I engaged my plane neighbour in conversation. Alice was living in New Orleans but was moving back to Chicago after 30 years because she hated the drugs and crime.  Well, no wonder! She lived on Apple Street across from a crack house (we shared a cab from the airport).

Coming back to New Orleans was like coming home, and very little has changed.  In fact, if anything the city is gentrifying. Kind of nice to see!  The taxi dropped me off at Matt and Patsy’s cute shotgun way down Calhoun above Tchoupitoulas, and I was greeted by Jack, the ultimate anti-guard beagle. He came up, sniffed, and otherwise showed very little interest in the stranger in his midst. Once I settled in I decided to spend the afternoon walking around Tulane University campus and, seeing as I was going for a walk, took lazy Jack with me.

Ambling under the giant oaks in Audubon park, I chuckled at the ghosts of my former rollerblading self, recalling how I would wobble and rumble along the uneven path, defiantly forcing grad student exercise. I winked at the turtles sunning themselves in the pond and tried to dissuade Jack from marking every single item which crossed his path. There isn’t an animal on earth that has as much urine as Jack thinks he has.

Crossing St. Charles to campus, it felt like I had never been away. The staff remembered me instantly. Sue joyfully caught me up on all the gossip.

“Darryl got married.  Huck is getting married this weekend. Laura is married or will be soon. Helena got married.  Steve and Cameron ended up together. Peter is engaged. Drew is engaged…”

And Amy is lining up blind dates in the Internet. I felt like a romantic retard.

That evening Patsy and I jumped the Magazine bus to Bacco for our pre-theatre meal. After a meal of corn and crawfish bisque, oysters, seafood ravioli and apple cake, we took the “Baccomobile” to the Saenger Theatre to see Rent. I have never been more depressed. When the main character read his girlfriend’s letter that said “we’ve got AIDS”, I was overwhelmed with sadness and couldn’t focus on the rest of the play. If there was any optimism I missed it.

We headed to the Quarter, grabbed the requisite Muffaletta from Progress Grocery and grabbed a couple of drinks at, where else, but Patty O’s, where Matt ran into his former casino friend Toby, Queen of the Quarter. Ah, good ole’ Pat O’Brien’s.  Hazy memories of Mardi Gras debauchery tugged at the corners of my mouth.

With Patsy at an awards dinner that night, Matt and I continued our bon temps at Jacquimo’s on Oak by the Maple Leaf Tavern. Mmm, jambalaya-stuffed quails with corn macquechou and brussels sprouts (never willingly ordered those before.) Matt knew Jacques, so after our meal we shared a shot of some wicked Czech liquid with him and our waitress Eve.  Next stop, Henry Butter at the Bons Temps. Of course Matt knew the bartender, and I chatted with him while Matt got progressively more soused. Yes, I admit it – my chauffeur was shitfaced and I knew it. Earlier in the day I had forgotten how hard Matt drinks. Nice reminder.

Our next stop (and, as it were, final, thank goodness) was the legendary F&M patio bar where we hung out with Matt’s friend (!) Sean the bartender, a “nice Jewish boy” who allegedly didn’t have much luck with the ladies.  Unfortunately, Sean was in a grumpy mood because he was out of pocket from someone swiping $40 off the bar, but he was a good sport about keeping my glass constantly filled… with water.  I had been slowing down since the third hurricane earlier that evening, and by 3 am I was quite content with New Orleans’ Best Tap. Matt, however, knew no limits until finally he exclaimed, on probably his 30th drink of the day,

“I’m finally drunk.”

Hoo boy.

When he was telling me an interactive story about a guy grabbing him around the neck, I wasn’t too pleased about the headlock in which I found myself.  Then he insisted I get up on the now-covered pool table and dance.  I tried desperately to dissuade him but – shwooop – I was hoisted onto the “stage”.  Fortunately, Matt didn’t try any wild moves for which I was grateful seeing as I was wearing a short miniskirt with verrrry small underwear.

While I was on the pool table trying not to flash my booty I noticed a rather attractive guy standing close by. When I saw him looking at me (I think… I hope?) with a slightly-cocked head and dreamy bedroom eyes, I was rather flattered if not somewhat aroused. But alas, I was too shy and did not speak to him, even when he ended up standing next to me at the bar (by design?). Regrettably, he ended up in the arms (well, actually passed out on the shoulders) of another woman, and a night of salacious sexual awakening was snuffed out.  At 4 am I finally dragged Matt out of there and made it home, virtue and limbs intact.

The best part about this time of year in New Orleans? Jazz Fest. If you love music, food, happy people, creatively decorated tall poles and sunshine, there is no better place for it.

One of the most coveted treats at Jazz Fest is the crawfish bread.  From the moment I awoke, I talked about how excited I was to get crawfish bread.  As we biked for an hour to the fairgrounds, I extolled the virtues of crawfish bread to Matt and Patsy. As we locked our bikes and entered the park, I mused earnestly how psyched I was about the pending crawfish bread. Matt and Patsy then deliberated about how to acquire both the rosemint iced tea and the crawfish bread, and before I could do anything, poof! Patsy disappeared, Matt disappeared. Luckily I found Matt at the ice tea stand, but when we found Patsy she had bought crawfish bread for Matt and herself, but not for me.

“Oh, did you want crawfish bread?” she asked, mildly surprised.

Patsy was more self involved that I had thought.

Happily I soon procured my own crawfish bread and mandarin iced tea, to be eventually followed by fried alligator po boy, BBQ oyster po boy, bread pudding, sweet potato pone, seafood au gratin, spinach artichoke casserole, crawfish beignets and mango freeze. The music had a tough time competing, even if it was Cassandra Wilson, Santana, Ray Charles, Rockin’ Doopsie and the Zydeco Rollers and Cowboy Mouth. But the best surprise was the final act of the day in the Gospel Tent. The show was behind schedule, but the energy in the air made it clear that this was going to be a BIG show.  Every time the crowd caught a glimpse of the “band” backstage, they screamed.  Not just cheered, but screamed. When Fred Hammond and his 12 teenage Radical for Christ ensemble finally came on, the place exploded. Every single person leapt to their feet and started belting out the lyrics to an infectious blend of gospel, hip hop, R&B and pop. I was swallowed by the music and I allowed it to eat me whole.

That night we hit Reginelli’s for a muffaletta and, for old time’s sake, Pat O’Brien’s patio where the theme was banana cocktails. Matt drove us around trying to find the Saturn Bar, but despite cruising St. Claude to Chaumette, no joy. But so the night should not be a total failure, our last stop was Fleur de Lis, a new bar on Lee Circle opened by one of Matt’s friends.

Lingering over my Abita turbodog, I realized how much I had missed New Orleans, and that no matter where I would go in the world, it would always retain a piece of me.

Let’s see if Florida has the same effect.

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