My first taste of the Big Easy came when I was just a kid about eleven, on vacation with my parents.  We had camped in Evangeline State Park the night before where some locals showed us the fishin' hole and we caught perch with canned corn as bait.  It was practically a drive-by of N.O. . . . but . . . well, my family still laughs at the breakdown of our family Olds wagon at the corner of Canal & Bourbon.  The New Orleans cop telling us to move it in the sweltering heat and my frustrated Dad inviting him to try his hand.  I remember a newstand and trying to find a place that sold some candy.  Oh yeah, my parents thought Al Hirt and Pete Fountain were the greatest.

Next time I hit New Orleans, I was in college over in Austin.  Back then (the 70s) they let students without a place to stay crash inside Tulane stadium during Mardi Gras.  And, yes, the cops did NOT have a sense of humor for any foolishness.  But I have hazy memories of too much alcohol and lots of parades and fried foods.  The Wild Tchapitoulas included members of the Neville Brothers, the Meters and the great Allen Tousaint.

In between, while in Austin, I discovered zydeco and saw Clifton Chenier at Antone's (the old original one down on 6th, not the fancy new place).

Then, out in the Bay Area, many years later I met my friend Adolph . . . sometimes called Adolpho . . . of mixed descent, his mother was Costa Rican . . . but he was born and raised in New Orleans.  He and I cooked together, I'd go hear his band play (he plays a mean blues guitar), we'd swap CDs, go to baseball games and so forth.  He introduced me to Dewey Balfa and a few others.  Along with a third friend who also turned 40 the same year, we threw a 120th birthday party and flew in crawfish for a big feed in the rented hall where we had live music too.  But eventually, New Orleans called Adolph and his new bride back.

The next time I visited . . . I had a native guide and a place to stay, over in the Irish Channel, across Magazine from the Garden District.  Sure, we did the beignets at Cafe du Monde and visited the Quarter.  But New Orleans is so much more . . . Food?  There's the Camellia Grill at the end the the St. Charles streetcar line for breakfast, Deanie's over on the Pontchatrain side for mountains of fried seafood, Casamento's out on Magazine for oysters . . . as Adolph cautioned us, never waste an opportunity to eat in New Orleans.  And the music . . . I still have olfactory memories of the sweaty night of dancing to the Wild Magnolia's over at the Funky Butt on Congo Square . . . wouldn't trade 'em for the world.  And the people . . . wonderful and warm and languid . . . like their city.  These days, although they were high enough to avoid flood damage, Adolph has admitted to a lot of depressing days.  For his wife especially, not a native, it has been hard.

What many people don't "get" about New Orleans is its heritage and its gifts to America.  It's heritage is steeped in our history: Native people, French, British, Spanish, African and Carribean slaves, creoles, Arcadians, and the "Free Coloreds."  New Orleans has always been an intersection of cultures, much like America, but somehow magnified by the heat and the great river that connects the city to America's "heartland."  New Orleans gave us jazz, America's singular gift the world.  If we lose this great treasure, it can never be replaced.  I love you, New Orleans, and wish your wild-living ways godspeed in returning to you as soon as possible.