We holed up near the Saint Charles streetcar line, close to the river, too, where we could hear steamship whistles at all hours,

and the Creole Queen calliope hissed and sputtered a toe-tappin’ rendition of Down Yonder, and close to Mulate’s cajun restaurant. On the outside Mulate’s looks like it’s been there since Napoleon drank thujone.

But good food does not require regal surroundings, and inside bathed in the religious experience of live cajun music we feasted on gumbo and etouffee, BBQ shrimp and grits and oyster poboys, fortified to cross the street and ramble down the Riverwalk where the streetcars turn.

There the aquarium offers a stroll through the river and the bayous, right into the insectarium, which stole the show when we entered the butterfly room and those brightly colored winged bugs attached to our clothing and hair and hands. No fear. Only love.

To think anybody ever purposely harmed one of those bugs is a swift condemnation to Kafka’s Metamorphosis.