized by Top Bicycle, a Czech company that specializes in self-guided itineraries. We'd be relying on a GPS throughout the journey, and as the grateful owner of such a satellite-driven gizmo in my car, I was intrigued by the idea of trading badly folded maps for a GPS clipped to my handlebars. But as soon as I booked the trip, the relationship went irreversibly south and...well, never mind. Instead, my best friend, Donna Zalichin, said she'd be happy to squeeze in some training rides, wave good-bye to her husband and kids, and pedal off with me into what was supposed to be early autumnal sunshine. "It's his loss," she said. "But you'll be in charge of the GPS stuff, right?" Right. The beauty of the Top Bicycle plan is that the company books the hotels, transfers your overnight luggage in a van, and provides the bikes, helmets, water bottles, and assorted repair gear. And—this is crucial—Top Bicycle also supplies the preprogrammed GPS consoles, a local cell phone, backup maps, and precise cue-sheet route descriptions bound into a spiral notebook ("kilometer 13.1, turn right after church"). On Donna's and my to-do list: Find day packs and muster the leg power needed to roll from place to place. We were expected to cover an average of 35 miles per day, which may not be a piece of linzer torte for a weekend joyrider like me, but it's certainly doable—with plenty of stops to admire churches, castles, and chocolate shops along the way. Getting in gear So that's how Donna and I found ourselves in Salzburg on a mild but gray October day, lugging suitcases filled with moisture-wicking, super-synthetic, long-sleeved shirts; padded-crotch shorts; stiff-soled bike shoes; fleece vests; and lots of sunblock. Our destination was the Best Western Hotel Elefant, where we'd shake off any jet lag before meeting our Top Bicycle contact—and our top bicycles—the following morning. Turns out we could have skipped the sunblock: Rain spattered the windows of our taxi as we headed for the hotel. "How long are you ladies here?" asked the driver. (His excellent English had followed him from his home state of Michigan when he moved to Austria a few years before to play soccer.) "Eight days," I replied. "That's too bad," he said, shaking his head. "Cold rain is forecast straight through to next week!" After dropping off our luggage, we pulled on our windproof parkas to visit Mozart's birthplace—a must for this classical-music major who can still sing the alto part of Mozart's Requiem. Today, the composer's former home looks more like a trendy restaurant; golf balls decorated with Wolfgang's likeness were selling like hotcakes in the souvenir shop. The next morning, hyped up on Kaffee mit Schlag (coffee with dense whipped cream), we met up with Jackson, our patient British bike outfitter. We were, Jackson explained, two of his last clients of the season. "It's good to say that the weather is a bit unsettled," he said with British understatement. "It's a pity because, last week, we were enjoying Indian summer conditions." Donna shot me a look that translated to something between "just our luck" and "thanks for sharing." Before we could reminisce about the balmy weather we had left behind in New York, Jackson led us to our bikes and proceeded to demonstrate how to access the GPS system from town to town. "It's good to say that you can ring me anytime," Jackson said, handing me a Czech cell phone. We were eager to set off—just as some significant raindrops began to fall on our heads. As soon as Donna and I strapped on our damp helmets, the heavens opened for a cold, hard rain. Even attired like human lasagnas in layers of shirts and pants, we were sodden and shivering. Bicycle in this pneumonia-inducing precipitation? This was a vacation, not an episode of Fear Factor. And thus, on our first day of intrepid two-wheeled adventure, the driver loaded our dripping bikes back into the van and drove us the 31 miles to our next stop, the mountain-ringed village of St. Gilgen. We checked into the Hotel Gasthof zur Post, a rustic inn that started life as a coach house in 1330. It