Ahh....the smell of jasmine, the sounds of quarter jazz coming out of a window, the flash of neon and the taste of fruity cocktails all combine into that which is the French Quarter, New Orleans.After a 10 hour drive, my three co-workers and I made it to the Sheraton New Orleans, right on Canal street and just two blocks over from Bourbon Street - we had arrived in the home of jazz, and the music was already playing.
It wasn't lost on us that we had left the devastation of a 500 year flood behind us in Missouri to ride into a town that is still recovering from Katrina. But to see this shining, neon pearl of the gulf in it's springtime glory can truly take your breath away, and make you forget about the world for a while.
Bourbon Street is a wild, mixed up scenery of clubs, bars, restaurants and men's clubs - as you walk along, you're assaulted by T-shirt stores, bead shops, feather masks, scantily clad hookers trying to lure you in to their dens, jazz musicians playing a rollicking creole beat, street kids tapping for money or singing acapella for the hell of it, the smells of creole cooking and spices, and the overwhelming smell of the jasmine and plumeria - beautiful scents that lift your spirit and carry you further along the sidewalk.
Go through the Quarter, and you reach Frenchman Street - the true heart of jazz the locals say. Here, away from the neon lights of Bourbon Street, are the small, intimate jazz clubs where the well known musicians come out to play. The Marsalis patriarch was playing one night there, along with his band. And the emphasis was on the music - no distractions from food or lights or scantily dressed women - just the jazz, in it's purest form.
We had time to amble through the Garden District too, with it's amazing old houses and shadows of Anne Rice's vampires lingering in the azaleas...but the spirit here is quiet, laid back, almost dreamy compared to Bourbon Street and the vibrancy of the Quarter. Between these two famous districts lies the Warehouse District, full of museums and - surprisingly - zydeco, in all its Cajun glory. The self-proclaimed "Home of Zydeco" resides here in a small little bar in the middle of the district, and the most wonderful, toe-tapping music streams forth from the windows and hypnotizes your feet to dance right through the door.
We spent our last day down by the waterfront, ambling through the flea market and seeing the many intriguing ways the local artisans have taken what Katrina left them and made into gold. One man had crafted exquisite pins out of "Katrina-junk" that he found and recycled into art. Many others had heart-breaking prints of what had been, and still others had created beautiful and colorful collages of Katrina aftermath.
These people are amazing, to still have such spunk and spirit - to still love their city and to continue to rebuild bigger and better. They take great pride in their city's comeback, and will gladly share stories and first-hand accounts of the past and the present, while always looking to the future.On that last day, we met a local woman who lives on the outskirts of the French Quarter. We had stopped to admire her beautifully decorated window, which was graced with colored glass and hanging objects d'art. She came out with her two dogs, intent on walking down to the local grocers and giving "the boys some air."
She was gracious and upbeat, and kind to four travelling Midwesterners who had pretty much camped out on her stoop looking at her window display. It's that friendliness, that upbeat attitude that hooks you - that's what the lure of New Orleans is for me, and I'm anxious to make my way back.
