When I was a girl, my dad always tried to teach me about cars.  He pointed to what this thing was and he explained how it worked.   And I remember none of what he tried to teach me.  I remember looking at his tan, scarred hands, that grime under the nails that would never come out.  I can close my eyes and smell the mix of diesel fuel and cigarette smoke. That was the smell of my dad after a long honest day's work in the shop.  The literal blue collar with his name stitched across his chest.

New Orleans is more than what to see and do. It's more than beads hanging off of street signs. New Orleans is tasting powdered sugar on the fingers, cobblestones that rise and fall with every step; big porches with small details. It's big music, marching through the streets and gentle hospitality.

We took a romantic getaway weekend in San Diego to celebrate our 20th wedding...