turns out there was a Mozart connection here, too: His sister, Maria Anna (nicknamed Nannerl), held her wedding reception in the drawing room in 1784. After staring at the rain for an hour, we decided to venture out to buy umbrellas and sample schnapps named for Nannerl at a tiny shop around the corner. (She was, from the taste of things, apparently fond of pear-flavored spirits.) Our preparatory conversation went like this: "How many layers are you wearing?" I asked. Donna: "A long-sleeved tee, a fleece, and a windbreaker. Plus a hat and mittens." My strategy was slightly different: two moisture-wicking tees, as well as a fleece vest over my fleece zip-up. In the evening, we ate venison and rabbit beside a crackling fire in the hotel's dining room, while outside the rain turned to serious snow. We found this hilarious. In fact, I found myself thinking how relieved I was to be on the trip with Donna, because my ex would certainly not have laughed. We were still giggling as we scrambled to add more layers the next morning. But it wasn't until we were both fully swaddled that we took note of a sign at the front desk that predicted an afternoon high of 37 degrees Fahrenheit. Ach! With no debate, we piled our gear back into the van and hitched a ride to the provincial city of Linz, where the Mozart leitmotif of our trip continued: This is where he composed his "Linz," Symphony No. 36 in C major. And that's when something amazing happened: For the entire afternoon, nothing fell from the sky. Donna and I nearly ran through the Mozart House museum so we'd have enough time to suit up and really test the bikes, the GPS, and our stamina for the 10-mile uphill climb toward the Czech Republic that awaited us the next day. Spinning our wheels At long last, the open road! There was just one glitch: I pushed the on button for the GPS and nothing happened. When I pressed it again, a map eventually came up, but I couldn't sync the program to the start of our route. "Don't look at me!" Donna said. We must have pulled off to the side of the road at least a dozen times to squint at the matchbook-size screen before deciding that it was easier to read the low-tech cue sheet booklets clipped to our handlebars. Donna, a quick study in the use of the miniscule odometers attached to our bikes, instinctively became the reader in chief. "At 0.1K, pass church on right-hand side," she yelled, cycling ahead of me. And at 0.1K, there it was! The next morning, of course, brought more rain. Rather than walk our bikes up a wet hill for 10 miles, we took our designated seats in the van. But once we crossed the Czech border into the village of Ceský Krumlov, with its gingerbread-like châteaux and castles, we agreed that we had to get with the cycling program. And so for one whole day, we biked—all the way to Hluboká nad Vltavou. We were wet, windblown, and always too cold, but as the kilometers rolled by, the yellow bike-path signs that lined the route seemed to salute our determination. For 26 miles, we relaxed into a rhythm of passing woodlands and wild pheasant, lone farmers and old women for whom the sight of two foreign ladies on bikes in bad weather was hardly worth noting. One problem: This being a weekday in October—i.e., not exactly peak tourist season—many of the churches and castles on our itinerary were closed. The other problem: The rain blurring the already indecipherable GPS rendered it more or less useless. Truth be told, of the 235 or so total miles we were meant to bike, we probably managed about 35 on our own leg power. The more memorable truth is that we kept devising creative solutions to keep from being rained out—and bummed out. With downpours starting up again as we prepared to leave Hluboká nad Vltavou, we figured out that we could at least pedal, even in gusts of sleet, to the train station. "Turn left!" Donna shouted into the whipping wind. "Are you sure?" I hollered. "No!" she screamed back. "OK, let's go!" Need I say that we missed the express train by 10 minutes, forcing us to wait an hour for the milk-stop local? Amazingly, we still laughed. "Have