The Big Easy: A Place After My Own Heart
All these years I thought I was a bigtime party guy. All it took was one St. Patrick’s Day night in New Orleans to realize that when it comes to having fun, I’m just a rank amateur.
These people down here have raised partying to an art form. I was in utter awe.
We get back to the media hotel whipped from a long day and decide to step out for a drink and a bite to eat. We walk out on Decauter Street and right into the St. Patty’s Day Parade down in the quarter. The revelers had a head start on us, but we did our best to catch up. Packed streets, floats floating by, music blaring from every doorway. Crazies hanging over balcony railings above. Everyone raising all kinds of mayhem and madness.
Along comes the St. Charles Streetcar Band with what for the life of us looked like Pete Fountain in front blowing his sweet, sweet clarinet. So we fall in and accompany them down Decauter and take a right on Canal. When the parade took another right onto Bourbon, I knew it was on. And I was right. The band was vintage New Orleans, blaring Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey?, Don’t Blame Me, It’s Not My Fault, Honky Tonk Women and, naturally, When the Saints Come Marching In. The dude that’s driving the truck that pulled the float is honking his horn in time with the beat, and everybody, I mean everybody is sporting big old grins. People were, unavoidably,knocking into each other, given the crush down on Bourbon, but I swear I didn’t catch one bad vibe the whole night.
When the parade finally floated off to wherever parades go when they’re done, we dropped into the Bourbon Street Blues Club for some tunes. And that place, like all the places on Bourbon, was rocking to beat the band.
In case you see my bride before I do, tell her to pack to pets and the essentials. When I get home I’m collecting her and we’re moving to New Orleans.
Maybe I can get a job on the New Orleans Times Picayune covering Tulane.