Ah New Orleans. Living it up Southern style in the Big Easy. I can’t say I really knew what to expect before I arrived, aside from the wild stories about Mardi Gras and jazz. So to say the least, I was more than pleasantly surprised by all I discovered on my little weekend jaunt in October.
As the plane descended I looked below me and saw this giant body of water with a narrow bridge spanning across. The Gulf? The Mississippi? Turns out it was Lake Pontchartrain, and I was in absolute awe of the size of this lake. I must’ve looked like a little kid on their first plane trip, face practically glued to the window, smiling like a fool waiting to land and ready to explore all below me.
I arrived in the evening and decided to stroll around the airport while I waited for my friend S to pick me up. A giant Louis Armstrong statue graced the airport lobby, across from a restaurant that advertised gumbo and crawfish. The bookstore was filled with Cajun Cookin’ recipe books, shot glasses covered in alligators that don a chef’s apron and hat, and plenty of Mardi Gras masks grinning from ear to ear. Suffice to say, I was starting to get excited. When I stepped outside – the south smacked me right in the face. Humid is an understatement - the ends of my hair began instantly curling. Then a teenage boy drove by me in a dusty red pickup truck, his arm stretched along the back of the seat inside the cab – just like in a country music video. The sun was only just beginning to go down, so a golden hue took over the entire area. Suddenly the cappuccino I’d just bought felt completely out of place, because baby, we were not in New York anymore.
When S pulled up I could’ve skipped all the way to town in excitement for all that lay ahead. As we drove along he started explaining our surroundings, describing the different sections of the city, assuring me the endless strip malls had nothing to do with the New Orleans I was going to experience. We passed the Superdome, and I tried to actually imagine the Hurricane Katrina victims piling inside the structure, and as enormous as it looked with the sun reflecting off the gold paint, I struggled to picture the surrounding city packed inside its walls.
After arriving at S and his friends' yellow house I was stupefied. These 3 boys who I’d known in college had this adorable home with a blue cement porch and white columns. Inside there was a huge, cozy, open room that led into a kitchen with an island. An ISLAND.
Now laissez les bon temps rouler! S took me to a famous sandwich place for dinner, Parkway, that sits on a bayou and serves any kind of po’boy you can dream up and eat. I had barbequed beef…with pickles, on French bread. So good.
Then we headed into the French Quarter, cracking open beers – which you can drink openly on the street. As much as I tried I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder, expecting a tap on the shoulder from a police officer, the goody two-shoes in me trying to relax. We strolled along dimly lit streets, looking up at wrought iron awnings with ivy spreading across buildings, dangling above 200-year-old porches. One house would have a hacienda feel, the next would have that Ole South look, and neither looked out of place. I could start to hear the beat of a brass band in the distance, mixed with laughter pouring outside of quaint little restaurants. We walked until we couldn’t walk any further and reached the Mississippi bank, a bridge on the horizon and lights from the riverboats dancing on the waves. We strolled toward the glowing Jax Beer sign, which I learned they no longer make, but keep the sign as a piece of its history. We walked back toward Jackson Square, and above us on a roof a swinging band played boisterous jazz. I couldn’t see them, but I could picture each musician swaying with the their horn protruding like a beak, and couples twirling each other around or clinking drinks garnished with fruit. Can’t you? The fountain we passed contained a statue of 5 iron men, each playing an instrument of their own. All I could think was, ‘Even their fountains are musicians.’ Jackson Square was full of more musicians, artists, and it sat beneath the glow of St. Louis Cathedral, a mammoth white building that could give Cinderella’s Castle a run for its money.
We then made our way along the street that is home to famous bars like Pat O’Brien’s and Preservation Hall. We turned onto another street with a saint or a French name…St. Ann or maybe Decateur. Just a block ahead was a marching band, creating a parade all their own. We decided it was a high school marching band, complete with color guard and cheerleaders. For a brief moment we joined the procession, and before we knew it we entered the Frenchman neighborhood. Ahead of this parade, was another one, with multiple brass bands made of giant tubas, trombones, tambourines, trumpets and clarinets galore. Spontaneously, a note sprung out, the instruments joined in, and the most fun version of “When The Saints Go Marching In” started playing. There wasn’t a single person who wasn’t bouncing along, including S and me. Once it ended we headed back to the rest of the French Quarter, and finally, Bourbon Street.
Oh Bourbon Street. It was a random Saturday night in October, and the street was packed shoulder to shoulder. People holding dripping plastic cups, covered in beads and feathers. The balconies were lined with patrons, holding bags of beads they showered on the passersby below – and at rapid speed. The street sparkled with plastic shades of purple, green and gold. Why anyone would go to Times Square when they could go to Bourbon Street instead is beyond me.
After getting a little overwhelmed we headed to Pat O’Brien’s for my first of quite a few Hurricanes – a drink made of rum and passion fruit. The courtyard contained a fountain that had fire at the top – it was quite an engineering feat. The deal was sealed sipping those Hurricanes and staring simultaneously at rushing water and flickering flames – I loved New Orleans.
The next day S took me on the St. Charles street car. It’s a long trip up this gorgeous street, that heads into the Uptown area. You pass gorgeous dollhouse after gorgeous dollhouse of many colors. Peach with green shutters. Yellow with black shutters. White with Grecian columns. They were just stunning. My favorite part? The Spanish Moss dangling from the trees. Between the humidity and that silver yarn hanging off the branches, I felt like a 7-year-old in Jacksonville all over again. After an hour or so, the trolley dropped us off just below the Financial District, so we checked out Bourbon Street in the daylight.
Less of a party, but still a party. The Saints game was on, and the atmosphere was pretty exciting. Even though they aren’t playing well, the city is so thrilled by this team. Shop windows are filled with gold, black and white and signs shouting “GEAUX SAINTS!” as you pass. We watched some of the game, then decided it was time for muffulettas. A giant, hot sandwich packed with ham, pastrami, salami, roast beef, swiss cheese and chopped olives. I was reluctant at first, but it was DELICIOUS.
To be continued...
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