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Crescent City Blues
Sep. 1st, 2005 09:45 pmNew Orleans was one of those cities I had built up in my mind as a place I could fall in love with long before I ever got there. Watching The Big Easy endlessly, getting giggly every time Dennis Quaid called somebody cher, reading books set there, hearing the songs, playing Harry Connick, jr. and dixieland and zydeco. It's a place that's endlessly mythologizied, and I loved the stories that were told about the city and how it swayed gently to a beat all its own.
I got the chance to go two years ago - a quick trip in and out to attend a conference. Instead of staying at one of the big conference hotels, I stayed at a smaller, hostel-type establisment within walking distance of the convention center, but also near the Garden District. I was so excited, I had my guidebook, I was ready to go.
I remember the delicate blue-green mottling as we flew towards the city, like watery lace. I remember my first sight of one of the cemetaries, with the strange, above-ground marble edifices making it look like a small playland city.
Bourbon Street smelled of puke and stale beer at ten in the morning. We were warned about women walking by themselves - it wasn't safe in many areas of the city. Some tourists seemed to think that if they tried hard enough, they could recreate Mardi Gras at any time of the day or night, and of *course* women would lift their tops for them. There were more tacky tourist shops selling overpriced beads and racy t-shirts than I had ever seen in my life. The weather, mild as it was for that region, made me want to sit in the bathtub with a bucket of ice. In a certain way, it reminded me a little bit of Manila, although it may have mostly been the quality of the sticky heat and the general attitude of free-wheeling unconcern.
In search of an "authentic New Orleans experience," I walked around near my hotel and got a po' boy at a tiny little supermarket/deli that could be described in one word: grubby. It was possibly the best sandwich I have ever put in my mouth. My friend Kateh and I walked through the Garden District, picking out homes we wanted to own, dismissing others. We gawked at Anne Rice's house. We rode the streetcars with giddy delight. We wandered through a cemetary and read inscriptions. We recoiled at a mummified black cat in a voodoo museum, and I brought home a voodoo doll guaranteed to help out with money problems. We snuck away from conference events to eat begnets and returned with powdered sugar down our shirts. I did not fall hopelessly in love with the city, but I delighted in it. New Orleans showed me a good time.
I read today that there are dead bodies in front of the convention center. My mom called today to wonder if the Court of the Two Sisters would survive. She has fond memories of eating there. The scenes of devastation flashed on the television seem to have no real relation to the city I spent time in, the city I wanted to love, but instead simply became friends with. It's hard for me to think that I couldn't head down there now, and eat begnets and get powdered sugar on my face, basking in the too-hot heat of the city.
I got the chance to go two years ago - a quick trip in and out to attend a conference. Instead of staying at one of the big conference hotels, I stayed at a smaller, hostel-type establisment within walking distance of the convention center, but also near the Garden District. I was so excited, I had my guidebook, I was ready to go.
I remember the delicate blue-green mottling as we flew towards the city, like watery lace. I remember my first sight of one of the cemetaries, with the strange, above-ground marble edifices making it look like a small playland city.
Bourbon Street smelled of puke and stale beer at ten in the morning. We were warned about women walking by themselves - it wasn't safe in many areas of the city. Some tourists seemed to think that if they tried hard enough, they could recreate Mardi Gras at any time of the day or night, and of *course* women would lift their tops for them. There were more tacky tourist shops selling overpriced beads and racy t-shirts than I had ever seen in my life. The weather, mild as it was for that region, made me want to sit in the bathtub with a bucket of ice. In a certain way, it reminded me a little bit of Manila, although it may have mostly been the quality of the sticky heat and the general attitude of free-wheeling unconcern.
In search of an "authentic New Orleans experience," I walked around near my hotel and got a po' boy at a tiny little supermarket/deli that could be described in one word: grubby. It was possibly the best sandwich I have ever put in my mouth. My friend Kateh and I walked through the Garden District, picking out homes we wanted to own, dismissing others. We gawked at Anne Rice's house. We rode the streetcars with giddy delight. We wandered through a cemetary and read inscriptions. We recoiled at a mummified black cat in a voodoo museum, and I brought home a voodoo doll guaranteed to help out with money problems. We snuck away from conference events to eat begnets and returned with powdered sugar down our shirts. I did not fall hopelessly in love with the city, but I delighted in it. New Orleans showed me a good time.
I read today that there are dead bodies in front of the convention center. My mom called today to wonder if the Court of the Two Sisters would survive. She has fond memories of eating there. The scenes of devastation flashed on the television seem to have no real relation to the city I spent time in, the city I wanted to love, but instead simply became friends with. It's hard for me to think that I couldn't head down there now, and eat begnets and get powdered sugar on my face, basking in the too-hot heat of the city.