First Time in NOLA

A friend suggested that I write about New Orleans.  No one that knows me would be shocked at this suggestion.  I love New Orleans, and I go there as often as I can.  Having been there many times over the course of the last twelve years or so, though, it’s a little tough to figure out where to begin.  I could talk about Mardi Gras, Bourbon St, Uptown.  Gumbo, beignets, hurricanes.  Music, 24-hour bars, and random weird shit that happens at 3am in those bars.  Or I could tell you about the friends I’ve made there.  I think maybe I’ll try to get to all of the above, a little at a time.  And maybe I’ll just begin at the beginning and see if I can sort out something that makes sense to anybody but me.

The first time I went to New Orleans, I was 22 years old, and it was 1991.  I was still in college, and I was pregnant, and I was on my way home from an internship that hadn’t quite worked out for me in Kinston, North Carolina.  It hadn’t worked out mainly because I was pregnant and a little crazy at that point.  Selling books door to door 80 hours a week is not a great idea when you’re pregnant and crazy.  Not to say that pregnant women can’t handle these things, mind you, it was mainly the crazy that was getting in my way.  I left Kinston driving my old ’81 Chevy Citation, which my grandparents had given to me.  I don’t recall the exact route I took, but I believe I drove more or less south along some big highway (I-95?) til I hit Florida.  In Florida, I picked up I-10 and headed west. 

I think my original intent was to drive more or less straight through from North Carolina to Arizona and sleep in the car when I needed to.  I had almost zero money and a friend’s borrowed gas card and visa card to get me home.  As I recall, the gas card was a Texaco card.  Those nice folks at Texaco will let you buy stuff from their convenience stores with a Texaco card, by the by.  So I was making my way down the highway, fueled by Smart Corn, Texaco coffee, and Wendy’s baked potatoes, listening to a stereo with one speaker.  I think I picked up a shot glass in every state I went through.  Anyway, at some point late in the afternoon, I was on I-10 pretty close to New Orleans.

If you approach New Orleans from the east on I-10, you’ll cross a bit of Lake Pontchartrain.  For the uninitiated – Lake Pontchartrain is huge.  I had never seen it before, didn’t even know it was there.  So there I was, over the lake on I-10.  The water must have been really high, or something, because I remember that the highway was partly flooded.  People were driving pretty much where ever they felt like driving, lane markings or no.  I thought something along the lines of, hmm, they must do things differently here in Louisiana.

Now, this was my first time to New Orleans, but I’d always wanted to go.  I had pictures of pretty buildings and the sound of Dixieland jazz in my head, and I knew I wanted to try some red beans and rice.  But that was about it.  I hadn’t planned on being there at that point, and I had no idea at all where anything was, but I’d thought that the French Quarter might be cool.  I told myself I’d allow myself three hours to walk around and see things, and then I’d hit the road again.  I stayed on I-10 til I saw a sign that said “French Quarter,” and then I got off the highway. 

I managed to find free parking on the street down near the French Market.  I got out of the car and headed out to wander.   It was nighttime by then.  I don’t know what streets I was on.  It was quiet, and it was dark.  I’m not sure I really knew what to expect, but the beauty of the buildings just took my breath away.  I saw residents standing on their balconies.  Got glimpses into second-storey windows with light, sheer curtains blowing in the breeze.  I just walked and walked and looked at things.  It was so quiet that I remember thinking I’d found this great, beautiful, secret place.

At some point I ran across a small restaurant.  I wish I could tell you which one it was or even where it was, but I just cannot remember.  I have a vague idea that it may have been somewhere on Decatur.  The place had about two rows of tables, one on each side of the room.  The walls were red brick, and there was a brick archway in the back.  It seems to me that it had a pirate theme, but it may be just that I was thinking of pirates.  I got a table and ordered red beans and rice.  They were about $6.  The food turned out to be a huge disappointment to me, though.  I’d probably love the very same red beans and rice today, but at that point, I didn’t eat spicy food at all.  Yes, I grew up in Arizona.  I just didn’t really care for it.  And throughout my first pregnancy, even the slightest bit of pepper (think fettuccini alfredo) gave me terrible heartburn.  So I tasted them, had a few bites, and thought, “these would be good if they hadn’t made them so HOT.”  Ha.  I put cayenne in almost everything now.  I suppose “hot” is an acquired taste for some people.

So after my quick dinner, I resumed my walk through the Quarter.  And at length, I found myself on Bourbon St.  I remember seeing a street sign and thinking, Ooh, this street is famous.  I managed after a bit to get to a busier area of Bourbon.  There were music clubs, strip clubs, people walking down the middle of the street with drinks in their hands.  Wait, what?  Drinks in their hands?  Down the middle of the street?  It was like a huge party, and it was a damn shame I couldn’t drink.

I couldn’t believe all the music.  I remember hearing lots of R&B type stuff – real R&B, from the 70s or so.  It was like a giant musical smorgasbord walking up the street.  The music just drifted out from bar after bar.  I had it in my head somehow that I might see Aaron Neville in one of those bars, an idea that is quite amusing now.  Aaron Neville singing on Bourbon St, ridiculous! 

I was shocked by the number of strip clubs.  Some of them had signs out front advertising no cover for unescorted ladies.  Oh my!  I was ambling along slowly down the middle of the street, trying to take it all in, when I was approached by two inebriated young men with drinks in their hands.  Not bad looking, as I recall.  One of them inquired as to whether I’d ever “had two guys at once.”  I said “no thanks” and kept moving.  Slightly offensive, but oddly flattering, and certainly amusing.  All in all, it seemed that Bourbon St was a place where anything could happen.

When it came close to the 3 hours I’d allotted myself being up, I headed back to the car and got back on I-10.  A couple of exits later, I got back off the highway to get some gas.  I filled up and started to pull out of the Shell station, and suddenly there were copious amounts of smoke coming out from under my hood.  Oh, no.  This can’t be good.  The guy at the gas station did something or other to patch me up (water in the radiator after waiting for a bit?), and I got a hotel for the night.  I wound up at a La Quinta in Metairie.  It was awfully frustrating to be so close to the Quarter and not be able to get there, but being poor, I really had no choice but to stay put.

In the morning, I took the car to a garage and had the guys look at it.  Turns out that whatever was wrong with the thing was going to cost $700 to fix, but they could finish it that day.  I got on the pay phone.  I had a friend in Alabama who was willing to wire the $700 to the garage so I could be on my way.  I spent the day sitting at the gas station, waiting for the car, and finally was on my way.  Twenty-seven hours later, after a three-hour nap by the side of the road, I was home.

It was far from what I would have hoped my first trip to New Orleans to be.  I didn’t get much time to see the sights.  Not enough to enjoy them properly.  Little did I know that there’s never enough time to see the sights in New Orleans.  Twenty-one years later, after more trips there than I can count, I think they only way to maybe get enough would be to once and for all just move there.  Stay tuned.  I'll try to explain why.