Love and Voodoo In the Big Easy
New Orleans Day 1
September 9, 2014
My Haitian taxi driver and I bump along the Louisiana freeway, his radio turned up so loud it makes conversation impossible. The music is pleasant, sung in French, so I don't mind so much as we make our way to the hotel in The French Quarter. After a long day of bumping along the Midwest skies on my journey here, The chance to sit back and do nothing is refreshing. The humidity, which I had been warned about, is not unlike Hawaii, and therefore pretty doable.
As we cross the bridge into downtown, the Times Picayune building is on the right. I feel a pang because I can't call my dad and tell him, " I saw it! Just like Doonesbury." I wonder who he knew there, or if someone there still knows him.
There's not much time to dwell on the loss as we arrive shortly at our hotel. The street outside the Marriott is littered with adults holding beer bottles, plastic cups and the occasional fishbowl of alcohol. Casually, they lean against walls, lampposts or anything else that will hold them upright. Amongst the friendly chatter and the tinkle of beads, I pay my driver and unload my suitcase, too heavy with shoes (again), onto the street. As I head to the door, it bursts open and a man in a hat, starched shirt and cowboy boots wraps me up in his embrace.
This is my Denver, the reason I have com to the South in September. Like me, his work takes him traveling most days. Many of our dates are spent somewhere exotic, like Fresno, but this week he and his compatriots are hitting New Orleans for a conference. It seems fitting that since we met traveling, that we should continue to do so through our romance.
It is odd for me, to have someone to travel with. My last trip to Hungary counted as 40 countries visited since 2008, most visited alone. Although I have loved and learned so much by traveling by myself, it is a great joy to be able to do it with other people. As a bonus, he has friends! This will come into play later.
My new partner in crime is a walker, like me. Even in cowboy boots, he moves at a clip down the busy streets of New Orleans. In two short blocks we take a right, and we are on Bourbon Street. It's not far before we find a cozy looking Café advertising oysters and crawfish. Oh, and booze. Lots of booze.
Thank God, the bread here is almost like France. Even better when dipped in garlic juice from the oysters. We dine, catch up, and bask the glow of the Art Deco lights hanging from the ceiling as formally clad waiters quickly whisk plates on and off our table in a feast of seafood.
Romantic as the evening is, I can't resist the pull of the charming wrought iron balconies and the glow of the neon lights. I charm Denver Into a post meal walk, which I claimed would be just a block. He has a meeting at 6:30 AM, but agrees reluctantly, knowing that his pals are partying far the end of the street. This could be a really long night.
Bourbon Street is famous for many things: bead tossing partygoers reveling from second story balconies, music on every corner and a never ending flow of libations. What I had never imagined was the casual, relaxed atmosphere of people unwinding under the gentle air of the Gulf. There is a
peace to the little street, amid the chaos. Mounted police stand on bored but alert horses, conversing with walkers who pose for pictures. Street hawkers are friendly but not overbearing. The street is closed to cars, so the only danger is running into someone's glass and wearing their drink or yours.
I walk in awe at the mix of French and Victorian influence in the buildings. I am so busy looking up at the façades, I fail to dodge as silver beads rain down on the sidewalk around me. Startled, I grab Denver's arm. He laughs, and tells me people often flash for these beads. I crack, "Maybe for some pearls, but plastic?!"
As we near the end of the street, Denver gets a text. The crew, as I will call them, it straight up ahead in O.Sullivans.
The looks of them, they have been there a while, Hurricane glasses line the long table, along with huge pizza boxes, in a place that does not serve food. I love the group instantly, despite the fact that I am very shy. These are friendly Texans, by the way. Just as I sit down, I hear someone say strip bar. Oh, dear.
As a rule, I do not generally frequent strip bars. Partly because I am a girl. We'll, mostly because I'm a girl. They are something I just don't even notice, at all. I don't condemn the girls for what they're doing, nor do I support the degrading of women. That said, I figure if a guy's silly enough to throw money at them, the girls might as well make a buck.
On our way to find a strip bar, we stop at a place that sells buckets, literally buckets, of beer. It isn't far, before we find a place that reels our group in. We make a splash, with all our hats and loud group. Denver and his best friend, are the ring leaders. Although I was a little nervous, that it might be uncomfortable, the night is hilarious. For a stack of ones, the boys play jokes on each other. The girls end up wearing their hats, someone's glasses and we become a popular group. One of the wives is having a really fun time talking to the girls. I love this woman! She gives the girls some money, tells them they should go to college, and they all end up hugging. It is the sweetest thing I have ever seen.
Eventually we end up at the main stage lining the bar. The music goes on, and dancers come and off the stage. The real entertainment, is watching good friends taking care of each other. They respect each other's limits, and everybody's needs to have fun and let loose in their own way. One couple, conservative yet unwilling to leave the party, hangs back without reproach. The friendly wife does her thing getting to know the dancers and her husband laughs sweetly as he looks on in adoration.
Mind you, I don't want to over romanticize a night at a strip club. It was loud, and dirty, and there were half naked girls dancing for money. But to be included in a group, in the city so far from home, was pure heaven.
Denver and I look at each other, it's time to go. There is nothing here either one of us needs. Both a draft for so long and are traveling and busy Lives, this is a rare moment to just be with one person. We walk home, hand-in-hand, making plans for all the things we plan to do for the next four days.
Overhead, the neon blinks while the Gulf breeze carries away the evening's last hours.
