Home Sweet Home

I’m back in Kansas City after an exhilarating, informative, productive and exhausting trip to New Orleans. And just in time for Spring Break week, how much more difficult can life get!

My last evening in New Orleans, after all the meetings and conferences were over I finally got time to get away from the hotel and get around a bit, to “press the flesh” as the politicians say. I did the obligatory walk down Bourbon street, visited the Acme Oyster House for a dozen fresh Louisiana oysters, a PeaceMaker Po’boy, and several Abita’s. I then wandered down Royal Street. I wanted to go all the way to Frenchman where some of the better music clubs are, but being on foot and alone I decided to stay close.

On my way back to the hotel I walked through Jackson Square. There is a little amphitheater next to the Café Du Monde where years ago you could hear some good street jazz. Last time I was in town the place had been taken over by Goths. This time it was hip-hop. I watched for awhile and then realized all that was really happening was some great music, recorded, and some poor-ass dancing. Mainly just begging for money. I noticed this quite a bit. The few street performers I saw were of poor quality and money hungry. However, I did hear one older guy on the Riverwalk the first afternoon I was in the city. He was just sitting on the curb in the warm sunshine playing the blues on a old acoustic guitar and filling in with a harmonica. Sunday night I ran across a group of about ten black kids, all playing different brass: trombones, tuba, coronet. They seemed to putting their heart and soul into it.

I couldn’t end my last night in town without walking down Pirate’s Alley, where William Faulkner once lived and wrote some of his early work. It was just getting dark, the courtyards were closed and the artists, merchants and street people were leaving for the night. On the corner I noticed a very small bar; dark, mysterious and empty. I entered to find a redheaded bartender and a nice little drinking establishment in which I stayed far to long.

As the night wore on the little bohemian café became rather crowded. I discovered the bar had two types of customers. Several of the night tours, ghost and voodoo, met there, and there where always a few locals, usually on their way home who dropped in for an absinthe or other refreshment. It made for a nice mix. I drank too much, but had some great conversations and heard a few far fetched stories.