“You can live in any city in America, but New Orleans is the only city that lives in you.”
“New Orleans – the human papillomavirus of cities.”
Ok, full disclosure. I'm not from here. And maybe that's what makes this place so perplexing.
Fact is, I’m not even from the south. Prior to my arrival, I had never even heard of boudin balls or crawdads or hubigs pies or eating alligator in any shape or form whatsoever. It took me a year to understand the term ‘lagniappe.’ Two years to figure out ‘the neutral ground side’ vs. ‘the sidewalk side.’ I have no idea what most of the people on those statues did before they took them down, and I will be damned if I will ever understand why I need to see ‘the special man’ or why he’s gonna ‘let her have it.’
And it’s hot. Seriously hot. Insert joke here about the devil complaining that it’s hot. Yes, it’s that hot.
Nope, I am an outsider. A carpetbagger. Lured to this new world by a myth, a woman, and the overly-beaded promise of a never-ending spectacle of wine, women (or woman, in my case) and song. A magical place where jazz emanates from every catch basin, where the alcohol flows freely 24 hours a day and the good times last forever. Laissez les bons temps rouler!
The only true religion here is Saints football and the only real sin is having your kids not attend LSU (or Tulane…maybe).
But besides being an outsider, I’m also a victim. A victim of Mardi Gras and Bourbon Street. Of the French Quarter and City Park. Of Dr. John and The Meters funk. Of food festivals, and music festivals, and festivals for festivals in a city whose bars literally encourage you to take your drink with you. I am a victim of the promise of New Orleans. The lure of ‘The Big Easy.’
A place where people willingly pay three weeks salary and rent a tux just for the privilege of BYOB’ing the biggest party in the country. Where terms like ‘escapades’ and ‘extravaganzas’ are part of the daily vernacular. And where the most vocal of homophobic men will proudly mark the second weekend in August by flaunting themselves fabulously through these city streets in the reddest of red dresses.
It is carousel bars and hot tin roofs and front porches where people gather to drink Turbo Dogs and Abita Ambers, but not hand grenades, hurricanes or absinthe because those are strictly for the tourists. A place where you need to walk through the kitchen, and then a bedroom, and then another bedroom, just to go to the bathroom.
And, yet, it is also a city prone to the most heinous acts of violence imaginable. Daily horrors camouflaged behind the adopted motto of ‘be nice or leave.’ Where the ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’ gather to pray every Sunday’s injustice at the temple of the ‘Dome, only to retreat back behind the ever gentrifying demarcation lines separating the rich and poor.
A city that floods if more than five people spill their drinks and who’s very existence below sea level is in direct competition with the politics of greed and corruption.
No, it is not always ‘easy’ here. Far from it. Beware loose women and pickpockets. Beware potholes and broken pumps. Beware the man that knows ‘where you got your shoes at’ and is willing to gamble a double sawbuck on your answer. Beware Jim Cantore and his camera crew setting up shop in your front yard.
For this is a different kind of place entirely. It is a place of Stompers and Bearded Oysters, of Pussyfooters and Organ Grinders, of Zulus and Rolling Elvi. The kind of place that makes Neil Gaiman’s imagination seem downright ordinary by comparison.
Truth is, there is no place quite like this place. And there are no people quite like these people. And that’s what makes it all so unbelievably fascinating.