We live in the blue house. The orange house is the inn, a five-suite miniature hotel. The green house is four apartments, for people who live here year-round. You are part of a compound that mixes the tourist world gone native.

We moved to New Orleans five years after Katrina. It was a totally different city back then — half the population, so many buildings boarded up, even if people lived there. Everyone who lives in New Orleans, lives here by choice. After Katrina, the population was zero. Everyone who lives here made a conscious decision to come back and rebuild, or, like Melanie and I, become part of this giant sociology experiment.

Melanie is German. She's the one who keeps things running behind the scenes, and a professional dog trainer — our two dogs have won wallfuls of ribbons. If you run into her, you'll agree with everyone else that she's the better half of this operation.

I am the face of the business. Since 2010, I've become a strange amalgam of New England and New Orleans. People think I'm native, but I'm from Connecticut, Land of Steady Habits, Cranky Yankee to the core. Now that I've lived here long enough, I'm as bad as everybody else — I live in languid New Orleans time.

I spend most of my time in a mile-and-a-half radius of La Belle Esplanade. I'm happy to talk about the French Quarter, but I rarely visit except on business — I spend most of my time in what I think of as the real city.

New Orleanians will talk your ear off. They're not trying to hustle you, they're just proud of their city and want to show it off. I know most people in the neighborhood as I make my rounds, like Mr. Rogers on a Japanese motor scooter. An armchair historian, I know the history of the buildings, the streets, the neighborhoods — which is why people think I'm from here. I'm actually from Connecticut.