I am ridiculously happy, and that does not happen often. After six years, I am back in New Orleans . I deem today the “Greatest Day of All Time” and chant it happily to myself all the eight-hour drive from Atlanta , and all the incremental increases in humidity we notice at every rest stop. I am delirious by the time we arrive, and can nearly float on the air, in all senses of the expression.
When I got here, it was all the way I remembered it, and my memory was much better than I would have thought. I remembered the names and locations of specific stores and bars and clubs, like Mary Leavou’s House of Voodoo, Jackson Square, Rick’s Cabaret, and the bar that holds such a special place in my heart, Lafitte’s. And the same piano man is playing standards there for a candlelit crowd surrounded by aging brick and beams. The fortune tellers still sit at their small round tables, little islands of light amidst the brick and cobblestone, in front of the cathedral in Jackson Square . The fraternity boys and old men and women still stand on wrought iron balconies of the Bourbon Street buildings and goad passersby to show off their assets and earn a strand of shiny, cheap plastic beads whether it’s Mardi Gras or not. And the music changes with every block, and every bar has a live band, and every window and door is thrust open so the entire city is one big open-air parade. And this . this is your average Tuesday night.
I love this city. And I love it even more for not changing on me. It is a place that thrives on antiquity (even as it has somehow married the neon signs with the aging ironwork and brick) – it’s not like they are going to bulldoze a building in the French Quarter and plunk down a modern edifice. So walking around the city tonight, dragging rob by the wrist only moments after our arrival, was like picking up exactly where I left off. Like going to my high school reunion, only the building was pristine, no one had aged a day, and all the best parts were still perfectly preserved.
A new facet of this visit is the hostel where we’re staying, a suggestion from our friend, Ray. I knew it was love when I walked into the place to check in, and a tiny, fuzzy black kitten walked over to check me out. They only got the house pet, “Nefriteria,” two or three days ago, but the India House ( www.indiahouse.com ) itself has been around for a long time. It’s a sprawling set of buildings with an eclectic clientele. Sitting on the couch, I met a guy from London , another from Swaziland and a girl originally from Providence working here before pursuing her studies locally. Accents and dreadlocks fly around everywhere. The walls are plastered with photos of travelers, while the current residents are gathered in large groups out on the front porch and in the courtyard, where they even have a turtle pond for me.
I don’t want to go to sleep.
They’ve even agreed to put up one of our posters and were Incredibly enthusiastic about our first show of tomorrow night, which is apparently right around the corner from here. The employees are talking about getting a group together to come over, so it should be fun.
