Ghost Town

The Sun Goes Down In The South

Kate and I had planned to go to New Orleans in October, you know, before the city got destroyed. So after a little debating (“Too soon?”) we took the trip this weekend with the idea that we could bring some of our measly tourist dollars to the Crescent City and help jumpstart, if nothing else, its alcohol sales.

We weren’t sure what we’d find, but all reports were that the French Quarter was spared the flooding and was pretty much open for business. I’ve been to New Orleans twice and never really left the French Quarter (except to ride the streetcar and go to the zoo) so I figured we’d at least be able to eat a beignet at Cafe Du Monde, get a muffaletta from Central Grocery, drink some hurricanes at Pat O’Briens, and stagger drunkenly down Bourbon Street (you know – like the locals do).

Me Drinkum Fire Water

Truth is, the French Quarter is only partially open for business. While those major touristy institutions are open (with limited hours), they’re mostly empty. A lot of the Quarter’s shops and restaurants are still closed with hopeful hand-painted signs in the windows that say, “We’ll be back!” or “The tradition will continue!” Jackson Square is also deserted. In earlier trips to N.O., I remember jazz musicians, fortune tellers, panhandlers, and crazy unicyclists all performing in front of the church there. It’s quiet now. The crazy unicyclists ride no longer.

We ate lunch at a cheap and delicious restaurant on Decatur St. called Cafe Maspero, and a guy who I think might have been the owner started chatting with us. He told us business was slowly picking back up, but that his restaurant wasn’t at full-staff yet, so they couldn’t really handle a big crowd anyway.

And that seems to be the real problem in New Orleans. Any business that is open has a “Help Wanted” sign in the window, because while the Quarter itself wasn’t badly damaged during Katrina, its employees mostly lived in the Ninth Ward and other areas that were flooded. That’s where the jazz musicians and fortune tellers lived too. Those people are gone and the big worry is that a lot of them may not come back.

Of course it’s still New Orleans, so while its a smaller party than usual, it’s still a party. Every crappy T-shirt store on Bourbon Street has brand new T-shirts that say stuff like “Katrina Gave Me A Blowjob I’ll Never Forget” or “Girls Gone Wild” with pics of Katrina and Wilma where the tits should be.

100% Angry Cotton

At night there’s music and drinking and a few people throwing beads off of balconies. And it’s still the kind of town where you can get totally trashed on hurricanes, wake up in your bed covered in Zapps potato chips, and honestly say, “The last thing I remember is hugging a horse.”

Yeah...Friday night I drank three hurricanes and hugged a police horse...for a long time. A hurricane is 4 oz. of hurricane mix and 4 oz. of rum - which is...ridiculous, so after three of them, I hugged it out equine-style for about fifteen minutes until a cop came out of a bar and yelled at us to leave his horse alone. That’s the last thing I remember (though the photographic and physical evidence suggests I also hugged a refrigerator and somehow acquired a turkey sandwich).

Level 5 Hug

Saturday night we got drunk at Fritzel’s European Style Jazz Club and jammed out to some traditional Nawlins Jazz while watching a creepy, mustachioed dude who looked like a cross between Carson Cressley and Richard E. Grant pick-up and leave with two pseudo-hotties in less than ten minutes (“You girls like blow?”).

Then, Sunday night – we drank more hurricanes and watched two Italian dudes who were so drunk they kept knocking over their drinks as fast as they could order them (which they thought was HILARIOUS).

I guess what I’m saying is – go to New Orleans. The locals we talked to during our trip all seemed resigned to the situation and anxious for things to get back to normal. Trouble is – for New Orleans to get back to normal, they need a lot of people from the rest of the country to come there and act anything but.

Show Me Your Tits?