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The Mystical Power of New Orleans
The Big Easy Claims Another
"Victim"
At Jazz Fest with
Buffett, a beer and a friend – Big times in the Big Easy.
Okay, I didn't exactly PLAN on getting
buzzed in the middle of the afternoon. On a Monday.
But I was in New Orleans, and if there's any single thing to know about
this town it's that a party can break out at any time, without warning,
like a hurricane suddenly blowing in from the Gulf.
It's what the city is all about, what makes it so powerful. And I could
only react to the situation.
After far too many years removed, I was back in New Orleans and, as
it had done before, the place sucked me in as if I were the head of
a crawfish. Fer sure!
I went for one weekend of Jazz Fest and stayed two.
I had intended to run a few times, but the only such activity was a
mad sprint to Margaritaville Cafe to get an early jump on the line to
see Jimmy Buffett play there. I succeeded, by the way.
After a week, I had drained my entire checking account and was forced
to make ATM withdrawals using the "savings" key.
I tried to take it easy a couple of weeknights but was introduced to
a gentleman named Big Mike at The Columns Hotel who was voted the city's
Best Bartender five years running. I quickly discovered why.
Then there was Buffett. Wasted away again.
With hospitality fitting for royalty, I kept thinking New Orleans
must have thought I was Napoleon brought back from the dead. The people
were beyond friendly, they were always smiling and kept asking me if
I wanted a drink. There was nothing special about me, of course; this
is just how the Big Easy treats all its guests.
I quickly fell victim to the city's magical spell. Was it voodoo? Bourbon
Street? The gumbo? Maybe it was those hand grenades.
Whatever the reason, it was pleasing. But I was losing touch with the
rest of the world. Had the Canal Place Wyndham not left me a USA
Today on my doorstep each morning, I would not have had the slightest
idea of any news or sports happenings elsewhere. A decade ago, a group
of friends came to Jazz Fest and it was only after they got back to
their hotel room and turned on the TV did they discover L.A. burning
to the ground in the 1992 riots. This is how focused one can become
on this town.
My first trip to the Big Easy was in high school. I was a 15-year-old
sophomore and was participating in the Mardi Gras parade. Marching in
a band, I was on the end of a row and girls kept running up to me, kissing
me and putting beads around my neck. Talk about on-the-spot sex education!
In college, I was here a couple of times as the University of Alabama
played in the Sugar Bowl. One was for the national championship. I was
up late the night before that game, drinking Hurricanes at Pat O'Brien's
by the flaming fountain with a flaming redhead named Sammy Kaye Hughes.
Gee, I wonder whatever became of ol' Sammy Kaye.
Since that time, the city kept whispering in my ear to return. Finally,
the calls became too loud to ignore and I headed to Jazz Fest.
I had originally intended to attend the first weekend and hang around
a few days to try and get into Margaritaville for the near-private Buffett
show. But Jimmy was also playing Jazz Fest the day I was scheduled to
leave, and in a bit of midweek inspiration and libation, the thought
of missing it became unacceptable. The next available flight wasn't
until Wednesday, but so be it, I reasoned. After all, in New Orleans,
it's always Hurricane season.
People wondered how I could manage to spend 10 days in New Orleans.
But hey, I've spent three weeks in the Greek Islands and survived that
with no problem, so I was confident there was nothing New Orleans could
throw at me that could be all that damaging. Somewhat surprisingly,
only got "I-Gotta-Go-Home-RIGHT-NOW" drunk one night, when
I literally got wasted away in Margaritaville after Buffett. Well worth
it, I might add.
Like Greece – and other places I visit – I took the time
to experience the local culture. I walked endlessly through the French
Quarter, couldn't get enough of the spectacular cuisine, went to the
outstanding D-Day Museum and took a swamp tour. All these activities
were immensely enjoyable.
It was with some sadness that I finally departed. Yet, within hours
of returning home, I had run five miles, cracked open a cold beer and
was ready for the next big adventure. Fer sure!
 Next
Stop on The Party Bus – Pub Clubbing!
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