What did you say? What other side?
Exactly.
Until last weekend, I didn't know there was another side either. I thought that every time I visited New Orleans, and made the decision to risk a night in the French Quarter, that I was forever doomed to hassle the drunk tourists shoulder to shoulder in skanky, slimy streets. Streets littered with all forms of trash and filth; sidewalks overflowing and sputtering with the homeless, the lost, and the forsaken. Yes, and the tourists trying to blend into the debauchery in their gloss and polish. In their effort to try to blend in, many times they end up becoming a part of it.
Thanks to the daughter of my hostess, my friend and I were initiated into a new experience, a fresh perspective. We became privy to the other side of Bourbon Street: Frenchmen Street.
Getting there was half the fun, I think. Armed with Bourbon Street's Strongest drink in big ass stryrofoam cups, we ventured up Bourbon street, through the gay section, past a very deserted section where no tourist would dare tread. Oddly, I did not feel unsafe; instead I was anticipating what we were about to experience.
Just when we started wondering how much further we were going, we began to hear the beat and vibes of music and street life. More people were converging and moving with us. Soon, there were more people. Not the drunken throngs of Bourbon Street, but the self-assured meandering of people who know an area and are familiar with it.
The complete antithesis of the canvas of Bourbon Street: we were among the locals.
Or at least that is how it felt, almost immediately. Comfortable. More restrained, if that is even an adjective one can use about anything in New Orleans.
Don't get me wrong. It was crowded. And it was loud. But it was not the chaotic crowd and din of noise that exists down below in the bowels of Bourbon Street. Somehow it even felt cleaner, if only because of the absence of the girls and peepshow entrances that are thrust out on Bourbon Street. Or, maybe I just didn't see them.
We stepped into a colorful bar on the corner and listened to some music. I wish I had gotten the name of the band that was playing because their music was fresh, balanced.
Down the street was an open air market where vendors hawked their trinkets. Unique trinkets in their eyes. Unique in mine as well, until I began to think about 10 years down the road and how a trinket from a craft show has a way of becoming old and faded over time.
Lights were strung above like a starry canopy.
It was late, by many standards, and my feet were swelling. We turned back toward Bourbon, back into the bowels. But, somewhere along the way we made the right turn at the wrong time and ended up, at 2am, turned around and wandering in search of the right direction to our car.
Rest assured, our wandering was not aimless. Through the help of a few passers-by and a good sense of direction, we found our car.
For a brief moment, we became locals. I envisioned myself in and around the streets, heading back to one of the quaint bungalows with their brightly colored porticos and worn, comfortable facades.
And, as "locals", we got another view of areas of The French Quarter that most tourists never see.
Isn't that what travel is all about? Seeing and doing things like the locals, experiencing the local fare and flare of life. Being able to see a place from the inside out, instead of the veneer as presented by travel books and guides.
For a brief moment in time, becoming a local. If only in your own mind.
Thanks to my friend and her daughter for a refreshing look at a cliqued venue...and for a truly local experience.
If you are ever in New Orleans and would like to experience this as well, here is a link to more information. It is not to be missed!
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