The Big Easy

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Another piece of advice from a number of friends warned us not to leave New Orleans’ French Quarter. Or, as they put it, “don’t go anywhere there aren’t white people.”

We took their advice to heart; we walked up and down Bourbon Street so many times we could’ve dug a rut. Glenn and I were impressed, and happy, to find that the party in New Orleans is not limited to Mardi Gras. Beads, Jello shots, flashing women (and men) and 24oz drinks were everywhere. Bourbon Street is lined with a number of different bars, a few restaurants, but also quite a number of strip clubs—as if there wasn’t enough of that on the street.

Glenn and I were reminded of Egypt when we saw people on the side of police barriers selling “tickets” to walk up and down Bourbon Street. Our first encounter came when a woman called out to Glenn, “Sir, sir, excuse me, sir!” Then walking past another barrier a guy asked us if we had our tickets for Bourbon Street. Later that night, once people were a bit more intoxicated, we saw a number of people buying the “tickets” that allow them to walk up and down the public street they’ve been enjoying for hours already. Oh, and don’t worry, they had laminated badges to make them official.

On one of our journeys along Bourbon Street Glenn startled me by stopping to shout at a guy in the street. No, Glenn is not that crazy. It turns out he had recognized an acquaintance from Bathurst walking down the street. Crazy!

On our second night I decided I needed to get some beads. Don’t worry--Glenn said the traditional method was out of the question. I bought some. So it became our job to throw beads down to deserving persons along Bourbon Street. More often than not, as a girl, I was throwing them to people who made a good effort, but didn’t make the cut for the group of guys next to me goggling at the unaware women below. These guys required a solid, traditional flash to get beads. Very demanding I thought. Glenn & I threw beads to people who would do a silly dance or, in some cases, just beg.

In one case an older gentleman walked by my balcony in an outfit that brought a smile to my face: jeans so tight they buttoned way bellow the swell of his belly, a button up shirt that wasn’t buttoned enough, and nestled in his chest hair were half a dozen heavy gold chains, which he didn’t feel the weight of as they rested upon the summit of his belly. I thought this brave man deserved a bead for walking down the street in such a fashion. I retrieved a bead from my neck. Just as I was winding up, my throwing arm was caught by another woman pleading “please, don’t reward that behavior.” I gave in, and the man who brought a smile to my face continued down Bourbon Street none the wiser.

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