New Orleans, Part 2

I landed in sweltering heat, collected my bags and took a cab into the city, the usual array of twists and turns that curl around circle routes, ring roads, culminating in a final plunge into the core proper. The big sky narrowed as the three and four-story buildings closed in and we lurched through cross-street after cross-street. I finally saw that fabled street sign, Bourbon Street, catching a glimpse of those getting a head start on their twelve-step program, clutching neon lime green flat-bottomed flasks to their chests or the more mundane plastic cup sloshing beer.

We burst back out into the light as we crossed Canal Street, only to slip back into the twilight of narrow streets again, the buildings noticeably taller on this side of Canal. I checked in, found my room, unpacked and rushed back out to explore, easing my way up Canal, inching past shops selling identical wares until I saw St. Charles Street.

I knew what I was looking for, Mayer the Hatter. I even knew where it was. I’d found it online, and wrote down its address and stuck it in my wallet, refreshing my memory online before leaving the Wyndham. Office buildings towered around it. A street car rattled past as I checked out the wares in the window, finally walking into the glorious air-conditioned space within. I could have lingered all night in its heavenly chill. But I had things to see. I worried over my decision, trying on this and that, brushing off the occasional suggested paper hat, focusing on straw, unsure whether broad or stingy brim suited my mood and look. I picked a classic stingy brim fedora and made my way to Bourbon Street.
Bourbon was easy to find. A collection of high school aged kids blared traditional New Orleans jazz at its entrance, under the red glow of a Walgreens neon, their drums a collection of flipped plastic pails, their brass tarnished and scratched and dinted. I slipped a couple bucks into their case and began to rubberneck the length of the street.

The sun was low, Bourbon already growing dim. True to its reputation, it did not take long to slip into the expected debauchery. Mere feet within was the first strip club, an ATM conveniently across from it.
I discovered that I was hungry. And not for strippers. I passed a Hard Rock Café, not interested in corporate fare, the usual homogenized crap, the usual pound of fries accompanying the usual deep-fried whatever. I kept on until I saw what I wanted on Bienville, Desire Oyster Bar, a little restaurant tucked in under the Royal Soneto Hotel, its doors thrown open to the night. I ducked inside, saw that it was full and loud and filled with the clatter of glassware and cutlery. I saw an empty table near the entrance, caught the eye of one of the waitresses and gestured to the table. Big woman, black, all smiles. She nodded. She came over, menu in hand and said, “Sit yourself down, dear. Take a look at that and I’ll be right back to take your order. You want something to drink?” Can you hear the southern drawl? Slow measured speech, unhurried, befitting the heat and the humidity that felt like I was swimming though the air. Fans rustled the air overhead. The din echoed off the tin plate and tile.

I asked what was on tap and ordered jambalaya. What else would I order? First meal in Nawlins, after all. The beer came, delightfully cold, hoppy enough to offset the bite and the heat of the jambalaya.
My belly full, I made my way down Bourbon, taking in the names of the streets and bars along the way, the Old Absinthe House, Rick’s Cabaret, Jester, Famous Door, Daiquiris, Conti Street, St. Louis, Toulouse, St. Peter, St. Anne. Court of the Two Sisters, Pat O’Brien’s, Maison Bourbon. Wrought iron railings followed my every step, twenty- and thirty- and forty-somethings leaning far out over the street, beers and daiquiris in hand. Herds of youths crossed around me, most carrying those neon green flasks in hand.

Human statues held fast here and there, portraying windswept statuary, all silver or gold. A cop astride a horse clopped past, traces of it left behind here and there. Hawkers declared imminent damnation, laughed at by the gathered, some saluting them with their fishbowl cocktails, others screaming vitriol back. A concerned citizen rushed me upon seeing my wedding band, asking me, “Does your wife know you’re here?”

“Of course,” I said. “Do you want her number to ask her yourself?”

I wanted away from the fray. I heard a trumpet and clarinet in Maison Bourbon as I approached St. Peter, where everywhere else was a cacophony of electric guitars and basses playing classic rock covers at near deafening levels. Once or twice I passed two bars facing one another, their doors and windows wide open, their bands dueling for patrons. All the bars had their doors and windows wide open. I felt compressed as I passed. But not targeted; that only happened each and every time I passed a cabaret, where girls in halter tops and hot pants and stilettos rushed forward to take me by the arm to draw me in. “How you, sugar?”

I walked into Maison Bourbon, the hint of air-conditioning rolling out of its open French-doors, and sat at the bar. All the tables were full, the patrons pressed together within the small space, back to back and shoulder to shoulder. It was a wonder that the waitress could navigate the space, her tray narrowly sweeping across heads as she reached and stretched and placed the most current tally of the table’s tabs.
I noted the location of the fables Preservation Hall down the street but dismissed it for the evening when I saw how many people had lined up outside it, so I tried a few bars on for size, The Krazy Corner, Ticklers (a thin piano bar, just sayin’), Pat O’Brien’s (three or four bars in one).

The day began to press down on me. Long hours of airports and flights and cabs had caught up to me. My head was swimming and I was in need of a bed. I decided to call it a night, what with my already having booked a bayou tour for the next day.

I’d promised myself that I would not spend the holiday belly to a bar.

Bourbon Street threatened such a vacation.