Call me clichéd, but whenever I hear a reference to New Orleans I immediately think of lacy cast-iron balconies, the sound of a raspy brass band, crimson crawfish and “STELLAAAA!”

It’s true; I have a romantic vision of New Orleans.

One day, while driving from a meeting on health care, I took several wrong turns and found myself very, very lost. Too full of pride to call for directions back to the university, I drove around aimlessly for what seemed like hours.

This was not a safe or responsible decision, but it reiterated my feelings about the city. Despite being ravaged by Katrina, New Orleans has a strange ambience of romance, celebration, mystery and danger.

If my description of the city sounds like a trailer for a 1930’s film noir, remember that it’s coming from a young visitor who was seeing the city from inside the locked doors of her compact car.

I just can’t explain it (which is probably something a journalist shouldn’t say), but New Orleans has a raw charm that isn’t just a fabricated gimmick sold on Bourbon Street. Profound and bizarre histories still permeate the city’s alleyways and neighborhoods, regardless of their post-Katrina condition.

It is impossible to ignore the devastation New Orleans has faced, and no one should. Nearly four years after the hurricane, it is shocking to see abandoned and desolate homes, schools and hospitals where sheets of plywood have replaced blinds and curtains.

One cannot see these sights while strolling the French Quarter. It is much more pleasant and mind-easing to sip a hurricane at a bistro on Decatur Street.

The other day someone called New Orleans a “Potemkin village.” Feeling embarrassed and uncultured for having never heard the phrase, I embraced the almighty Google: It’s something created to deceive.

I disagree with the statement, but as a short-term visitor my assessment of the city is probably unfair.

Before the institute, I had visited New Orleans only once. Now, a week into the program, I’ve spoken to state representatives, a former boxer in the Ninth Ward, a British music historian with a passion for Cajun/rock music, and a woman who blames a city hospital for her husband’s death. Yesterday, as he said goodbye, a museum security guard took my hand and called me “young princess.”

This city is full of fascinating and strange people who create its alluring atmosphere. I look forward to exploring more into New Orleans’ resilient and indescribable heart.

Now if I can just get someone to do a Stanley Kowalski impression outside my window.