Why Can’t More Cities Be More Like New Orleans?

Soon after a bumpy trip as a result of water broken roads and partially boarded up homes, our taxi deposited us in a crowded and lively Jackson Square, the heart of New Orleans’ French Quarter. Jazz, the heartbeat of this area, poured out of storefront speakers, screamed from portable CD gamers, and blended mercilessly with dwell combos on each street corner. To use an outdated phrase: the area was hopping.

The settlers of New Orleans knew what they had been executing when they created their unique city on higher ground. The French Quarter survived the floods of Katrina with tiny injury to the historic streets and buildings, but did sustain major damage to the tourist market. A check out to the city right now exhibits that what ever damage to the French Quarter that occurred, that is now all in the past.

On one side of the plaza the renowned Cafe Du Monde was 3 deep with men and women waiting for a table and a likelihood to attempt their famous coffee and beignets. Street artists lined themselves about the tiny central park, hanging their pics on the outdated, wrought-iron fence and propping them towards any obtainable tree, easel or wall. Wild caricatures of vibrantly painted jazz musicians vied with delicate water color depictions of the plaza and the venerable old streets, while soulful abstract operates extra to the eclectic combine.

The sounds of clapping and cheering from the far side of the park drew us to a huge group gathered on the waterfront that have been enamored by an enthusiastic performance of dancers and acrobats. We at some point wandered away from the noise and uncovered the modest park in the center of all this action to be an sudden oasis of quiet and charm. Tree-lined paths and secluded benches gave the weary visitor a place to sit and relax.

Since we had been only in New Orleans for a day, there was very little rest for the weary. We set off — torn-out pages of our guidebook in hand — to learn the old city. We left the greatest crowds behind as we invested the afternoon tracing the French Quarter’s history, from the golden statue of St. Joan, to an outdated monastery, to the blacksmith-shop-turned-bar headquarters of the pirate Jean Lafitte, to, lastly, the home-turned-bookstore of William Faulkner.

The lace-like iron balconies had been as attractive as expected, but it was the musicians on just about every corner of the cobbled streets that were the most memorable. The heavyset old woman with the sweetly delicate voice still haunts me, as does the exclusive jazz sound of a violin and guitar duet taking part in on a close by corner. We resisted the temptation to join the other onlookers who had spontaneously broke out into dance in the street, and rather looked for someplace to grab a drink. This was the French Quarter right after all.

With out realizing we have been stepping into a main landmark, we wandered into Pat O’Brien’s on St. Peter Street. The entrance was shadowy, as have been the two small bars on either side of the lengthy entry hall, but it opened up to a significant, sunny and boisterously noisy patio crowded with persons contentedly sipping the tall, pink and hugely popular concoction identified as The Hurricane — a drink the bar lays declare to inventing back in the 1940’s. And as I quickly identified, after a long day exploring the city: One huge glass + two straws = incredibly delighted patrons.

Subsequent door to O’Brien’s is the well known Preservation Hall Jazz Club that was founded in 1961 to “protect and honor New Orleans Jazz.” The previous creating didn’t open until finally the evening, but we had been ready to peer via the iron gate at the entry hall walls covered with memorabilia. Dusty previous black and white images, colorful posters and tattered playbills themselves advised a story of the musical history of the city.

Deciding where to have dinner in a area so properly-known for cuisine could have been demanding, but we opted for the Oceana Grill on a quieter side street. The moment once again, as appeared to be the French Quarter norm — and probably a reflection of what the steamy city was like in pre-air-conditioning days — the entry and front rooms had been dark and much less than inviting, but the patio out back with its waterfall and whimsical art was a delight. For appetizers we snacked on “Jazzy” crab cakes swimming in a crawfish cream sauce, and ordered the Tuna La Boheme for entrees, a properly-grilled tuna served smothered with a barbecued shrimp sauce.

Contentedly stuffed, we emerged onto a noisy Bourbon Street. The music now definitely blared from just about every door and corner, even though street performers — jugglers, pantomimists as properly as musicians — worked the crowded streets. The evening revelers, drinks in hand, surged rather than strolled the cobbled streets and the total really feel of The Quarter took on a celebration ambiance. This was the New Orleans of legend. Loud, satisfied and colorful it was literally throbbing with enthusiasm. If it had faltered for a though, it didn’t display: the French Quarter we noticed was inviting, exciting and most surely back.

By Elaine Stabile

About the Writer

Elaine is a freelance writer primarily based out of Worcester, Massachusetts. She is a normal contributor to the Audio Journal, and is an energetic member of the burgeoning central Massachusetts literary scene.

[Photographs via the writer]