As the plane approached, the winter-browned, waterlogged landscape of New Orleans and the Mississippi Coast came into view.

I was headed to New Orleans and the Cajun hinterlands for Mardi Gras, not disaster-gawking, but as I looked at the landscape, I realized that for now, Hurricane Katrina was going to be an integral component of my visit to Louisiana.

I'd seen Kaua'i the day after Hurricane Iniki and had been shocked by the impact. Same with Mexico City, struck by an earthquake in the 1980s while I was in Yucatan. On the Big Island, I'd seen villages disappear under Pele's flowing lava, and was awed by nature's power.

But nothing prepared me for what I would see in the low-lying neighborhoods that surround the venerable, legendary city of New Orleans.

Most of the six days I spent in New Orleans were far from these storm-devastated parishes. This was my first Mardi Gras, fulfillment of a long-held wish, but also a chance to show support for this beleaguered city. I saw it as a historic event, a first Mardi Gras not only for me, but for the post-Katrina city seeking to preserve precious links to its past. Mardi Gras more than ever, has become a symbol of continuity and affirmation.

There seemed to be some incongruity in heading to celebrate Mardi Gras with spirited abandon a mere six months after Katrina's wrath flooded 80 percent of the city. The famous French Quarter and other historic districts, including downtown, the oldest parts of the city, had been built on the high ground next to the east bank of the Mississippi River.

It was only in the past century that adjacent wetlands were drained as the city expanded. Its population peaked at 635,000, before shrinking to fewer than 500,000 when Katrina hit. Today, an estimated 150,000-200,000 people call New Orleans home.

Neon-hued glass beads, a telltale sign of Mardi Gras, already littered the streets. I was arriving on Lundi Gras, Fat Monday, the day before the great parades of Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday), the bacchanalian prelude to the restrictions of Lent.

In fact, parades and gala socials had been going on for more than a week by the time I arrived, the city well into the spirit that's enshrined it as the Big Easy. The Lundi Gras parade was a nighttime event, fanciful floats lit to full advantage, winding their way about four miles through the city, the route modified to suit the city's shrunken geography.

FRENCH QUARTER

Undamaged was the fabled French Quarter, a 90-block enclave just to the north of Canal Street, a wide thoroughfare dividing the quarter from downtown's skyscraper towers. With five hours until the parade began, I set out to explore, crossing Canal and entering the French Quarter on Rue Royal, or Royal Street. The Spanish, who held sway here for a few years before the American purchase, called it Calle Real.

Far more than Honolulu, where franchises are standard, New Orleans remains a one-of-a-kind kind of city. Even among the deafeningly loud souvenir shops awash in clever T-shirts, feather masks, Venetian dolls and glass beads, there are mom-and-pop stores.

Streets like Rue Royal, however, reveal the individuality of New Orleans: antiques shops worthy of New York, London or Paris; sword shops; art galleries; and fashionable boutiques. Ancient-looking shops feature eclectic collectibles, housed in the quarter's remarkably compatible mix of 19th-century buildings, most built after 1855, when fire swept the city.

Although New Orleans (at the time largely what is now the French Quarter) had been sold to the fledgling United States for $15 million in 1803, the city remained culturally French.

The Louisiana Purchase was an even better bargain than it appeared. Only part was paid to the French in cash; $6 million was the assumption of French debts to American citizens. It was a bargain necessitated by Napoleon's costly ambitions in Europe, Asia and Africa. Rather than see Louisiana fall to the British, the purchase more than doubled the size of the United States, paving the way for the country's transcontinental expansion.

The French imprint on New Orleans survived even as it grew to be an American city. The individuality that keeps it intact and functioning since Katrina is rooted in its history. Its strong regional loyalty is based on a rich, still-flourishing cultural identity focused on good food, good music and a commitment to enjoying life. This French sensibility is maintained by succeeding generations of families rooted to this place, providing continuity with the past. That, New Orleanians hope, will be the saving grace that allows the city to thrive even as it reconfigures.

KREWES AND COINS

Everyone understands that tourism is crucial to the city's future. With this in mind, the welcome mat's out. Each visitor is part of the healing process, each dollar spent helping secure the city's future. That, I found out, is high on the list of New Orleans' virtues.

Mardi Gras proved a milestone event — boisterous and exuberant. Gaudy and elaborate parade floats, masterfully constructed and lit, drew cheers and calls for beads from appreciative crowds. The 90-minute Rex Parade was followed by the equally elaborate Orpheus Parade, the krewe founded by Harry Connick Sr. and Jr.

The krewes, or social clubs, that create and man the floats spend $1 million and more on floats and costumes, as well as on beads and coins tossed to the tens of thousands lining the parade route. The richest of the krewes supply each member with $750 in such trinkets from funds raised at gala socials. Memberships and the honor of manning a float can cost as much as $1,500.

Krewes reflect the diverse historical and cultural segments of New Orleans society, black and white, Creole and Acadian, rich and poor.

Shivering in the damp 50-degree chill of the Louisiana night and loaded down with glass bead leis of all sizes and colors, I made it back to my hotel, exhilarated and exhausted after traveling the parade route for close to four hours.

From my window I looked out on the city below, with a steady stream of revelers making their way to the all-night clubs on Bourbon Street, the rowdy heart of the French Quarter where jazz now plays second fiddle to all versions of rock.

Fine dining proved a nightly event in New Orleans, where gumbo and jambalaya, crayfish and catfish and bread pudding are all to savor. Here, people like their food prepared well. Many of New Orleans' legendary restaurants — Antoine's, Stella's and Galatoire's, for example — are open, providing a sense of normalcy to the French Quarter that is remarkable in light of the surrounding devastation.