a Mozartkugeln chocolate ball," Donna offered as we collapsed in the station. "Dekuji," I said, thanking her in my best Czech. A pantomime-enhanced exchange with a ticket agent resulted in the purchase of two seats in the not-so-roomy cargo hold of a train bound for Písek. Upon disembarking, we shrieked into the wind some more while pedaling to Hotel Bílá Ruze—where the concierge looked none too pleased when we rolled our sopping bikes into the lobby. "Verboten!" she chastised. Of course, she didn't know the troubles we'd seen. Torrential rain followed us from Písek into Prague, where we took a walking tour under the umbrella of a Czech woman who was eager to expound on the price of beer. (It's a bargain.) And it poured all the way to the airport. Naturally, sunshine greeted us when we landed at JFK in New York. But all the ideal weather in the world couldn't have produced the laughs Donna and I had shared. While the weather didn't hold up, our friendship weathered the trip, and we had fun discovering each other's strengths: I could read signs at a distance (Donna's eyes don't work like that), and she could convert Czech currency into dollars faster than I could. We were also well matched snack-wise: I sampled the beer at all price points, while Donna became the chocolate connoisseur. And both of us loved cesnecka soup, made with caraway seed and potatoes, which we ordered every chance we got. This trip was supposed to be about relying on a fancy gadget to travel the world in a newly independent way. GPS snafus aside, what I discovered is that the true joy of travel is experiencing rain (and the occasional shine) with a good friend by your side—and at least one spare pair of socks in your day pack.

1. Sobering thoughts The French Quarter may be one of the nation's main party zones, but it has its quiet spots. Duck into Kitchen Witch Cookbooks and you just might find a first-edition M.F.K. Fisher (631 Toulouse St., 504/528-8382, kwcookbooks.com). Arcadian Books & Art Prints is a tight squeeze, but it's a trove of books about Louisiana's history and culture (714 Orleans Ave., 504/523-4138). 2. They put the art in party Held the third Saturday of every month in Markey Park, the Bywater Art Market showcases local artists and a food truck that sells boudin balls (breaded and fried sausage). You'll find paintings, photography, jewelry, and boxes made from recycled lumber. Royal St. and Piety St., art-restoration.com/bam, 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. 3. High on the hog Culture-conscious chefs are reviving recipes from the old-time boucherie (butchering) tradition. Tory McPhail's dinner menu at Commander's Palace recently offered pork-belly pie and house-made bacon (1403 Washington Ave., 504/899-8221, commanderspalace.com, entrées from $27). At Cochon, chef-owner Donald Link turns boudin balls and cochon de lait (roasted suckling pig) into delicacies (930 Tchoupitoulas St., 504/588-2123, cochonrestaurant.com, entrées from $14). At his newest restaurant, Lüke, John Besh serves choucroute maison, the house sauerkraut, with house-made sausages, pork belly, pig knuckles, and cochon de lait (333 St. Charles Ave., 504/378-2840, lukeneworleans.com, $13). 4. Acadian rhythm A two-hour drive from the city, Breaux Bridge, La., is the perfect place to dip a toe into Acadiana, a.k.a. Cajun Country. Start by tuning the radio to KBON 101.1 FM; DJs speak in the local dialect and play Cajun and zydeco music. Visit Poche's for hog's head cheese and boudin (3015A Main Hwy., 337/332-2108, poches.com) and Mulate's, The Original Cajun Restaurant for gumbo, étouffée, and alligator (325 Mills Ave., 337/332-4648, entrées from $12). The owners of Bayou Cabins, Rocky and Lisa Sonnier, do a trade in cracklings (similar to pork rinds) and sometimes fry breakfast beignets in the fat. "That's some good eating, chère," says Rocky (100 W. Mills Ave., 337/332-6158, bayoucabins.com, from $60). 