This must be the place: ‘And I thought I’ve seen someone who seemed at last to know the truth’
Bourbon Street in New Orleans. (Garret K. Woodward photo)
Hello from Room 1D at the Rathbone Mansion, just a few blocks from the French Quarter in New Orleans. It’s Tuesday (aka: “Fat Tuesday”).
In an abrupt departure from a late-night slumber, I was awakened this morning by the sounds of drums and a horn section, of laughter and friendly banter just outside the bedroom window. It was an early morning Mardi Gras parade passing by the hotel, hundreds of folks all dressed up in wild-n-out costumes.
Day three of this last-minute trek to NOLA and the ensuing, unrelenting shock and awe that is Mardi Gras. At this time last week, as I was again kicking the newspaper out the door, I hadn’t planned on being down in Louisiana. But, as I’ve known throughout most of my vagabond life, nothing is for certain, and always say “yes” to curious mischief and unknown adventure.
A friend reached out and asked if I wanted to join her for shenanigans afoot in NOLA. She’s been down here for a couple weeks on a journey of sorts to reconnect with not only herself, but also her intent and purpose in life. And would I, perhaps, run amuck with a cute girl in the capital of all that is responsible enlightenment? Yes. Sold.
Lots of memories flooding my field-of-vision meandering the narrow streets, neon-lit bars, fried oyster joints, and blues/funk night clubs. And all while navigating the massive sea of humanity that ebbs and flows throughout the city like waves hitting the shore. Undulating. Powerful. Vibrant. Reckless. And yet, with a method to the madness as spiritual and communal in nature as it is in occurring in real time.
The last time I found myself in NOLA was Feb. 5, 2017. It was my 32nd birthday. The New England Patriots were in the Super Bowl against the Atlanta Falcons. At that time, I was on the tail-end of a whirlwind two-week road trip with my former girlfriend.
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We’d just spent the better part of a week bouncing around Texas (Dallas, Austin, San Antonio, Port Aransas, Houston) before hiking back up the highways and byways of America to Haywood County and greater Western North Carolina. Thus, seeing as it was my birthday, and being a lifelong Patriots fan, it was decided to splurge, to celebrate and get a nice hotel in the French Quarter after many days of truck camping.
I remember how exquisite the hotel room looked, how spicy and delicious the jambalaya was, how cold the beer felt in my hand in the warm Bayou air, how loud and boisterous the funk ensembles sounded on Bourbon Street, and how drunk I must’ve been when I jumped onstage at the karaoke bar to sing a rollickin’ rendition of Merle Haggard’s “Okie From Muskogee.” And I remember how the Patriots overtook the Falcons in one of the most thrilling events ever to take place in sports history.
That 2017 excursion conjured thoughts and images of the first time that I stepped foot into the French Quarter. Back in 2004, when I was 19 and a sophomore in college, my mother suggested that she and I take a trip together to NOLA. I hadn’t seen much of her since I left the North Country for college in Connecticut some 300 miles away. So, why not head south, track down some seafood, drinks and good times, maybe shake your tailfeather, eh?
I remember the bed-n-breakfast style accommodations just a stone’s throw from Bourbon Street, how deep the wondrous chaos of people and place soaked into the depths of my soul, how happy my mother was to finally make it to “The Big Easy” and experience it for herself, and how she danced the night away to a Cajun group at one corner bar. And I remember her asking what I wanted for a souvenir, skip ahead to an hour later and I’m getting a small tattoo as a memento.
And then, I also remember being in County Kerry, Ireland, in August 2005 while doing a semester abroad during my junior year. It was right before my college friends and I were to head out the door to the neighborhood pub. I turned on the TV while waiting for the rest of the group to get ready, the news channel exploding with coverage of Hurricane Katrina. I stood there and witnessed a city that I (and we all) adore now under water, Mother Nature showcasing her wrath.
Thus, today is Tuesday, Feb. 21, 2023. I’m 38 years old. It’s been almost two decades since I initially found myself in NOLA. That person (me) back then seems like a million years ago, almost like this dream I once had, where I don’t really remember much, where the memories seem a little blurry, maybe frayed on the edges. But, I do know I had fun, and I did genuinely feel alive and in the moment. And, as Kerouac once said, “I have nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”
And yet, I’m still that 19-year-old college sophomore, you know? The eternal force of irresponsible enlightenment is as fierce and fiery as ever within my heart. Once again, here I stand in NOLA, this full-circle moment, or more so another layer to add to the ongoing quest for answers to questions that can’t be answered. Besides, the real fun is just being “here” — for there are no answers, just existence.
I remain a curious soul, one hopefully of pure intent and good manners, meandering the narrow streets, neon-lit bars, fried oyster joints, and blues/funk night clubs. And all while navigating the massive sea of humanity that ebbs and flows throughout the city like waves hitting the shore. Undulating. Powerful. Vibrant. Reckless. And yet, with a method to the madness as spiritual and communal in nature as it is in occurring in real time.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