I stayed in another French Quarter landmark, booking a small but elegant suite at the historic Monteleone, built in 1886, and renowned ever since. Situated on the Rue Royal, the hotel provided a perfect base from which to set out and explore the grid of streets that make up the French Quarter.

The quarter, I found, had its own neighborhoods: Bourbon Street, a boisterous downtown and the St. Louis Cathedral, the Cabildo and Jackson Square. All date to the 18th century.

History comes to life in unique ways in New Orleans, the mood established by the distinctive architectural style that provides the French Quarter with its human scale and timeless appeal.

The Louisiana State Museum is housed in the Cabildo, built in 1799 as government headquarters, when New Orleans was a French outpost. Its interesting displays show well against the 18th-century architecture.

Also of interest are the St. Louis Cathedral, completed in 1794, and the nearby Ursuline Convent, built in the 1740s, about 30 years after the city had been founded by France. In the centuries that followed, pirates, most notably Jean Lafitte, threatened the French and authorities, adding another rich layer of history that enhances New Orleans' mystique.

Plaques mark many buildings, adding a time frame to the aesthetic mosaic that makes the quarter memorably French. The link is evident in balconies outlined with wrought-iron grillwork, charming courtyards and arched walkways, some gas-lit at night as if the 1800s still held sway. The antiques shops along Rue Royal also attest to the appeal of bygone eras, most impressively at M.S. Rau Antiques, a maze of galleries with fine antiques, artwork and estate jewelry that may cost millions.

RICH IN HISTORY

I found my more-affordable heart's desire elsewhere, in a small collectibles shop about five blocks farther along Rue Royal.

"Do you have any antique postcards?" I asked.

"Just got a collection in a couple of days ago," the proprietor replied, placing three large, leather-bound collector's books on the counter. "Mostly early 1900s. About a thousand cards."

Page after page held me transfixed, one beautiful, pristine card after another, each a glimpse of the last of the Victorian years.

Don't miss the National D-Day Museum. Its mission has broadened to cover the full scope of World War II and the nationally transforming effort that led to victory. Set in the warehouse district, near the south end of downtown, it was slightly damaged by the hurricane but is planning a large-scale expansion. Masterfully designed and executed, its interactive displays mix well-written text, personal narratives, documentary footage, and dramatic graphics and photos that evoke the full scope of horror and heroism that defined the six years of World War II.

"It's called the D-Day Museum, but it's not only the Normandy invasion that we're talking about here," explained World War II veteran and volunteer Tom Blakey, still vigorous in his 80s. "It's all those turning points where decisive battles determined the outcome of World War II. There are a lot of D-Days, and we cover it all."

Detailing the progress of the war on a global scale, the exhibits present a compelling vision of events gone out of control and the focused and impressively orchestrated response.

From the museum, I was headed to a site of destruction of more recent vintage. Crossing the Mississippi, I set off for a half day touring neighborhoods inundated by Katrina's epic surge. Nothing prepared me for what started in the Lower Ninth Ward, a largely black neighborhood of humble homes, and continued for uninterrupted miles into the largely white and black middle-class neighborhoods to the south and west.

More than six months after the storm, one neighborhood after another remained uninhabited and uninhabitable, debris everywhere, without electricity or running water. About 90 of New Orleans' 125 square miles are a virtual no-man's land.

Many expressed unhappiness with the way things have been handled. The scope of the disaster and unfocused lack of urgency still seem to define a recovery effort that demands a true marshaling of national resources.

"I know it looks bad, but it really is a lot better," Terry Kaupp said to me as we drove toward her childhood home, one of hundreds in a middle-class subdivision three miles past the city limits in the suburb of Chalmette in St. Bernard Parish.

Chaos reigned, with "for sale" signs on many houses, and cleanup crews had barely made headway in stripping water-damaged homes to the studs.

Kaupp's family home is down to the studs, the way it looked when Terry moved here as a kid of 7. Nothing remains of the many years her family lived here, only the outline of rooms and closets on a concrete floor.

"I feel as if my past has been taken away from me," she said. "Not just personally, but for us as a community. The whole structure of our lives is gone."

RECOVERY SLOW

On the way back to the city, we pass one neighborhood after another that remains unpopulated, as if every home and neighborhood mall from Hawai'i Kai to 'Ewa was severely damaged or utterly destroyed.

I wonder about the slow pace of recovery.

With only a few weeks before the next hurricane season begins in June, debris is everywhere. We leave, passing mile after mile of streets piled high with debris just waiting to be scattered by hurricane winds. When we return to the city, Terry drops me off in the French Quarter.

Built on the high ground, the old city was safe, surviving yet another year, its spirit, integrity and appeal intact. Clear afternoon light streamed from a deep blue sky, adding shadowed texture to the architecture, pulling rich hues from the shadowed pastels.

People come and go, some heading home after a day's work, some heading out for dinner or a rendezvous with friends.

I wandered until the last trace of color faded from the night sky.

In a very short time I've come to understand why people love New Orleans. I wish I'd made it here before all this trauma struck, but now that I've gotten a taste of the Big Easy, I'd love to make it back.

A follow up would include the many things I'd wanted to see: the marvelous cemeteries with their glorious sculpted grounds; the historic walking tour of the quarter offered by the National Park Service from the Jean Lafitte National Historic Park and Preserve on Decatur; a breakfast of beignets and coffee at the famous Café Du Monde.

I left, wishing for time to explore the Garden District's architectural treasures; time to catch up on what I missed at the D-Day Museum; time to be part of the Big Easy as it is reborn.

Allan Seiden is a Honolulu-based writer and photo archivist.