A Day in the French Quarter

I sit under the familiar eves of Cafe du Monde and look out at the giant magnolia tree in Jackson Park. Tourists still stroll the quarter and most of my favorite places are intact. It still looks like the New Orleans of my memories. I'm elated to be here and surprised to see that things aren't nearly as bad as I imagined, at least in this part of town.

Things are different, of course. This once bustling cafe, with wait times up to an hour for a plate of beignets and a cafe au lait, is nearly empty. I used to love watching tourists try and eat beignets and blowing powdered sugar all over themselves with the first bite. Only the locals knew you can't exhale through your nose while eating beignets.

The fence around the park at Jackson Square—where artists, musicians, palm readers and hustlers used to jostle for space—is nearly bare. A few hawkers remain alongside the horse drawn buggies. I used to think the horses in New Orleans looked like the most miserable horses in the world, and today is no exception. Eric Lee Buchannan dips his paintbrush in the fountain and fidgets with his ornate bike. His fabulous bright panel paintings are hanging along the wrought iron fence showing scenes of a tugboat sitting atop the raging Mississippi and jazz musicians of every denomination.

I make my way up to the top floor of Tower Records on Decatur where I first built up my record collection. All the Cajun, Zydeco, Jazz, New Orleans R&B, and Blues are up here and the salt-and-pepper salesmen have been on the scene for a lifetime. This is where I bought my first Dr. John, Donald Byrd, Pharoah Sanders, Rebirth Brass Band albums and so much more. But I don't have the heart to buy anything from this chain and I make my way back down to street level where Stoney B. calls out to me, "Do you have a blues man on your camera?" I say no and he and his partner, Grampa (a blind harmonica player with only one lens in his sunglasses) start performing some sweet New Orleans blues. This duo has been playing together in the streets of the quarter for years. I ask them if they're OK since everything... and Stoney B says, "Well, we're alive." Blues men to the core. They tell me they'll be playing blues in New Orleans till the day they die. I buy their homemade CD for $20 and smile as the old blind man flirts with me. Stoney B. tells him I'm pretty and unmarried, and that they caught me just in time. Grampa says he's been sending Stoney B. to talking school so he could talk for him.

I feel like spending money on all the touristy things that used to repluse me—CDs, t-shirts, pralines, alligator potato chips, even a divination bone reading—in the hope that my money can do some good in at least a few people's lives. I sit down with Leroy (aka Hurkey) after he calls out to me a few times for a personal divination session. He hands me a black cloth bag filled with cowrie shells, bones and a single dice. He asks me to shake it around and then dump the contents on the table. He closes his eyes and holds my hands and tells me I'm a creative, spiritual person. That money will come to me by December and that I intimidate men because they think I'm too much woman for them. Then he gives me a prescription:

Next month on the first full moon, put three tablespoons of sugar in your bath water and take a bath. This will sweeten your life and your path. Then step out of the bathtub backwards to get rid of bad luck. Following this, on the next rain, set a white cup with a pinch of salt out in the rain—this is holy water. When it stops raining, put the cup in your bedroom window until the water evaporates. Then wrap it in a white hankerchief and throw it away. A lot of people are jealous of you, and this will dispel the bad luck that comes from this.

It definitely wouldn't be New Orleans without the cheeky hawkers and scam artists. Some kind of salesman approaches me, "Ma'am, ma'am, this area is for the ugly people. You're way too good looking to be in here." I walk away. I've heard it a million times before in New Orleans—that and the man who knows where you got your shows—some things never change.

The barges blow their horns on the Mississippi and I decide it's time for my favorite meal, a fried shrimp poboy with lots of tabasco from Verti Mart on Royal Street--real food for real people at real prices--the best kept secret in the French Quarter. When it comes to Cajun cooking, I buy the hype.