New Orleans was my dream destination. Years ago, I’d moved from upstate New York to live in the heart of the city, but after days of apartment-hunting with an agent, I couldn’t find anything to suit my budget. “I’ll consider my options and call you in the morning,” I said, and headed back to my hotel room.
I went down to the lobby phone the next morning to call the agency. My dream of living in the city just wasn’t meant to be. I guessed I had no choice but to look in the suburbs. “All circuits are busy,” a recorded voice said. I tried again and again with no luck.
I got the same message at the pay phone at a mom-and-pop shop around the corner. “This city is full of bad connections,” I mumbled. The elderly woman behind the counter looked up. I told her the whole story.
“Have you tried the neighborhood called Algiers?” she said. I’d never heard of it. “It’s in the city limits, charming and historic. My niece happens to run an apartment-finding agency there.”
I dialed the number and got connected right away. I signed a lease that afternoon. Then I met my neighbor, a handsome guy from Texas.
Eventually I left New Orleans with the Texan who became my husband. Some connections are just that good.
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