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The story of our New Orleans apartment

One cold, quiet morning about a year ago, I sat sipping coffee and browsing real estate listings for sale along the St Charles Avenue parade route. This neighborhood marks where the first generations of my family settled in New Orleans nearly 200 years ago. Many of them were born in houses still tucked among canopied live oaks. This neighborhood is where we spent every Mardi Gras at the huge, multi-story Elmer house. As a lover of long walks, I also cherish this neighborhood for its sheer abundance of historic and natural beauty—nothing, nothing beats a long, wandering walk on a spring day through riotous azaleas, dappled sunshine, and old mansions that look like elaborate wedding cakes.

I dearly love all the individually distinct and unique neighborhoods of New Orleans (Bayou St John, Tréme, the Marigny and the Bywater, Fairgrounds, Audubon, the Vieux Carré...). Colin and I lived in a Mid-City shotgun double when we first got married, and before that I lived in Lakeview with my grandparents for a while. But for as long as I can remember, my heart has tugged toward that St Charles parade route. Just to dream, I sometimes scrolled the real estate listings available there and... imagined.


That cold morning, one listing in particular caught my eye because I knew the building: I had passed and admired it many times over the years. The modest but pretty stucco building retained so much vintage charm and was spectacularly located one block away from St Charles Avenue (parades!), a few blocks from Magazine Street (restaurants and shops!), and two blocks from the streetcar stop (easy access to Audubon and the French Quarter). And just down the street: the hospital where I was born when my parents were still newlyweds freshly graduated from Tulane and Loyola.


I clicked the listing. Just to imagine.

But then something happened. As I showed the listing photos to my sister, who was visiting for Christmas, Colin heard us talking about it. I told him to come look. He gave my screen a passing glance, but I felt like he wasn't really paying sufficient attention, nor sufficiently joining my little imagination game, so I... remarked. He remarked in response. We remarked back and forth with escalating tension until we were remarking upon all kinds of stresses that had nothing to do with a charming stucco apartment building on the uptown parade route.


Evening came, morning followed.

The next day, Colin said, "I booked a showing of that apartment." I felt immediately upset; why would he book a showing that we both knew would be only a tease? What was the point? He convinced me just to go look, just for fun, because you just never know. I didn't really want to go look, didn't really want to potentially love a place that we could never realistically make our own, but we went anyway and brought along our kids.

The wood, the light, the windows, the vintage tile floors, the crystal doorknobs... As the real estate agent shared relevant information, we kept looking at each other with knowing eyes. Do you see how close the parade route is? Did you hear the streetcar pass just now? Did you see the wood floors and the light and the tile and the doorknobs? A pool outside! Dogs allowed! The kids darted from room to room, saying, "This is so cool! Can we get it?"as if an apartment were as easy to acquire as some trinket from the Target dollar section.


We rode home mostly in silence, a deep and mutually contemplative silence. There's not really any way we could make this work, right? But could we, somehow? Already I was walking down Magazine to go write at a coffee shop. Already Colin was pulling our Mardi Gras wagon out to the avenue to set up parade camp.


Once more, just to see!, we called the broker. Colin held the phone to his ear as she talked and then smiled. I felt my heart jump. He looked at me and smiled again, flashed a thumbs up, and whispered, "I think we can actually make it work."


We signed final papers for the apartment two days before the first parades started rolling. One block away.

Move-in weekend
Move-in weekend

In the past year, this little apartment has been the heart of countless wonderful, warm moments: family time, parades, concerts, date nights, dinners with friends, summer pool days, weddings, ordinations, slumber parties, birthdays, book writing, even retreats and film projects—and yes, the dreamiest long walks through my beloved city. In the past year, we've painted walls and cleaned baseboards and repaired door hinges and brought home art from Paris and thrifted furniture and slowly, slowly outfitted the apartment until it has become our favorite place on earth.

We named the apartment Petit Coeur. This is not what we call it in conversation (because we're normal); it’s just a personal thing to capture our hopes for this place. Like how you name your boat.


"Coeur" first refers to the Sacred Heart, to Whom our family is consecrated. We hope, too, that the heart of our family continues to expand and deepen in the time we spend together in this little home. "Coeur" also references the apartment's location in the heart of our favorite city and a longtime desire of our hearts being fulfilled. Lots of hearts, y’all. "Petit" refers to our family’s patron, St Thérèse of Lisieux (and her parents and sisters, for whom our kids are named). If you know her, you know why "little" is her word. We used the French for her and because French extends into the New Orleans and Louisiana as well.


I drew this little badge for the apartment that features a Sacred Heart and fleur di lis combined. The leaves of the fleur di lis are the letters P and C for Petit Coeur. A crown of thorns is the center of the fleur di lis. At the bottom is an M for our family’s name.


I'll be sharing a proper tour soon with highlights on our design strategies. For today, this story shines as a reminder to keep browsing, keep dreaming, keep imagining.


Bon anniversaire, Le Petit Coeur!




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Contact me. I am a Catholic author, artist, speaker, and traveler.

I'd love to collaborate with you on your next retreat, day of reflection, pilgrimage, trip, or event.

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