Morning Open Thread is a daily, copyrighted post from a host of editors and guest writers. We support our community, invite and share ideas, and encourage thoughtful, respectful dialogue in an open forum.
I’ve come to think of this post as one where you come for the music and stay for the conversation—so feel free to drop a note. The diarist gets to sleep in if she so desires and can show up long after the post is published. So you know, it's a feature, not a bug.
Join us, please.
Sunday morning around 10 is when I woke up and screwed my head on straight. Today was my day to take it easy and relax around the Garden District before I caught the music that I really wanted to see. Being August and the off season, the bands I wanted to see weren’t in town. Clearly the smart ones went out on the road and got out of the muggy heat of the late summer. I had one chance to see some foot stomping Cajun music that weekend, I was told. I was excited that a Sunday afternoon dance was held at Tipitina’s. I’ve always heard about the place. After all, I’ve worked a bunch of Radiator’s shows in Minnesota and had hung out with the guys several times. Here’s a song from them in a barn, just like the old days. In fact I recognize a couple people in the crowd.
I had plenty of time to walk around and eat and drink and check out plant life that I was not familiar with. As a plant guy, there’s a ton of stuff that grows in NOLA that I’ve never seen before. So I set off strolling down St. Charles looking for breakfast. I zigged, I zagged across the neighborhoods checking out the beautiful homes and yards, walk into a little cafe, eat some red beans and rice with some andouille sausage here, etouffee with a glass of wine there… I was in heaven. Or so I thought. The best was yet to come.
I enjoyed stopping to chat with folks that were out in their yards tending to their little slices of jungle. I met a couple of knowledgeable gardeners that could answer my deeper questions about growing veggies in that climate. I was gastronomically and botanically satisfied. Everyone was friendly and willing to stand around in the shade and tell me about their lives. That was a great way to get the feel of life on the richer side of town.
As the afternoon progressed, I knew I needed to find some place to sit down and conserve my strength and fuel up for an evening of hopefully kick ass music. It turns out even waiting for something to happen is fun in New Orleans. I found the 45 Bar on Tchoupitoulas Street.
I whiled away a couple hours there at the bar having a blast with the most certainly friendly folks in that fine dive bar. I still have the recipe for Redneck Margaritas that the bartender wrote on a cocktail napkin.
Time got away from me! I wonder why? It was after 5 o’clock, so I said a hearty good bye to all my new friends and high tailed it down the street to Tip’s. I was kicking myself cause I missed the dance lesson at the beginning. I really needed that, since the only cajun dancing I had done was in the living room. I’m pretty sure I was doing it wrong.
The first thing I noticed upon entering was that they served Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in the bottle, alright! Then I took some time to check out the history on the walls. My gawd, the talent that has graced that stage… The third thing I noticed was there were a couple of other hippy guys dancing in their own way against the wall. Good, I wasn’t gonna be the only dork there. The rest of the crowd was certainly interesting. It looked like most everyone came right from church. That made me feel like I was sticking out like a sore thumb even more. But I noticed that they were alternating a two step dance number with a slower waltzing song. Hey, I can dance to that. So, I joined in the fun and was dancing with ladies and holding my own.
And then I saw her.
It felt like all of the ugliness and despair in the world vanished with just one look at this amazing woman. All thought and desire was shoved into the back of my brain, replaced by the overwhelming urge to dance with her. She was as tall as I am, 6’2”. When she smiled at me her eyes popped with sparkles of light. And we danced.
Since I was in no mood to show her how awkward I was at the two step, I’d watch her dance with everyone that asked her. She exuded joy and happiness. I was crushing on her more and more with every song that we danced to. By the time we both took a break to get a beer, I was ready to carve monuments in her honor out of Marble that I would have happily quarried myself. I had barely said two sentences to her. Swallowing every pound of giddiness and silly schoolboy guffaw, I asked what her name was.
Katrina. Really? How unfortunate. I thought she was messing with me. I suggested she change her name to, oh, I don’t know, how about Evangeline?
When the dance was over at 9, I was fully prepared to handcuff myself to her rear bumper just to stay in her presence. By now I had told her that I was leaving in the morning. I asked if there was any more music to go see. Of course! She wanted to go to DBA’s and see a couple bands play. YES!
The NOLA locals can help me out with this. I could have sworn DBA was on the corner of Decatur and Esplanade and clearly remember someone telling me Harry Anderson owned it. Or do I have my facts blurred up in a bazooka blast of bourbon and bad memory?
But there I was. I had to laugh at the unforeseen situation of dancing with the prettiest lady in the parish to a honky tonk band that could have been from the bar in my hometown. i felt like the luckiest guy in the world.
She was such a good sport. Any girl from any other town would have insisted on going home because it was late Sunday night. Not her. Our zest and love of laughing, dancing and talking carried us through a blues band and into the wee hours of the night. She suggested we eat. Walking down Barracks Street in the dark with this long blonde haired powder keg of personality felt like I was in my own Bogie Becall noir.
I don’t know if it was her, my mood or what. But I sure would like to go back to Port of Call to see if that really was the greatest freakin burger I’ve ever had. We talked and laughed. It was so easy.
And that was it. I immediately started feeling something horrid. The opposite of everything I had felt up to that point. As we made our way back to my hostel the desire to revel in her presence grew by leaps and bounds. I was almost in tears when we hugged and she kissed me and said goodnight.
Next week I will tell you about the magic that occurred to help heal the sweetest puppy love crush I’ve had since I was a teenager.
Three Nights in NOLA Part 1
Three Nights in NOLA Part 2
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Grab your coffee or tea and join us, please.
What's on your mind this morning?