Back in the Big Easy

New Orleans, LA

The first time I went to New Orleans I was 18 years old. I had already been working on the Mississippi Queen for a couple of months, but since I had begun, we had been cruising exclusively up on the Upper Mississip, the Ohio, the Tennessee and the Cumberland rivers. However all summer I had heard legends of the near mythical city that my fellow steamboaters referred to simply as “Nola” and so the first time we landed in the Big Easy, even though it was around 11am, I bounded into a cab and asked for Bourbon Street. When I stepped into the hot sun on Canal and Bourbon, I was immediately approached by an older black man with a red t-shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. “Hey man,” he said with a wolfish grin, “I’ll bet you ten dollahs I can tell you where ya got yo’ shoes.” I recall thinking to myself, ‘I don’t think they even have Big 5 in Louisiana.’ I’m embarrassed to say I took and immediately lost the bet when he said, “Ha! You got yo’ shoes on yo’ feet.” That’s the kind of scam you fall for when you’re 18 and never been anywhere. He probably saw me from a mile away. Even disregarding that exchange, my first walk down Bourbon should’ve been a letdown. I strolled past the strip clubs and the dive bars, probably slurping on a ‘190’ or some other equally revolting frozen beverage. Everything looked grimy and depressing in the flat daylight. But I remember my eyes widening and my stride lengthening as a giddy shiver slithered up my spine. I’m not sure if it was the jolt of alcohol in the morning or the expectation of future events, but I have never failed to have that exact same reaction when walking on that street, even later when I realized that Bourbon is like the cup of sugar water you leave in the corner. It draws in all the dumb college kids and tourists and leaves the rest of the Quarter less burdened for everybody else.

Walking through the Quarter the other day for the first time since 2004, I feel that familiar joyous shiver. I’m walking with Tif, who worked with me on the CQ and had generously offered the hide-a-bed in the shotgun house she’s staying in a block off Bourbon. Tiffany is a one-of-a-kind. She wears funky clothes, has eclectic hobbies and has a mild form of Tourette’s which, here and there, makes her beep and squeak amiably. In most places she would seem eccentric, but in the French Quarter she fits right in there, and it seems like everybody knows her giggle and squeak. We walk down Toulouse past Bourbon and take a left on Royal. Imposing buildings with pencil columns and intricate iron balconies hover menacingly as we sneak up on the St. Louis Cathedral. Just before Jackson Square, we duck into Pirates Alley for a Bloody Mary. In most places, the jail that once held the famous pirate Jean Lafitte would be a museum, but in Nola it’s a bar where pretty girls in pirate gear sling drinks. We get our drinks to go (because you can do that here) and continue our stroll. We amble through Jackson Square past two-bit fortune tellers, palm readers and caricature artists and on down Decatur. We sneer at the tourists eating overpriced beignets at Café Du Monde, but I peer longingly into the Central Grocery, the only place I’ve ever had a real Muffaletta sandwich, but it’s just too early for that. We grab a couple of Irish coffees at the café where Tif works, curl back around and make our way into the French Market. We buy a pair of sunglasses and a couple of beers and saunter down the Riverwalk.

Even though I haven’t worked on the Mississippi since 2004, the swirling brown water still affects me the same way it did back 1995. The warm flush that comes over me has tinges of the Bourbon shiver only it’s combined with shutters of dread from working 14 hour days and then smell of old people fills my nostrils. I clear my confused sense by taking a long swig of beer and I lounge under the wooden gazebo sipping a beer while Tif shows me some of her tap dance moves and we trade calliope stories before we head back up to her house.

In the afternoon, the big game is on: Saints vs. Cardinals. If they win, the Saints have the opportunity to host the NFC Championship game for the first time, so we head back up Royal Street to the R bar to watch. We get there just as the game begins and the bar is already packed. The only seat we find is the corner of a pool table. In Seattle we are known to have some of the best fans in the NFL and I’m not prepared to say that New Orleans fans are better, but I will say that the ferocity of their devotion is admirable. People are dressed in costumes, have their faces painted and I think I’m the only person in the bar not dressed in Black and Gold. As one, the crowd sings with every touchdown, groans with every turnover and throws little yellow flags at the big screen with every penalty. By halftime there’s little doubt the Saints will win and Tif takes me around the corner to celebrate with some tater-tachos. Tater-tachos are exactly what they sound like: Tater-tots covered in nacho toppings… Glorious.

The Saints win and we head back down to a frenzied Bourbon street. At one point a second line marches by and we follow, dancing in the street behind a brass band. I haven’t second lined in a long time, but what I lack in rhythm, I make up for with exuberance. This is what I miss about New Orleans! Hmmm… dancing in the street…could this be the source of my Bourbon shiver? Or does it come from reconnecting with my good friends, as I will the next night? A couple of weeks ago I wrote about the importance of expectations and what’s great about the Quarter is you never know what to expect. For example, you might think you’re just sitting down for a nice quiet lunch with a couple of old friends and then all of a sudden find yourself belting out Karaoke in a bar named the Cat’s Meow at 3am and then later redefining the word ‘reconnect'. A hypothetical situation of course. In the end, I think the joy of New Orleans is the limitless possibilities that are held in each day, each person and on every street.

What I (re)learned today – It’s always good to know a local. On Sunday Tif took us to this amazing bakery named the Croissant D’Or Patisserie on Ursulines St. As soon as I saw the line of locals out the door, I knew it would be good.

Actual product found in Sky Mall magazine – Peeing Boy Fountain. Nothing says class like having a statue of a little boy peeing into your pool. What makes it even classier is when purchase this item on an airplane. I think there might be a 20% discount when flying from Boca Raton to Newark.