The streetcar rattled down St. Charles Avenue, its windows, minus screens, open and ushering in the sultry air. We sat on seats built from slats of wood—a reminder of yesteryear. Elegance lived along both sides of the street, and I imagined owning one of the southern mansions floating by. Balconies trimmed homes, hanging baskets of ferns adorned porches, and lanterns lit stately front entries. At first, from a distance, I thought those flickering lights were bulbs, and I wanted them to decorate my northern home too, but as we strolled the Crescent City, we spied real flames—gas-fed flames—fluttering within lanterns everywhere.
As the afternoon dwindled, we entered Café du Monde by Jackson Square in the French Quarter, famous for its beignets. The waiter’s demeanor showed us his day had been a long one—maybe we should’ve come earlier?—and he carried a blend of exhaustion and disinterest as he quickly served us beignets and just as quickly asked if we were ready to pay. We gave him cash—the required form of payment—and ate the renowned donuts to the strains of a sidewalk artist singing, “House of the Rising Sun.”
We dusted away the powdered sugar and strolled off, Husband leading us down a raucous street. Dicka stopped to watch a sword juggler, but the man stood on a chair, delaying his act with such bravado in storytelling we lost interest and kept moving. We wanted to see swords flying, a touch of the harrowing, but no. We took a right at the corner and pursued the next route.
“That street we were just on was Bourbon Street,” Husband announced.
Ricka wrinkled her nose. “I’m not into all the famous streets you guys are.”
“Now you can say you’ve been there,” I said, “and that’s the point. Like Haight-Ashbury, Sunset Boulevard, Park Avenue.”
We sauntered past vampiric shops, palm reader stands, voodoo venders, and tarot tables set up on the sidewalk. I shivered in the sweltering heat.
“No muggings will happen, and no spells will land,” I said to the family. “I prayed a wall of fire around us.”
“So, that’s why it’s so blazing hot,” Husband said.
Back at the hotel, we guzzled water and slabbed out on our beds. The heat had stripped away our energy, but there was no way we’d spend our only night in NOLA retiring early in a cool hotel room.
Outside, the atmosphere clung to its ninety degrees—even as the sun sank into bed—so we ladies stepped into our sundresses. Husband pulled on a pair of pants—much to his dismay—but how could he pull off dress shoes in shorts? And he needed those dress shoes; a hot night of music in the Big Easy called for blue suede wingtips.
Our Uber rolled up to the curb in front of the hotel. We climbed in, and the driver transported us toward the nightlife of the city.
“Who told you Frenchmen Street was the place to go for jazz?” the man asked.
“A guy who works at Stein’s Deli,” Husband said.
“Well, he was right.”
He dropped us in front of Blue Nile, and we headed for the door of the establishment. Bouncers were checking IDs, though, so we kept moving. We weren’t about to abandon twenty-year-old Dicka to the streets while we soaked in the jazz scene without her.
We strode past Snug Harbor, and the name of the venue spirited me back to our babymoon the summer of 1999. Five months pregnant with Flicka, I walked that same street, holding Husband’s hand then too, and there we heard the trumpeting jazz sounds of Jeremy Davenport. We experienced the musicians at Preservation Hall in the French Quarter on that trip too, and I sat cross-legged on the wood floor right up front in that packed place, never mind my mid-pregnancy state. We were close to the musicians—close enough to see rivulets of sweat course down their necks, droplets of spit stream from their horns. Oh, when the saints come marching in...
After shrimp po’ boys at Marigny Brasserie, we looped back to catch the music. The clubs with their doors flung wide showcased fancy and shiny musicians in their darkened interiors, their tunes reaching us out on the street. We paused at one spot, then the next for the wailing saxophones, hi-hat cymbals, and jazz snares.
But just a block away, parked on the sidewalk, was a group of five players. Among their instruments was a washboard, and their crooning flowed from a simple love of the art form—or at least that’s what drifted to us on the night air. And so, we stayed.
Missed the Saturday dance
Heard they crowded the floor
It’s awfully different without you
Don’t get around much anymore
Thought I’d visit the club
Got as far as the door
I couldn’t bear it without you
Don’t get around much anymore
*****
Come back next week for the final installment of New Orleans’ travel stories.
