My first trip to New Orleans was not how I expected to visit the city, but I embraced the opportunity. I was there on a VIP invitation for a business conference for three days, so I decided to tack on an additional day to actually *see* things and learn more about this place. If I had come to New Orleans on my own agenda, the days would have been spent alternating between fishing for specks and largemouth with a cooler full of cold beer, and wandering the city with a bottomless cocktail in my hand, floating from bar to bar in search of yet another jazz trio.
No, this was best. I needed to behave myself.
Once I landed at the airport, I understood why most people I know road trip to New Orleans. The city is impossible to get to from here; we drove first to Charlotte then took a 2-hour flight. From there it was another half-hour taxi which deposited us in the French Quarter.
Us = myself and my husband. B decided to take a few days’ proper vacation which he hadn’t done in years (hashtag freelance life) and join me. After all, my trip was paid for in full, and we only needed some pocket money and an extra airplane ticket. The day we arrived in New Orleans was his birthday, so what better way to kick off the week and the trip.
Like Savannah, New Orleans has always seemed to me a sexy, haunted city. But I have very little to go on. My first husband was from New Orleans so I had a terrible impression of it from the start, and then after that only media images: Mardi Gras girls gone wild, Anne Rice movies, that Vampire Diaries spin-off show. What drew me to this city, why I always felt the need to explore it, were my greater attractions to the occult and Creole jazz.
Due to the bustling nature of my itinerary (dinners booked with executives and daytime panels and sessions and meetings) as well as the city’s beautiful walkability, we decided to stay within the French Quarter this trip and explore it as much as we could.
On Canal Street, the Courtyard Marriott where we stayed our first night literally shares an elevator with the Ritz-Carlton where we were booked for the remainder of our trip. If you don’t care for the $400/night price tag of the Ritz, the Courtyard is a convenient and affordable alternative, and just downstairs is the Ritz’s dark, sprawling bar and lush courtyard in which to unwind.
We checked in, dropped our bags, and set off exploring. It was late April and the weather was perfect: 60s and 70s all day and night for the entire week. There were growing dark clouds on the horizon but we paid them no mind.
Early afternoon. Monday. Large parts of the city close on Mondays and Tuesdays but Bourbon Street was a block away and that, I decided, would become my anchor for orienting myself to the city. (I always find a key street to start from.)
However, the first thing to hit you is the smell.
Bourbon Street smells terrible: a mixture of stale alcohol, garbage, sick, and whatever cleaner solution all the shops and bars seems to share. The good news is that it’s largely concentrated on that street, so if you step into another alley or cut over a couple blocks, the smell subsides.
Wandering up Bourbon, I was struck by how few people there were, most of us tourists, all of us in full knowledge that we were on this street much too early in the day, milling about, glancing left and right and taking in the many signs announcing drink specials, band posters, rules of engagement (there weren’t many). I was sad to be oh-so-narrowly missing JazzFest, but c’est la vie. While Asheville is bachelorette party Mecca, New Orleans is home to stag groups. Young men in pastel polos, khaki shorts and flip flops moved in guttural laughing throngs up and down the street, holding Willie’s daiquiris. Groups of houseless folks and wanderers sat in the middle of the sidewalks, asking for a dollar. A husband and wife fanned themselves just inside the open windows of the corner bar, listening to the live band. Above us, on the wrought iron balconies, little parties: music from a stereo, a girl laughing at something I’ll never know.
Later, a friend told me that the secret to Bourbon Street is to walk longer than you think you should. You’ll walk through a residential neighborhood then break through to the “better side” of Bourbon, where gay bars and good bands await.
We made a slow figure-8, leaving Bourbon Street to explore another block or two, then rounding back. We saw a parade. For more on the beauty of these parades, listen to Hannibal Buress’ take here. The clouds were dark overhead and the wind picked up. A storm was coming.
