My New Orleans Memories

I've only been to New Orleans twice. What follows are my memories of these two trips.

The Senior Year Spur Of The Moment Trip

Senior year in high school my girlfriend won a trip to The Big Easy for being smart or something (I can't remember now what it was). I convinced my best friend that we needed to drive down there. NO is about a 10 hour drive from Dallas, and we didn't leave until Friday night, with no plan at all... no hotel, no nothing. The entire road trip, thus, was in the dark... kind of creepy while driving through the bayous on winding roads complete with fog, where you couldn't see 10 feet in front of the car. I remember Tom bitching and moaning when it was his turn to drive that he didn't like driving at night on "unfamiliar roads."

We finally arrived and drove straight to the hotel that Jill was staying at. We parked in the parking garage and made our way up to the lobby of this pretty swanky downtown hotel. I asked Tom to wait for me in the lobby while I went up to Jill's room to see her. It seems I lost track of time [note: not due to anything nefarious; after all, she did have a roommate], because about an hour later I went back down to the lobby and couldn't find Tom. I finally went into the parking garage and there he was in the car... not a happy camper. I believe this was the first time he called me an asshole.

I can't remember if we then found a pretty good hotel room at The Best Western and then went down to the French Quarter, or if we went to Bourbon Street first. Either way, we had a great time from that moment on. The music was unbelievable. I remember going into the Famous Door club where we watched two complete sets from two different bands that changed midsong without stopping: First the sax guy left, and then the sax from the next band went on stage. Next, the trumpet. Then keyboard. Etc, with the drummers switching last. I'd never seen anything like that, and for Tom and I, who spent much of our high school days waiting at Reunion Arena what seemed like hours between the opening act and the headliner at various concerts, it was heaven. Non stop music. Jazz music, to boot.

The College Trip With Stèphane

Around 1986 or so my friend Stèphane from Paris was visiting, and we thought a trip to New Orleans would be fun. This trip was a bit more planned than the trip I took with Tom, i.e. we made hotel reservations first, etc. I also did all the driving. Stèphane is nice and all, but not the best driver, at least then. Now, Stèphane was a bit of a drinker then. He tells me that he's quit now, which is good, but then... lookout. We went to the French Quarter where he got blitzed, and we went to a few clubs to listen to some Jazz after having some soft shell crab at some dive. The music wasn't as good as the trip above, but still not-so-good live New Orleans Jazz is pretty damned good. Stèphane, as was his wont, was hitting on everyone everywhere. He befriended this girl who was friends with the trombone player for the last band we saw, and thus we got invited to eat breakfast with everyone at another dive around 4am or so. This we did.

This girl was with her single mom. The girl was about 16, the mom in her mid-30s. They claimed they were in town for some mother-daughter beauty pageant, but I always assume everyone is lying in dimly lit alcohol-soaked clubs at 2 in the morning. Anyway, Stèphane and the girl were getting along, and the mom was cozying up to me. Suddenly Stèphane announces that he isn't feeling too well and that he's going to go outside, turn left, and lay down at the first street he comes to. Me, I'm too involved with my conversation with the mom to do or say anything more than, "yeah, sure, whatever" and wave him off. So Stèphane staggered out the restaurant. The daughter was not pleased with me, accusing me of being more interested in her mother than the well-being of my friend. This of course wasn't true (at least, it wasn't totally true), but I do admit to perhaps waiting a bit too long before I ran after Stèphane, but come on. You have to know this guy...

Anyway, I finally leave and start looking for Stèphane. I go out, turn left, and go to the first street I come to. Sure enough, there in the early morning dawn, the sun barely starting to come up, is Stèphane... lying on the side of the street, using the curb as his pillow. I look up and see it's not just any street, it's Bourbon Street. Stèphane has passed out drunk on Bourbon Street. Does it get any better than that? For added measure, he said that while he was lying there at least two people tried to relieve him of his wallet. Gotta love the city.

In the hours and years that have passed since this event I often wonder what would have happened if I couldn't find him that morning. I mean, hell: he was drunk, after all. He could have turned right instead of left, or he could have gone up two streets instead of one. He could have been arrested. And all the while I was busy writing down the phone and address of some woman that I knew I had no intention of ever talking to again. That would have been some trick, trying to get some foreign national out of a drunk tank in downtown New Orleans. But he found his way to Bourbon Street.

New Orleans has given many of us much over the years, and now it's our turn to return the favor.