When I speak of New Orleans, I speak of the French Quarter, the land of dreams, the rhythmic notes of jazz, a gracious lady and tangled upstart of languages and conquests that treads the dusty path of history. But, let’s not mince words. New Orleans today is a decrepit, scrappy, moth-eaten town, the kind of place that makes you want to scrape the bottoms of your shoes and replace the axles on your car.
Robed in a colorful history and still offering the flavors of France and Spain, spiced by the making of America, it now lies desecrated by cracked third-world streets and sidewalks, adorned with drugs and filth.
Night sneaks into the city like a creeping, feral cat. Back streets in the French Quarter, le Vieux Carré, all except restaurants and bars, are closed with chains and iron grills, and the quarter is home to rabble in filthy, garish clothes, stumbling and yelling, their unshaven faces reddened by drink and plenty of it. Small groups of beggars clog the street corners, singing off-key songs with high pitched voices, and tin can and tambourine for drums, plastic buckets on the edges of the broken streets, waiting for the gullible to drop coins and bills. Of course, you can get out of the old quarter, but then in my mind you are out of New Orleans and into the scabs of modernity, with casinos and shopping malls and buildings that reach to the clouds.
Remarkably, some small parts of the old city retain their history and beauty, gently whispering to sit, relax, ponder and read.
A black wrought iron fence surrounds Jackson Square, one of the few places of solitude. A heroic statue of the 7th President and ‘Hero of New Orleans’ astride his horse marks the center. The square languishes just in front of the St. Louis Cathedral on a corner side, opposite the famous Café du Monde, home to rich chicory coffee and beignets, French-style fried donuts, dusted with white powdered sugar. Coffee called and so did beignets.
While I sat and sipped and tasted my feather-light treats, a small combo played wonderful notes of When the Saints Go Marching In, the happy sounds so far removed from the screech on the corners of the night. When they tired, a smooth as glass saxophone artist took over, calming, soothing and leaving promises that the soul of this city lived on.
Coffee sipped to the last bean, I followed the call of the book I’m reading, Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf. Across the street in Jackson Square, I settled into a seat on one of the wrought iron benches that form a semicircle close to the Jackson statue. I guess I should have been reading some Faulkner. After all, for six months he lived in Pirate Alley (1925-26, called Orleans Alley until the 1960s), between the Cathedral and the Cabildo, the old Spanish governor’s mansion. Faulkner wrote his first novel there, Soldier’s Pay. Samuel Clemens, better known as Mark Twain also spent a lot of time here and famously said, “New Orleans food is as delicious as the less criminal forms of sin.”
You may wonder if I ever made it to some of the fine restaurants. Yes. On one of the back alleys, I watched my step and dined on seafood pasta and some flame-charred oysters at a crowed, rundown eatery, that was close to my hotel. Delicious, but more was to come.
The next morning I wove my way through a light, foggy drizzle to meet friends at the Red Slipper, a breakfast joint I’ve written of previously.
That night, we took an Uber to Dragos at the Hilton Riverside, all agleam in tile and stainless steel. We sat at the bar, and once again dined on chargrilled oysters. Delicious! It was a remarkably quick addiction.
But, all in all, it will be a while……never say never…..before I return to this city, the Queen of the Mississippi. And when I do, I’ll stay at a hotel away from the French Quarter, enchantingly romantic as it may seem. I remember New Orleans as one would remember a charming lady, well dressed and well spoken. That lady has aged in heartless ways, lost a few teeth, still wearing the same dress that now has rips and stains. With whiskey breath she slurs her words and offers a crooked smile.
Oh, my darling, whatever has become of you?
