Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

I am writing about the 1820s:

M. Bernaise owned the whole house. During sunny days, he inhabited the downstairs. During the day, he was just like a regular person, a stalwart citizen. He and Cracko Macacco would walk from his house to a coffee shop on Louisa Street. They would sit outside and the monkey would entertain people going to and fro about the business of their lives. There were no cars. Everyone walked to the corner store every day. For a nickel, a monkey will do a little dance for your enjoyment.

The pace of New Orleans life is eternal.

The irony is not lost on me that I am sitting in a neighborhood cafe, watching the world go on around me, the same people, every day a variation. Nothing getting done—everything getting done.

The pace of New Orleans life is eternal.