I looked to our right down Toulouse Street, and spotted the sign for The Will & The Way. We stepped inside the gray-blue French doors and it felt like a cool relief. We had some time to while away before our dinner reservation at Sylvain, so we ordered cocktails. I started with a Negroni, of course, and B ordered some kind of delicious and dangerous sweet cocktail with gin. We wanted to nosh, so a plate of fries and crispy Brussels sprouts were put on order. When I tell you these were the best Brussels sprouts I’ve ever had, it’s not overstatement. Complemented by manchego and crunchy marcona almonds and salsa macha, it was one of the most flavorful dishes. Outside, rain drops began to fall and the cool shadowed interior of the bar began to fill up with folks ducking in from the threat of rain. The place is small, so we ordered another round of cocktails at our corner, scooted closer together and sipped our drinks slowly to protect our seats, enjoying the showmanship of the bartender and the music playing overhead.
The rain clouds blew eastward, and it was time to wander down and around the block to dinner. Sylvain is in an old carriage house and trying to be hip to its detriment. The music is loud, someone forgot to turn the lights on in the main room, and the food, compared to the snacks at The Will & The Way, felt straightforward, expected. Nevertheless, we toasted to B’s birthday. He ordered the burger and fries (one can never have too many fries). I ordered the herb salad and grilled king trumpet mushroom. In the women’s room—a pleasant walk from the carriage house through a skinny open-air courtyard full of plants and bistro lights and into another building—figure sketches adorned the walls. I looked at them for a long time and missed the days when I used to draw.
The night was still young, so we meandered toward the river, where we walked through quiet residential streets fully of gingerbread candy houses, some shuttered and dark, some glowing from within. We got a little lost but not too lost. Eventually we found ourselves on Frenchmen Street, in front of The Spotted Cat. Inside, the band (Another Day in Paradise) was hitting the height of their set and wailing on the sax. We threaded through the tight crowd, where we grabbed a couple of cold beers and made our way back outside, leaning against a patio wall with full view of the band in the window, their music clear as the evening sky.
In that perfect moment, everyone was having a great time. Not one belligerent fool looking for a fight, not one person lost or lonely or sad. We had all found the music.
The next morning, I was scheduled to start my conference, so we headed out in search of breakfast. Breakfast appeared in the form of chicken and waffles inside the 24-hour Daisy Duke’s. Disregard the cheesy interior: they have good strong coffee, good breakfast, and good service.
We checked out of the Marriott, took the elevator down two floors, and checked into the Ritz-Carlton. The room was gilded and covered in fleur de lis. A posh stay with posh robes. Outside our window, across the street, the rainbow colors of the Walgreen’s glowed, the streetcars of Canal Street passed by, and throngs of people moved in search of different things.
Refreshed and ready, I began my business conference: a non-stop day within the Ritz-Carlton’s ballroom, business work sessions, meetings on the French Quarter Balcony, followed by a much-needed cocktail hour with Boulevardiers in the courtyard, surrounded by tropical plants and fountains. From there I was whisked away to Zasu, the restaurant owned by James Beard Award-winning chef Sue Zemanick. Located in a small, long cottage on Carrollton Avenue, it is an intimate space. The server poured endless glasses of cuvée as courses were served: tuna crudo garnished with the thinnest sliced serrano peppers and cilantro in a yuzu-soy ponzu, caramelized sun choke and chèvre agnolotti, corn bisque with gulf shrimp and a delicate placing of lemony sorrel, a crunchy green salad—haricots verts, snap peas, asparagus, zucchini atop whipped feta and garnished with pepitas, wild mushroom and potato pierogis, sautéed halibut in a miso broth. Dessert: slow spoonfuls of coconut buttercream cake with nut brittle.
Revived by the meal, I returned to the hotel in search of B, who messaged me that he was at the casino, a ten-minute stroll away. A nightcap and some gambling sounded good, so I made my way through the evening crowd, crossing Canal briskly between streetcars, up the steps and through the grand doors of my lifelong vice.
I had the foresight to bring only a $20 bill, which I lost promptly at a slot machine that had Dolly Parton’s face on it. I stood next to B as he played Black Jack which was not a good idea as I have terrible luck. Not surprisingly, he lost that hand. After a while and a good drink, we decided to call it a night.
The second day of the conference gave me a nice, long break in the middle of the day for all the attendees to do a little sightseeing. I knew exactly where I wanted to go: the Jazz Museum. Whenever I travel, I pick two or three experiences I want to try for, and let the rest fall into place. This keeps me from overbooking myself. And I never go on group tours. Awful.
