Naive in N'Orleans

I spent last weekend in New Orleans for the big annual American Heart Association conference. I had not previously been to the Big Easy and was looking forward to having some tasty Cajun and/or creole cuisine (they are different cuisines, right?). Several times throughout my stay I recalled that old commercial with an allegedly real, live Louisiana chef telling me that he "gar-on-TEES" that I will like new Cajun Style Ruffles. I don't think I ever got around to trying them, but I suspect that that commercial is responsible for my continued interest in New Orleans food.

The sad truth is that the extent of my New Orleans cultural experience was born of that potato chip commercial from the mid-1980s. I imagined impromptu jazz parades in the middle of the day, as onlookers shout out "OOOOO-EEEEEE! That is one a fine puh-RADE! I GAR-un-TEEE!!" So it should come as little surprise that I was somewhat naive in planning this trip. When selecting a hotel (location, location, location!) I found one nestled into a corner of Bourbon Street and concluded it would be exciting to stay where all the "fun" is. I would soon learn that my definition of "fun" differs greatly from the prevailing Bourbon Street definition. For me, "fun" is to eat my kids Halloween candy while trying to make it through an entire Netflix-issued DVD without falling asleep. Different definition, indeed.

Now, that's not to say that my hotel was skanky or anything. It was actually quite nice--Mayo Clinic was paying, of course. The only real issue, other than the low pressure, lukewarm showers, was the location. Directly across the street were a cabaret theater and one of at least three so-called "gentleman's" clubs that I passed each time I walked to Canal Street to catch the conference shuttle. The remainder of Bourbon Street was a hodge-podge of bars, blues houses and moderately upscale restaurants. The word was that the far east end of Bourbon Street attracted those of more alternative lifestyles. Even at my end of the street, though, I found more than enough alternatives to my admittedly prudish lifestyle.

After checking in to my hotel, I discovered that I had been assigned a 2-double bed room facing the inner courtyard. I quickly requested a switch and was pleased to find that they had a king room available with a balcony facing the corner of Bourbon and Bienville. I thought, great! Now I can open the balcony door to enjoy the evening music, while keeping the curtains shut so I don't have to actually see anything. It was a great plan, ruined only by the fact that the music I had looked forward to turned out to be a potpourri of honking, police sirens and drunken revelry mixed with three or four different musical genres playing simultaneously and each doing its darnedest to be the loudest on the street. There was Jazz, Blues, Country-Western, and Cover Band Playing Selected Hits from the 60's, 70's, 80's and 90's.

The thing is, the cover bands were actually not bad. It became somewhat of a surreal experience. One minute it's Joe Cocker. Next it's the Eagles. Then there's John (+/- Cougar) Mellencamp. Guns N' Roses. The Beatles. I half expected them all to come out from their various bars at the same time, look around at each other with a confused expression on their faces and say something like, "Wow. What a coincidence. Aren't some of us supposed to be dead?" Instead the Billboard hits just kept on rolling and rolling... until at least 3 AM. It was a Saturday night, so I figured that with the weekend and all, I shouldn't have expected a quiet night. Turns out the weekend had nothing to do with it; Monday night and Tuesday night were no different. Apparently there are always people in New Orleans looking for an excuse to party and get smashed. And where better to do it than right under my balcony.

I don't want to be the cynic who won't acknowledge the good there is in a place like New Orleans. I have to say that I didn't meet a mean person during my stay. There was, of course, the old toothless lady outside the Krystal's hamburger stand who was trying to pick a fight with an old toothless man. But she doesn't count, because 1) it was probably just a really bad hangover, and 2) technically, I didn't "meet" her. Otherwise, though I have to say everyone was very nice and friendly.

Another thing I really enjoyed about New Orleans was the food. While half of the time I may not have known exactly what I was eating--what exactly is "debris" on a Po-Boy sandwich?--I for the most part enjoyed eating it nonetheless. Perhaps my favorite meal, which also turned out to be the cheapest, was at a little hole-in-the-wall called Coop's Place. I had barbecue shrimp, Cajun fried chicken, jambalaya, green beans and red beans and rice. Never mind that we incurred a 20% fee for requesting that the three of us to have separate checks ("I have to enter your order now, then go back and re-enter it to get your bills. It's a real pain in the [butt]."), it was a very fulfilling, albeit a heart unhealthy meal.

Afterwards, we walked back to my hotel, where three other colleagues were finishing their dinners in the oyster bar located, again, right below my balcony. After perusing the dessert menu, I decided that I just wanted some ice cream, which, of course, they didn't offer. So I walked across the street for a $5 ice cream cone and brought it back to the oyster bar window, opposite which the rest of my party was seated. It was a prime location, as I could both signal to them that they needed to hurry up and watch Monday Night Football on one of the widescreen TVs hanging behind the bar. My fantasy football team's victory hinged on the performances of a couple players, so I had a real interest in how the game turned out.

Around this time, a friendly guy who referred to me as "Big Man" came up.

"Hey, Big Man! Whassup? You watchin' the game?"

"Yeah," I answered.

"Whose your team?"

"Neither one. Just watching for fun."

"That's cool, that's cool.... Here you go, Big Man."

At this point he pulled a small business card from a stack of about 30 or 40 and offered it to me. I glanced down at it. I didn't read the whole thing, but I immediately recognized a curious series of X's at the end of some word in the center of the card. Now, I'm no genius, but I'm fairly certain that there is no real word in the English language that has more than one X in a row. Using the deductive reasoning skills that I honed from years of trying to figuring out which of my kids forgot to flush the toilet, I concluded that whatever dubious activity he was inviting me to participate in, I was not interested.

"They is [ladies of the night]," he explained, as if I needed an interpreter.

"I'm not interested in that stuff," I responded plainly.

"Oh, that's cool... cool, Big Man. I get it. You married?"

"Yeah, I am. But even if I weren't, I wouldn't be interested." The complexity of my negative conditional statement caught him a bit off guard.

"You never been to a [gentleman's] club?!"

"Nope. Never."

My reply was met with stunned silence. Visibly confused, he tried to make sense out of the events of the past 90 seconds. I mean, what kind of person hangs around on Bourbon Street after 4:30 in the afternoon? Certainly not the kind who doesn't patronize it's various fine establishments. I wanted to provide him with context for my response, but, while the thought crossed my mind, I decided it was probably not the best situation to explain to him my moral and religious beliefs.

Undeterred, and seemingly unable to find any other logical explanation for my disinterest, he asked, "So, what? Are you Mormon?!"

Stifling the urge to laugh, I explained that, yes, in fact, I am a Mormon. He was excited to inform me that he, too, is a Christian. We exchanged a few pleasantries, after which he asked if I could give him some money to buy a hot dog.