In life we have all these outrageous social classes and groups that separate us from one another. You have the ultra-conservative people who balk at the sight of some of the shenanigans the liberals undertake in, then there are the business type who work harder than they intend to play, there are the family-orientated who make changing a diaper seem like the next best thing after a grand reception with the president (well, this may depend on the president who offers you that grand reception), and then there are those wild college students who at the age of 30 are still there studying the effects that ethanol will have on the organs. In normal life we do not mix, we are required to each stay on our dividing sides of class and tolerate each other. Yet, come to New Orleans and you will see a meeting of the classes that will so baffle and intrigue you at the very same time. More specifically, set your foot amongst those walking the tar on Bourbon Street; mingle with a lady old enough to be your grandmother, talk politics with a child barely out of a high school classroom and boogie all night with someone who could quite possibly be more formal and stuffy than your father. On Bourbon Street this is the way of life.
Arriving amidst peak
hour traffic after seeing the inside of
a car for too long, the best and most logical thing would be to find our hotel,
take a shower and sleep until waking up would actually make us happy people
again. We arrived at the hotel, where I was trying very hard to keep my
judgment well hidden, and found our room. Walking the corridor to our room was
like standing outside the KFC in Dundee, South Africa. Being the Christmas
season it kind of made you feel nostalgic for all of two seconds, and then the
smell really hit and having reminders of home did not seem that important
anymore. So after taking about an hour to unpack the car (none of us got the
memo to pack light), we made plans to be out the door by 7pm because Kevin was
going to show us how to really party. It never happened that way; it was a kind
of rough estimate of what time to get up.
First rule to remember when
partying: always, always have something to eat beforehand. It makes the
headache the next morning only a little less as intensifying. Being in New
Orleans you have to try the food no matter how absurd it may sound. If you do
not it is like going to France and completely missing Paris, it is just not done.
There are many options and something will satisfy your curiosity, being the
adventurous people we were we decided to try a sampler of all the different
kinds of food. And Shaii being a vegetarian opted for the cheese pizza (at the
end of our trip he has officially tasted more cheese pizza then anyone I know).
My favorite was the Gumbo, I know it had rice in it and some other stuff
(sometimes it is best just to eat and not ask). So with the bellies all filled
up it was time to go see Bourbon Street for the first time, and be transformed.
Now many people think Vegas
is the party capital of the world, yes they may be right, but Bourbon Street in
New Orleans is thee party capital that does not distinguish between people. If
you decide to make a night out on the town in your fluffy pajama’s with cute
white bunnies then good for you. If you have just come from a long day of
exploring other parts of the city with your huge camera bulging in your front,
your white socks pulled up smartly somewhere between your calf and knee and
your flowery flip flops on your feet, then there is a place for you here to.
The one very interesting thing about New Orleans is that alcohol is permitted
on the streets, just not in the container it comes in. It is kind of like the
philosophy most parents have about their teenagers, “We know terrible things
are abounding in your rooms, but just close the door and we can pretend it’s
not really there.” Another very important rule to remember when going out is to
always carry a phone or in the worst case remember your friend’s number. I
sadly did not heed my own advice here and got separated from the group
somewhere between meeting a new friend, trying to scream a conversation to a
stranger and dancing the night away in a smoke filled room. When deciding that
Bourbon Street had come out a victor this first night, I waited to tell my
friends it was time to go and could not find a single familiar face. Now the
time comes when you want to rewind the hands of time, charge that phone and
carry it with you. With hundreds of bars and clubs and places to be on that
crowded street, finding my friends was like finding the proverbial needle in a
haystack. So against everything I had ever been taught by my wonderful parents,
I went home with a stranger so he could help me get a hold of my friends and
find the hotel I was staying at. I was lucky that night; I never went home with
an axe murderer who would later feed me to the alligators. This person helped
me find my friends and hotel and even dropped me off at 4 in the morning, now
that is real Southern Hospitality for you. I do, however, not recommend this to
anyone.
Before you think that New
Orleans was a one stop party destination, I will assure you we did see more of
what this truly rare part of America had to offer. We drifted through the
French Market by day somehow being bargained into buying things that just touched
the corner of our eyes. We ate more food than I think humanly safe, but savored
every last morsel. And after lunch we had coffee at the famous Café Du Mont,
where icing sugar brought out the child within and the coffee just refined the behavior.
We watched passengers embark on the last Steam Boat and were greeted by a homeless
man making many exuberant sounds; Shaii seemed thoroughly delighted in
communicating in this manner. We took a tram ride to nowhere and back again
just because we could and enjoyed it regardless.
If it is at all possible,
every person should make a stop in New Orleans at least once. To see what a
meshing of the social classes and cultures is like. To see difference as
something that makes you special and not what separates you. Albert Einstein
once said that, “The distinctions separating social classes are false; in the
last analysis they rest on force.” I think when he said this he must have been dreaming
about the faraway place of Bourbon Street, New Orleans.
No comments:
Post a Comment