New Orleans is an extremely friendly city. This is partly because it's America; partly because it's the South, and some of it is also a camaraderie borne of shared adversity during Katrina and Rita.

So you're never alone when you're sitting outside on our veranda. There's a dog park just down the street, so dozens of dog walkers parade by at every hour of day and night, and almost no one passes without a brief conversation.

On Tuesday night we were out on the steps with two of the neighbours, beer bottles piling up on the sidewalk as we tried vainly to combat the stifling heat, discussing the latest in an endless sequence of Louisiana bribery scandals.

A guy walked past with his dog, and we exchanged greetings. A minute later two cyclists pedalled silently past and into the darkness.

New Orleans is also an extremely crime-ridden city. It's the murder capital of the United States, and police have just announced that violent crime is up 31 percent over the past year.

Fifty yards down the road the cyclists pulled over, waved an unidentified object at the dog walker, told him it was a gun, and ordered him to hand over everything he had. Fortunately he was travelling light - all he had was a phone, which he gave them. We continued our noisy conversation, oblivious of the drama being acted out a long stone's throw away.

Only later, still badly shaken, did the victim tell us what had happened. We had experienced the best and worst of New Orleans in the same evening.

In other news, Louisiana governor Kathleen Blanco has declared a state of emergency as the first major hurricane of the season heads our way. The latest forecasts suggest it may make landfall well to the west, in Texas.

In the meantime, Pam has achieved the rare distinction of having two hurricanes named after her. The first was fictional: Pam was the name given in 2004 to a very realistic simulation of a hurricane, used to test the state's preparedness. But this time it's for real: my fiancée's last name is Dean.