I'm glad I was able to visit New Orleans before Katrina. I was able to manage two trips (the first in 1992 and the second in 1993) and they were incredible. Having only a notion of what it might be like from watching movies, I just had to go. It's true what people say who have been there, you have to experience it for yourself. There is no describing "N'awlins".
My first trip into New Orleans in March 1992 was an exciting adventure. I spent the night at a truck stop about 25 miles out, the closest one I could get parking for a 65 foot rig. I quickly learned that things that would have bothered me back home were treated with a blase' style in "Loosiana". After speeding through the grungy shower, I settled down in the dining area for a southern specialty; blackened catfish. While eating, I noticed I wasn't alone. Right up by the phone mounted on the wall next to the table, sat a small brown cockroach. I swear, it was eyeballin' my plate in wait for a chance that I would leave something behind. I swatted at it only for it to run behind the phone and come back out again. I noticed that it wasn't the only one awaiting the chance for a free meal. The waitress came by and informed me that my table visitor was quicker than I. I spent the night in the sleeper wondering if my dinner companion might follow me into the cab. The thought left me as I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, I was able to make my delivery and secure a motel room that offered truck parking. I called a taxi and shortly after getting my things put away in my room, it arrived. The cab pulled out, whisking me off to my new adventure. The taxi motored into what I learned was "the Bowl", the driver explaining how it came to be that New Orleans had sunk while the levees rose above it. The driver pointed out various places of interest while accelerating much beyond the speed limit. When I asked about his lack of concern regarding the speed limit, he just smiled and said, "This is N'awlins ma'am. We don't sweat the small stuff here".
I'll never forget the first time I stepped out of the taxi and onto the cobbled streets of the French Quarter. The Quarter and Bourbon Street were as much a fantasy as a mystery who opened it's antiqued doors for me to wander about. I couldn't stay long but the time I did get to spend there was a wonderful experience.
There is a house down in New Orleans
They call the Risin' Sun
And it's been the ruin, of many a poor girl
And me, oh god, I'm a one
Bob Dylan ~ The House of the Risin' Sun
I was completely captivated by the architecture of the "Quarter". The antiquity of the buildings and wrought iron appealed to me and my love for anything not resembling "modern". The freindliness exhibited on the streets was a welcome respite from the harshness of the truck stop culture I was familiar with.
The food was simply amazing! I could smell it everywhere I walked. I finally stopped in at Michaul's, a yellow building with a wrought iron balcony overlooking St. Charles Avenue. (The restaurant must have been affected by the damage since it won't be open until January.) Stepping out onto the balcony the host warned that it leans a bit towards the street but not to worry, its survived hundreds of years and always passes inspection. The balcony was very small, having only room enough for two tables, one on each side of the doorway. It did indeed lean towards the street and I was a bit nervous having a fear of heights. The fear quickly dissipated as I became interested in the movement of life on the Avenue. Even post-Mardi Gras, a few street musicians walked the streets, their soulful blues permeating the banter.
Skipping the traditional "beignets",(benyays) my meal of Jambalaya arrived, the smell distracting me from the music down on the Ave. I appreciated the presentation only momentarily. My first bite was met with the taste of seafood and sausage, well complimented by just the right amount of spiced rice. What a nice change from greasy truck stop food! I had to have what was left boxed up, there was no way I was going to leave such an excellent meal behind.
Stepping back out onto the Avenue, the stroll was fascinating. Numerous merchants line the streets selling everything one could imagine related to Mardi Gras and the hedonism that represents the Quarter. The drinking and eating establishments were plentiful, including a few strip clubs, an orgy bar and gay clubs. What caught my fascination most of all were the blues and jazz clubs. I was able to stop into a few albeit briefly, my time running short. I made a note that if I was to visit again, these clubs were where I would spend more time.
February 1993 ~ I became very excited when I left San Diego and heading for Miami as I knew there was one stop I just had to make along the way...the Big Easy during Mardi Gras! My stops were brief as I wanted to spend as much time there as I could muster up. The travel on the way was easy as the winter weather stayed to the north of I10. It couldn't have been a better journey as I outran the rain that had plagued my trip through Texas.
Good morning America how are you?
Don't you know me? I'm your native son
I'm the train they call, "The City of New Orleans"
I'll be gone 500 miles when the day is done
Originally written by Steve Goodman, first performed by Arlo Guthrie
As before, I couldn't get a room anywhere that allowed truck parking, especially since it was Mardi Gras. I again parked at the small roach infested truck stop as before but rather than eating or resting, I immediately called a cab and headed for "the Bowl". The traffic reminded me of Los Angeles rush hour, taking almost two hours to travel 25 miles. Letting me out somewhere near St. Charles Avenue, I headed straight for Michaul's. I didn't want to lose time looking for food when I wanted to spend more time in the blues and jazz clubs like I had promised myself before.
After another excellent meal of Jambalaya on the balcony, I stepped out onto the crowded street. If you are not accustomed to being squished against strangers, you might want to avoid Mardi Gras. The only street space available occurs when one is "showing for beads", a Mardi Gras tradition. Simply put, you show the requested body part or parts, sans clothing and an appreciative onlooker throws you a string of colorful plastic beads. I can happily say that men enjoy "showing" too. Luckily I got by in catching the beads missed by others and tossed them to men giving me a show. I didn't want to scare onlookers with my big melons.
Another fun tradition is the floats rolling down the streets. The floats are so large they nearly cover the entire street from side to side. It's almost a contact sport dodging in between them. Riding the floats are people dressed in Mardi Gras finery and tossing many a gift to the crowd, including the aforementioned beads (which you don't have to show anything for if they come from the floats). I got smacked upside the head with a small frisbee when I wasn't paying attention.
Unfortunately, I didn't get to spend as much time in the clubs as I would have liked. There were so many people! They were packed tighter in the clubs than out of them. I stood outside a couple of clubs, listening to them Ole Delta Blues wafting out onto the sidewalk. After a few hours of competing for sidewalk space, I walked towards the intersection where I would meet the cab. I passed by the orgy club, the jazz clubs, the strip clubs, the tarot readers and the retail shops. I was accosted by christians that had a coffin on the cobblestone street. They proclaimed that I would burn in hell for my hedonistic ways. I found the cab and he took me away from the Crescent City and off into the night.
Having visited New Orleans before the hurricanes, I felt sad and humbled by the pictures of the devastation there after them. Many a familiar street I had travelled upon was covered in black floodwater. Though the French Quarter was spared from the rising waters, many of it's historic buildings were damaged by wind and rain. What roofs were damaged by Katrina, Rita tore gaping holes in them. Debris and refrigerators with food rotting inside lined the sidewalks I had once lazily strolled upon, representatives of the length of time until power to the area was restored. Some were marked with political statements, the feelings of their former owners as street billboards and explaining the foul odors wafting from them..."Bush inside", "Nagin Inside" as well as others.
The party town is gone, replaced by a construction zone that all but shuts down shortly after dark. The daylight is a facade of what used to be the nocturnal habits of the night. Though the day shows a town abustle, government and construction workers have replaced the tourists and most of the residents. Most of the habitable motels have been taken up by contractors and utility workers. For some long time residents, the Quarter had been over run by tourists. Although they understood the need for rebuilding, they were enjoying the break from them.
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