We took Thanksgiving dinner in the nearby faraway French Quarter, at the Chateau Sonesta on rue Iberville. It was our first choice, though it flew in the face of a spotty tradition of going to the Fairmont Hotel for Sazeracs with all the trimmings.

Thanksgiving this year fell on November 22, the thirty-eighth anniversary of the day L. A. Norma sat in the Sazerac Room at the Fairmont hearing the news President Kennedy had been killed in Dallas. "It's sad," she said, "no one will remember J. F. K. this year, our new grief being so fresh." She wanted to make the day a literary pilgrimage to the former D. H. Holmes Department Store, now home to this comfortable Sonesta hotel with its life-size bronze statue of Ignatius J. Reilly standing "under the clock" where he met his Mother on the opening pages of John Kennedy Toole's knee slapping A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES (Grove Press/Black Cat paperback), a corker of a novel set in old New Orleans, circa forever.

A couple of years ago I attended a party for this statue. It stood fresh and without patina in the corner of a crowded banquet hall silently eyeing press freeloaders and others more respectable. We had gathered to admire Ignatius and his bronze earflaps - and nibble some of the tastiest foods every passed around on a silver tray. Periodically, hotel staffers would take a few of us by the wine bottle and lead us on to elevators and up to the grand-opening spotlight of the evening: The John Kennedy Toole Suite of very nice rooms directly over the clock, with views above Canal Street, and more recently the clattering construction of streetcars re-establishing their presence. What would Ignatius J. Reilly think of all this? He didn't say then, and he didn't say Thanksgiving Day 2001.

Norma and I thought the Thanksgiving buffet terrific, with the tenderest turkey breasts ever bared before a bigger than life ice-sculpture of Tom Turkey in full tail fan. A true feast from the bountiful harvest. The hotel's version of New Orleans bread pudding was marvelous. How can this simple old workhorse continually be done in so many ways, none of them bad and many, like this one, a double ribbon winner? Hurray Chateau Sonesta!

We sat in the lobby afterwards stealing matchbooks from polished ashtrays that looked like they might crash to the floor if we tried lighting our ten-dollar cigars. "These days, might as well light a stick'a dynamite," Norma groused to a maid placing a fresh pack of matches in her empty ashtray. The maid smiled then went across the room and whispered in the ear of a large man in a dark suit.

Out on Canal Street, under the clock we lit our cigars and nodded to Ignatius, our old friend. He didn't look a day older than the last time I'd seen him. However, he looked, well, in jail. A hurricane fence with ugly padlocks blocked access to the street except through a small gate bearing a tin sign promising no access after six.

September Eleventh took a heavy toll on New Orleans, too. It emptied our hotels and tossed over The Pirate's Alley Faulkner Society's September-scheduled "Words & Music 2001" literary festival like a card table in a hurricane. The hotels have mostly recovered, and the Faulkner fest moved to December 6-10 with success and lamentations at the horror of America's war coming home.

More Lit Speak: In November, WWNO (National Public Radio for the Swamps at 89.9 megaHertz) and the Garden District Book Store brought David Sedaris to the Orpheum Theatre. Sedaris, author of ME TALK PRETTY ONE DAY (Little, Brown and Company), holds the coveted achievement of two listings at once on The New York Times bestseller list. What a party, a near full house of flat-out fans lifted white wine, collected the author's autograph, called out to friends, roared with anticipation at each announced title and gave thunderous applause afterwards. Sometimes-Faubourgundian and AMBUSH columnist Toni Pizanie said pushing towards the door, "I knew it would be good but this was ten times ten what I expected and I expected a lot."

Christmas sales are said to be better than expected in some shops and less in others. Macy's in the New Orleans Centre looked crowded enough when I was there. Leaving there one day I found a yellow silk ribbon by the buss stop in front of Lord and Taylor's. I picked it up and tied it to the little wooden stick bearing a small American flag stanchioned on my bike's handlebars. It looked good there, along with a miniature plastic King Cake (a Carnival throw from some forgotten year) and three silk flowers in City tricolor saved from the Mayor's wedding parade. Like the Bali natives say, "We have no art, we do everything as well as we can."

Meanwhile, back at the hotels, the Fairmount's Angel Hair Lobby is up and very much worth the visit. And the Royal Sonesta Hotel, older sister of Chateau Sonesta, threw its annual Plum Pudding Stirring Party for freeloaders and others. Pianist and Master of the Evening's Ceremonies, Ronnie Kole tickled the ivories while old friends stirred, sang carols, and gorged. Very nice. Overseeing this splendor was Sonesta Vice President and General Manager, Hans Wandfluh. This slender Swiss master of hostelry runs a spit and polish paradise just a doorman's tug off Bourbon Street, the world's most ruckus slough rue.

We are lucky to live where we do, to be in this Great Swamp City without the bother of having our luggage searched. Happy Holidays to you, whatever your flavor or faith and may the New Year bring you Peace.