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A brass band went past my Mid-City New Orleans apartment one January afternoon, and from the din it was clear that a crowd was behind it. Tubas were oomphing, horns were blaring, people were whooping; it sounded like a parade. It was actually a funeral. Jazz funerals are standard practice in New Orleans, a time for the living to celebrate the talent of a prominent citizen who's passed on to the Big Easy in the sky. Bands lead the procession; friends, and some strangers, dance behind. It's a great concept: a celebration to die for. Another addition to my growing list of reasons to stick around.

for a summer job and ended up staying for two reasons: I had fallen in love with the city, and I had become employed. There's nothing to hate, about employment, but there are a few things to hate about New Orleans, I've learned: Bourbon Street, hair-frizzing humidity and endless hype about the murder rate. There are a lot more things to love, though; musicians, neon lights, and wrought-iron porches top my list.

I sucked on a crawfish head once, slurping juice from its red crustacean body out of a sense of obligation. It tasted fine, but it's probably not something I'll try again. Especially because in New Orleans, there's not much you're obligated to do.

That's a tough adjustment for a Northeasterner to make, and I am a Northeasterner - a Yankee - in a city that isn't particularly Southern, but seems to think it is. New Orleans shares the South's slow pace of life and its contempt for the North. But the city's French, Spanish, and Canadian roots, along with its cult attraction, make it difficult to peg to any one region. You'll hear some Southern accents among the natives down here, but also some that sound closer to Brooklyn than Birmingham. You'll also hear accents from most every other city, since New Orleans is full of transplants. It seems to attract aspiring musicians and writers and slackers - and a fair amount of people who fancy themselves slackers, but really aren't.

I've heard New Orleans referred to as its own "banana republic," which is probably the closest to the truth. There are palm trees here, the climate is mild, the vegetation green and lush. Mosquitoes are your constant housemates. And there's a lack of inhibition to the people here that suggests a sort of permanent vacation state, an atmosphere unlike anything in more proper parts.

New Orleans has its woes, but its strong points more than compensate. There's a citywide joie de vivre  and charm by the bucketload, from the chicory-filled coffee in the mornings to the neon signs at night. Of all of New Orleans's neon offerings, my favorite sits high atop the Blue Plate factory on the edge of Mid-City. Blue Plate, it reads in huge blue letters, outlined in moving white lights. Underneath, in thin red letters, is a single word:

Like a beacon, maybe, or a hundred-foot-high joke, or a throwback to simpler days.

In New Orleans, the word mayonnaise  blares out in the darkness. Funky brass bands lead funeral processions. At the right time of year, plastic beads inspire madness. Who would want to live anywhere else?

Joanna Weiss is a staff reporter for The New Orleans Times-Picayune  and a 1994 graduate of Harvard College. Joanna moved to the Big Easy from the Northeast Corridor after mysterious voices beckoned her with a resounding call of "Mayonnaise."