New Orleans is coming back. While there is still misery everywhere you look (I saw shiny blue tarps on every third rooftop from my airplane window), and tales of insurance and FEMA horrors, there are great signs of life, too. Especially in the French Quarter, which was spared the water, but not Hurricane Katrina’s winds and the eventual evacuation of almost all restaurant, hotel and shop employees—many of which are still not back because they have nothing to come back to.

But New Orleans is making lemonade, spiked with bourbon of course, out of their Category 5 lemon.

I was in NOLA for the Saints and Sinners GLBT Literary Conference, where I was invited to read, along with many others, from our recently published works. Two days earlier, I’d packed a carton of books and dropped it off at my friendly UPS store. The books flew first class, non-stop, but I had to take an economy class puddle jumper from Philly to Charlotte to New Orleans. The City might be the Big Easy but getting there isn’t.

I’m sitting in the airport, ready to board when I get a frantic call from my UPS man. He tracked my books and they were refused at the hotel and sent back north.

"What the…???"

"I will try to intercept them on the way back and get this straightened out," he said.

I had the reading copy of my book in my carry-on luggage, but no others. Naturally, the point of the readings is to hawk books. No books to sell and I’d be up the Mississippi without a paddle-wheeler.

When I got to my French Quarter hotel—a wonderfully shabby-chic B&B half a block off Bourbon Street, complete with a steamy, tropical-plant filled interior garden—I checked in and inquired about the book snafu. I got a stricken look from the clerk.

"Oh, I hope it wasn’t my mix-up," she said, with an expression that told me it was. "You see, the FEMA people stayed here until last week, and they were forever getting packages. I might have thought your box was for them and declined to accept it."

"But here," she continued, "I’ll upgrade your room."

Whoopee.

I slipped the key into the aged lock on the 12-foot high, many paint-layered door and entered the stage set for A Streetcar Named Desire. Two ancient Victorian sofas, an imposing bed with ornate wooden headboard, a dramatic chandelier and, I was sure, Tennessee Williams in the closet—so to speak.

Like Blanche Dubois, I careened around the room soaking up the Southern charm and the steamy atmosphere, until I was jarred by my cell phone. It was my UPS man. "Can I get more books to pack and send overnight?" he asked.

What can Brown do for you, indeed. Taking only a small leap of faith, since Mr. UPS seemed like a good guy, I revealed the hidden house key location and where to find the books in the garage. That would be everywhere. Overnighting them might make it in time.

After the call, I marched myself down the street to the conference hotel to meet the other Saints and Sinners. First, I finally met Carol Seajay, the San Francisco legend who has worked for over three decades promoting lesbian literature, most notably with her publication Feminist Bookstore News. In the 70s and 80s, when independent women’s bookstores thrived and served as community lifelines for lesbians all over the country, it was Carol who pulled the network together.

As giant bookstore chains and the internet squelched and shuttered many of our independent bookstores, Carol’s publication closed shop, too. But now, seeing a need to reconnect readers, Carol has a new publication, called Books to Watch Out For. (You can check it out at bookstowatchoutfor.com).

Talking with Carol was so fascinating I didn’t dwell on the UPS man sprinting through my house, rooting through my garage. I wasn’t worried about anything sinister, mind you, but I hated to have him see the mess I left.

A cocktail party followed, where publishers, authors, publicists and New Orleans literati chatted it up. Mid-cocktail my cell phone vibrated. "Good news!" says UPS guy. "I intercepted your package and it will be back at your hotel by 8 a.m. tomorrow. I didn’t even have to go to your house!" Saved.

Finally able to relax, I schmoozed with the Sinners, since by that time the Saints were all back at their hotels, brushing their teeth. We trolled Bourbon Street, watching balconies full of drunken straight boys calling for the women below to show their bosoms—and tossing beads to them if they did. We sampled Po Boys—the sandwiches, but that’s not to say that some of the literary sinners didn’t sample other kinds as well—and sipped Hurricanes in souvenir glasses, to the tune of live jazz from almost every storefront on the block.

I suspected New Orleans’ sense of humor was returning with shops selling tee-shirts announcing "Show me your tits and in 8-10 weeks FEMA will send you your beads," or "Katrina Gave me a Blow Job I’ll Never Forget." And then there was the all-purpose shirt "I Got Bourbon Faced on Sh*t Street."

I stopped short of that.

The next day at 8 a.m., as I walked to the actual conference, a few people were still in the bars, and the sound of trash trucks scooping street debris replaced the previous evening’s sound of music.

I attended a panel discussion about on-line publishing and a talk by The Hours author Michael Cunningham. I listened to a lesbian read the male erotica she wrote, thinking what’s up with that? And when it came time, I read a couple of my columns to an assembled crowd, followed by some actual book sales. I also learned from the pros, that GLBT publishing is a tough game.

That night, post gumbo, I chose sinner again, for in lieu of early to bed I attended my very first drag king show. It was adorable, which is probably not a review the kings would appreciate. But they were puppies. Skinny little gender queers, with spirit gum whiskers on their faces, butching it up, lip synching to macho songs. The cast was energetic, with stage names like, forgive them, Lick Draw McGraw. I guess the kings’ aim was titillation and/or humor, but adorable was what they were. Drag queens are intrinsically funny. Not so the kings, but they sure tried.

On Sunday morning, after a breakfast of beignets and chicory coffee at Café du Monde, I noticed more signs of New Orleans rebirth. Store windows displayed shirts saying "Make Levees, Not War," and "Re-Cover, Re-Build, Re-New Orleans."

I really hope they can.

As for this author, her weekend was saved by that dogged UPS man, who spent the better part of three days glued to his computer, tracking my miserable carton of books.

As Blanche Dubois surely said one day in my hotel room, "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers."

I’ll drink to that.