I always though Bourbon Street was an isolated area someplace in New Orleans, like South Street in Philly, or La’s Olvera street. I pictured a place that was a few blocks long – enough for a parade and a handful of jazz clubs and bars. A place that peaked during Mardi Gras then settled into a reasonably interesting place to hang out.
Two things are clear from the above sumnation: 1) I’d never been to Bourbon Street 2) I never paid attention when people talked about it.
Driving into New Orleans on the 10 freeway I saw buildings with twinkling lights, the sports arena, industrial complexes and a bunch of things typically found in a big city. I could have been driving through Portland or San Antonio. Then Donna told me to take an exit called Vieux Carre.
We entered a different world.
I must have been sitting behind a pretty girl in 6th grade because I totally missed the lesson about the French settling a central square – a small city in effect – along the Mississippi River back in the early 1700s. As Donna and I slowly drove the narrow passageway toward our hotel on Burgandy Street, I was forced to navigate my car around a horse-drawn buggy, several bicyclists, and some tool driving an 8-foot high four-by-four. The streets were packed with two and three story buildings that looked ancient – and yes, most had those decorative iron balconies.
So, on to Bourbon street. Turns out it runs pretty much smack dab in the middle of this 13 block by 7 block square of narrow streets and cool-looking row houses. It was only two streets from our hotel. We headed southeast on Dunaine Street. It was a cool night worthy of a jacket. As we walked and looked around, we agreed it was like no place in America we’d ever been. It was old, and the streets tiny like Boston or Philly, yet every building was fascinatingly different from the next.
It was quiet enough to hear our own footsteps and rather serene for what I expected on the early end of a Fridaynight. People walked by and said “good evening’. A couple of guys across the street were talking and I heard one say, “It’s quiet here.”
As we passed Dauphine Street I could hear a disctict thumping sound, followed by collective yelps and howls. An assortment of neon lights and noticeably more foot traffic could be seen on the upcoming street. Sure enough, we’d found Bourbon Street.
Walking down Bourbon Street reminded me of Venice California, Venice Italy, downtown Las Vegas, Times Square, and the front row of a Ted Nugent concert all rolled into one place. Keep in mind the street is just as narrow as the rest of the quarter, so we rubbed up against drunk frat boys, singing panhandlers, dancing scantily-clad ladies, and middle aged Nebraskans holding plastic vessels of rum half their height. The street was active with break dancers, sword swallowers, preachers, and street musicians. We passed bar after bar, each one blaring music from a live band – country, blues, rock, and jazz. I looked at Donna and yelled:; “WHERE HAS THIS PLACE BEEN MY WHOLE LIFE?
I was in love.
You’re allowed to drink booze on the streets of New Orleans, as long as your drink’s in plastic cup. Every joint had stacks of plastic cups sitting on the bar. I jumped inside one, ordered a beer and returned to the street. Donna planned to wait for a better drink – like a Sazarac or Hurricane. As my eyes searched for a place that would serve her libation, I nearly tripped over a dog. The mutt was lying on his back, feet in the air, playing dead. His owner sat nearby with a tip can. This dog really looked dead and creeped me out. We picked up our pace when suddenly a man wearing a police uniform stopped us. He spoke his orders through a megaphone and accused me of walking though the intersection without stopping. He then accused me of bringing a nice lady to such a vulgar place. He handed me a cheap looking baseball cap and asked for a donation to some goofball charity. Turns out, he was one of the famous New Orleans con men I’d heard tell about. As he rambled on, I handed the hat back to him – actually I stuffed it under his arm then caught up with Donna. I heard another con man ask a guy “I’ll bet you ten dollars I can tell you where you got those shoes.” The man agreed. “Why they’re on your feet! Pay up!” These guys were all over, but I never got annoyed. They had a playful spirit about them.
People started roaring louder than ever and noticed a parade was on our heels – a wedding party lead by an energized bride and groom. Well dressed family and friends followed waving white handkerchiefs in the air. A brass band with a tuba keeping time followed them.
There was no doubt in my mind we were experiencing Bourbon Street to its fullest.
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