New Orleans: 1984

In 1984, my memories of the Crescent City are clear and full of sweet smells and vibrant colors. My Brazilian grandmother had the most youthful hugs and warm greetings. I recall the right turn off of Veterans, near the barn red grocery, to where she and my granddad lived; a modest home on Wabash street. The French doors were closed and the inner door ajar, waiting for new arrivals. Upon reaching the house I could always smell the hint of French bread and chocolate. On the glass sheathed dinning room table, a deck of Bicycle cards and a sorted broad game would be displaced only by the occasional 500 piece puzzle. This was a home of imagination and wonder, a reflection of the city I grew to love throughout my youth and into my more seminal years.

Time was always made for the Quarter. It was a ritual of sorts, almost a routine, to make our way down to Canal and move towards the Riverwalk, a convenient space for the Buick. It was hot, Mummy, as my Dad would call her, always complained about the heat. “Boy, it is so hot!” with a cosmopolitan air which lead you to believe that she could repeat that phrase in nine different languages. However, neither the heat, nor the ‘crime’ ever kept us away from the Beignets or the French bread of Jackson Square.

At certain times during the year, probably during Carnival, the statue of Jackson would rupture from its stone shell and re-defend the city from foreign intruders; making his way through the back streets of the Quarter, reassuring all residents that he was back, a savior, a hero and a warrior. Of coarse no one admited that they witnessed the resurrection of Jackson, but like many stories of New Orleans it was best kept close to the vest. This vision was fueled by numerous stories of ghosts, phantoms, ghouls and goblins that lined the streets at night and made havoc for visitors and locals alike. I believed them all, why not? We were always made to believe things that could not be proven; so I thought that this fantasy was as good as any psalm or parable.

After the passing of my grandmother, New Orleans moved from a childhood playground to a young man’s candy store. Vice and intrigue could be found around every corner. Easily captured rum or whiskey was poured without reguard to time. Fine wine and decadent eateries called out to you from a bellowing kitchen, wafting its aroma, silently pressuring you to “come in and try abit a Chicken Margaux, Shrimp Remoulade or Crepes Soufflé Praline.” I rarely, if ever declined the offer. Friends from college and new acquaintances from St. Charles would always be gathered late under a half lit lamp post near Decatur, screaming about the Saints and wondering about the absence of taxi service. The night always ended on a plush consignment store Victorian styled couch, complete with ass worn springs and stolen hotel blankets. A cigarette in tow would be the last vice of the evening, before the slight smell of Irish coffee in a late afternoon haze; which brought the knowledge of a Monday night well spent in the Big Easy.