5. Take me to the river Audubon Park is an urban paradise for golfers, runners, bikers, picnicking families, and napping students. Audubon Zoo is on the grounds, along with one of the city's best views of the Mississippi. At sunset, crowds gather at the riverbank with soccer balls, six-packs, and peel-and-eat crawfish. auduboninstitute.org. 6. Helping hands Brad Pitt's Make It Right Foundation is helping to rebuild the Lower Ninth Ward, with an initial goal of constructing 150 affordable, relatively hurricane-resistant homes (makeitrightnola.org). More than a million people have donated elbow grease, money, and time, and the state of Louisiana has a website—volunteerlouisiana.gov—for people looking to lend a hand. 7. Sounds nice To really savor jazz, go where you can sit. In the French Quarter, the best options are Preservation Hall (726 St. Peter St., 504/522-2841, preservationhall.com, $10) and Fritzel's European Jazz Pub (733 Bourbon St., 504/586-4800, one-drink minimum). Nearby, Snug Harbor Jazz Bistro hosts legends like Ellis Marsalis (626 Frenchmen St., 504/949-0696, snugjazz.com, from $15). 8. Catch-as-catch-candy The first Roman Candy Man, Sam Cortese, entered the taffy-pulling trade in 1915 after he lost his legs in an accident. Today, his grandson Ron Kottemann traverses New Orleans in Sam's old mule-drawn cart, selling vanilla-, chocolate-, and strawberry-flavored Roman Chewing Candy, while Ron's son Daniel sells his wares from a cart at the zoo. romancandy.gourmetfoodmall.com, 75¢. 9. Iris fidelis Louisiana's state flower is the magnolia, but the fleur-de-lis is the ultimate expression of New Orleanian loyalty. Since Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, the iris has been a top choice for tattoos. For a less permanent memento, check out Mignon Faget jewelry (multiple locations, mignonfaget.com) and Scriptura stationery (5423 Magazine St., 504/897-1555, scriptura.com). 10. Storied history It's nearly impossible to make it through a day without hearing about the voodoo priestess Marie Laveau, or the pirate antihero Jean Lafitte, or how much of the French Quarter's architecture is actually Spanish. Get beyond local lore at The Historic New Orleans Collection, a museum and research center. 533 Royal St., 504/523-4662, www.hnoc.org, free, tour of the permanent collection $5. 11. Home cooking Zoning laws allow businesses in some residential neighborhoods, so restaurateurs set up shop in cozy houses. Enjoy rabbit-and-andouille gumbo in what feels like a friend's dining room at Brigtsen's Restaurant (723 Dante St., 504/861-7610, brigtsens.com, gumbo $8.75). Dick and Jenny's is a clapboard cottage where soft-shell crabs come in a Thai green curry sauce (4501 Tchoupitoulas St., 504/894-9880, dickandjennys.com, entrées from $16). 12. A ringing endorsement "We're known internationally but not so much locally," says Jill Abbyad, who has run Chimes Bed & Breakfast with her husband for 22 years. Guests enter through a side gate and access the rooms from a communal courtyard. 1146 Constantinople St., 504/899-2621, chimesneworleans.com, from $99. 13. Let the good times roll Mid City Lanes Rock 'n' Bowl is one of the hottest venues for Louisiana-style music and dancing. The ambience is retro, and the clientele is multigenerational. Thursday is Zydeco Night. 4133 S. Carrollton Ave., 504/482-3133, rockandbowl.com, $18 per lane per hour. 14. Rifling through architecture A shotgun house is a narrow, often one-story affair with each room situated behind the other. (The idea is that if you fired a shot at the entrance, it would travel through every room and out the back.) The city's shotguns tend to be colorfully painted; a row of them strikes a picturesque pose. Driving through the Upper Ninth Ward, Bywater, Faubourg Marigny, Irish Channel, Uptown, and Riverbend neighborhoods provides concentrated viewing. New Orleans' Favorite Shotguns, by Mary Fitzpatrick and Alex Lemann, is a useful companion; buy it at the Preservation Resource Center. 923 Tchoupitoulas St., 504/581-7032, prcno.org. 15. Just off the boot A wave of Sicilian immigrants in the early 20th century created some beloved food traditions: muffulettas at Central Grocery Co. (923 Decatur St., 504/523-1620, $13), spaghetti with red gravy and Italian sausage at Mandina's Restaurant (3800 Canal St., 504/482-9179, mandinasrestaurant.com, $12), and gelato and cannoli at Angelo Brocato Ice Cream & Confectionery (214 N. Carrollton Ave., 504/486-1465, angelobrocatoicecream.com). 