B and I made our way toward the French Market, where we stopped for lunch first at Dian Xin, a little hole in the wall with a fish pond just inside the doors and seating for twenty, known for their bao and dumplings. There is nothing fancy about this place and everything is tremendously good. They brought out spicy wontons (on the sage advice of my server, I ordered extra cilantro), sesame chicken, rice, and bao. The dumplings were savory and just juicy enough to make eating a childlike delight.
After such a satisfying lunch, we blissfully made our way to the Jazz Museum, which also once housed the New Orleans mint. It was quiet inside, with room to move around at our own pace and explore the two floors of exhibits. There was a Louis Prima feature, a den filled with Erika Goldring’s photographs of Big Chief Monk Boudreaux and his clan, wall to wall paintings by James Michalopoulos, a gallery of full-page pieces by famous comic artists based on jazz writing. Busted drums of bands, their music now etched only in memory and on a few records somewhere, were scattered throughout a tribute to the great drummers of the city.
Diving into the history of the New Orleans, I began to feel the weight of it all, the reasons they made music, returned to music, lived for music. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why I felt sad.
The museum was closing, so we left and made our way north and found ourselves once again on Frenchmen Street, where a sunny yellow bookstore on the corner invited us in. B bought a copy of A Confederacy of Dunces, the same printing I once owned. Wandering through the streets, the buildings were brightly colored and everything felt lighter, happier. We stopped inside an open-windowed bar, its tin ceiling bronzed and warm, and sipped whiskey gingers while a jazz group played “Girl from Ipanema.”
Eventually we turned back south, as I needed to make my way toward the hotel where the conference would soon resume. On the way, I stopped into a witches’ shop, where I bought some ground witch hazel and a smoky quartz and looked at their books for a while, since they had a selection on voodoo and specific branches of witchcraft deeply rooted in New Orleans.
I also met with a psychic. Her name was Elie. We chatted for a while. On a little table next to a lace-covered window, she read my cards. “Your life is quite good,” she said, studying the cards. “That’s not something I see often. You’re burning the candle at both ends in May and June, but in July everything lightens. Love and peace for the rest of the year. You have a lot of love in your life.”
I hoped this was true, I felt it could be.
As we continued to talk, I asked her how long she had lived here, whether she liked living here. She did, but for reasons it was hard to explain. “We—all of us here—live in this place that could fall apart, disappear at any moment,” she said. We talked about the moments after the levees failed. “We all stay for different reasons. There is so much death and pain and memory in this city.”
We said goodbye and she urged me to visit her again some day.
Later that evening, after another round of sessions, meetings and cocktails in the courtyard, it was time for dinner. Broussard’s is celebrating its 100th year, which still blows my mind. America is such a young country, and here I was in one of the oldest standing institutions to enjoy a coursed meal, courtesy of my hosts. The kitchen brought me grits with wild mushrooms and grilled asparagus and tomato, followed by chicken and andouille gumbo, then a pan-roasted chicken with creole corn maque choux and spiced tomato jam. I drank whatever red they poured into my glass, losing myself to the wine and the conversations and the food. Following dinner, I sipped coffee and enjoyed bananas foster, a basic treat I would not find back home.
The night was young. I was invited to a party on a balcony overlooking Bourbon Street. B joined me and told me of his own evening’s adventures, strolling along the Mississippi River at sunset, snacking on beignets at Cafe du Monde while a piano player entertained the light crowd, dinner at Coop’s, trying one of Willie’s infamous daiquiris. We tossed beads to folks below who danced and laughed when rewarded. I took away a handful of beads to remember.
After a long night, the next morning called for a hot shower and Ritz room service: eggs, crispy potatoes, strong coffee, orange juice. Feeling more myself again, I met my colleagues for the last day of our business conference. It had a bit of a summer-camp-ending feel to the day, and my newfound friends and I exchanged numbers and emails, promises to visit each other in New York, LA, Atlanta. I hope this would come true.
The taxi to the airport felt longer than the first one, perhaps because the city was trying to pull people back into its arms, perhaps because I wasn’t finished with it and didn’t know when I would return.
I left with the few talismans I could carry.
What I’m spinning: I’ll Never Forget What’s Her Name by Russ Garcia with Maynard Ferguson
What I’m reading: Here, a graphic novel by Richard McGuire