16. Stars in stripes Seersucker is a summer staple in New Orleans. Perlis, a favorite local clothing retailer, is the place to go to outfit the entire family. Flagship store, 6070 Magazine St., 504/895-8661, perlis.com. 17. What's old is new A close cousin to the old-fashioned, the modern-day Sazerac is a cocktail incorporating rye, Peychaud's Bitters, pastis, sugar, and a lemon twist. Try one at the Hotel Monteleone's rotating Carousel Bar. 214 Royal St., 504/523-3341, hotelmonteleone.com. 18. Gumbo guidelines Every Louisianan has a set of rules about the famous stew: A gumbo must contain a roux; or, a roux isn't necessary if you use okra; or, okra should be used only in seafood gumbos. To taste multiple styles, visit the Gumbo Shop in the French Quarter. 630 St. Peter St., 877/525-1486, gumboshop.com, gumbo from $8. 19. A fresh approach New Orleanians enjoy changes of seasons—seafood seasons, that is. That means oysters during fall and winter, crawfish in spring, and shrimp and crabs all summer long. Casamento's Restaurant, located Uptown, is famous for its raw oysters and fried-oyster loaf (4330 Magazine St., 504/895-9761, casamentosrestaurant.com, oysters $8.75 per dozen). Big Fisherman Seafood specializes in boiled crawfish (3301 Magazine St., 504/897-9907, bigfishermanseafood.com, crawfish $2.50 per pound). And Tommy's Cuisine is revered for its crabmeat au gratin (746 Tchoupitoulas St., 504/581-1103, tommyscuisine.com, entrées from $21). 20. Magnificent MiLa Slade Rushing and Allison Vines-Rushing fell in love as young cooks in New Orleans roughly a decade ago and then moved to Manhattan to pursue their big-city dreams. Now they've returned to the South and opened MiLa (an amalgam of Mississippi and Louisiana); they take the products of an area farm and turn sweet potatoes into pappardelle and muscadine wine into a dessert gelée. Renaissance Pere Marquette Hotel, 817 Common St., 504/412-2580, milaneworleans.com, entrées from $19. 21. Southern hospitality Two blocks from the French Quarter, the International House hotel offers New Orleans–style glamour with a nod to the city's penchant for superstition. In the plush lobby, a West African fertility bench is covered with so many pillar candles that it seems more like an altar than a decoration. Rooms have bedside tables with cruciform feet, said to act as talismans for guests. 221 Camp St., 800/633-5770, ihhotel.com, from $119. 22. Drink locally Abita Amber, produced by Abita Brewing Company, is a favorite New Orleans brew—the caramel flavor complements long, slow nights. But since its creation after the hurricanes of 2005, Abita's Fleur-de-lis Restoration Ale has become a new favorite. 21084 Hwy. 36, Abita Springs, 985/893-3143, abita.com, brewery tour free. 23. Progressive parties Social Aid and Pleasure Clubs celebrate local traditions by high stepping through the streets in what are called second-line parades. There's always a brass band and sometimes outfits with sashes and feather fans. For routes and to learn more about second-line traditions, visit the Backstreet Cultural Museum. 1116 St. Claude Ave., 504/287-5224, backstreetmuseum.org, $8. 24. Class transit Gravely damaged after Hurricane Katrina, the St. Charles Avenue and Canal Street streetcar lines are operational again. Tourists ride knee to knee with commuters and kids, for whom the streetcars serve as school buses. $1.25 per ride; exact change required. 25. You're invited! Festival season runs spring through fall, and if there's a town, a food, a craft, or a cause, Louisiana celebrates it. You might know the biggies: the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival (Jazz Fest), French Quarter Fest, and Essence Fest. But what about the Creole Tomato Festival? Or, 85 miles southwest of the city, in Morgan City, the Shrimp and Petroleum Festival? neworleansonline.com/calendar.