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New Orleans once on a blue moon   
- -  Mimi

On a drizzly, fall afternoon in Seattle I was at my usual bar for happy hour.  The travel section of the newspaper lay on the counter. Wanting something to read, I picked up the paper and browsed the discounted airfares to warm places as the cold rain fogged the windows of the bar. Tahiti $735, Cook Islands $800, Hawaii $496 including hotels, the list went on. The post terrorism prices were all bargains. But no amount of bargain moved me from my stool. “Una mas, por favor” I said to the bartender. “I’m French. Not Spanish!” Pierre scolded me as usual and handed me a Corona. Ironically, the next bargain I noticed in the paper was to the French Quarters: ‘New Orleans $200rt’. 

I never had a fascination for the place as many others do. But a recent article about Halloween in New Orleans had roused my curiosity about the place. The story of present-day voodoo rituals being performed on Halloween night rivaled the amazing tales of Anne Rice novels. For two hundred dollars I could have a glimpse into this secret world. I called the airline, bought the ticket, and three days later I was sitting at The Absinthe Bar in the French Quarters having a ‘hurricane’. Yes, Soames’ fans! They really do have an absinthe bar in the French Quarters, though only a milder version of the original concoction is served these days.   

My first impression of the French Quarters was this is a dangerous, rundown, and tacky place. The French Quarters seemed like a carnival with drunks and addicts and panhandlers in every other block. I suspected the crime rate would rise even higher if they stopped serving alcohol; a lot of questionable characters lay passed out, unable to even panhandle. To my surprise, even the horse-drawn carriages are not drawn by horses, but by jackasses! At times it seemed like I was visiting a foreign country without having left home.

But all this was before my first ‘hurricane’.  I’m not sure exactly what goes into a hurricane but every visitor to N.O. should have one as soon upon arrival as possible. Music flowed from the many bars on to the streets. Street performers vied for attention from passersby.  Black kids tap-danced on the streets as the voice of Etta filled the swampy air below filigreed balconies. The hurricane had transformed the Quarters. Maybe that’s why they serve so many of them here; colored specs for a harsh glare. 

That afternoon cast a spell on the rest of my days in ‘Nawlins. The streetcars clickety clacking along St Charles Street passed under hundred-year old oaks. Antebellum mansions lined both sides of the street. The grand stone buildings of Tulane University lay ahead of us. But once in a while my first disagreeable impressions of the place would reemerge and make me think the spell was broken.  The cemeteries were grand and beautiful, especially with so many flowers on them. But on closer look I realized that though there was water in the vases, the flowers were fake.

Halloween night brought out the ghouls, goblins and witches in outrageous costumes.  Others came in no costumes at all, wearing only body paint. Music bellowed from the many bars and poured onto Bourbon Street, each tune mingling with the one playing next door. Drinks flowed in to-go cups. People lined the streets. The parades started. They were like no parades I had seen. Outrageous is the only adjective that keeps coming to mind. Revelers filled the streets singing, drinking, throwing strands of beads at women flashing their breasts. Down the street was the Casbah where women do this every night for money. On a usual night the place is filled with men. But tonight it is empty of customers. The girls too are out on Bourbon Street reveling with the rest.

In between the different parades I slipped into a bar adjacent to the Sonesta Hotel. The TV was on. Though muted, the pictures told the somber story of a nation on alert. But on this night, in this bar we all felt far removed from that nation on alert. We could have very well been in Bora Bora.

Outside the party never stopped. On Bourbon Street a French couple in their sixties was admiring a gorgeous blonde showing her breasts to the audience before her. The husband was clicking away his Minolta and grinning. The wife stood back but even she could not help but look. When the husband stepped back I said to them, “you know that’s a man, don’t you?”  I soon found out they spoke very little English and had no idea what I was trying to tell them. After several failed attempts I picked out the two words of French I remembered from perfume bottles and said to them “No femme! Homme, homme” I repeated. “Homme?! NO!”  They both exclaimed in utter disbelief and started laughing. I could have sworn the wife laughed a little louder. “Remember mon cheri, no real woman looks that perfect!”  

The music continued to blare from the bars but the voices faded in the streets. People trickled out of the Quarters to find the nearest beds. The few hearty revelers at the Sonesta Hotel lingered on. I realized I never made it to the voodoo ceremony that had inspired my trip. It was past two-thirty in the morning. The ceremony was long over. But the graveyard was still there. And it was a full moon; the second full moon of the month. Why not go there now? I still had a few hours before my early morning flight. A brave soul volunteered to go with me.

A short cab ride took us to a place that seemed so far away. Away from the music, the debauchery, the drinking and partying. The huge headstones shone in the moonlight as the dead lay before us. We stood at the entrance and for a moment were afraid to enter; but what a waste of cab fare that would have been.  So, we ventured on. It was eerily quiet. Only the leaves crunched under our feet. We walked through several rows of headstones when we thought we heard a voice. We looked around but could not see anyone.

We kept walking but more softly. We could see a faint glow ahead of us. As we turned the corner my heart stopped for a moment. Underneath a huge oak tree there were candles; many, many candles. Most had burnt out but some were still burning and were casting the glow that we had followed. Along with the candles there were voodoo dolls, similar to the ones in the souvenir shops. This must have been the remnant of the ceremony I had missed. I was scared and excited at the same time. Before I could say a word I noticed the movement of a figure sitting under a tombstone just ahead of us. She had her back to us. I froze. My heart pounded so hard I thought I could hear it. I prayed that she wouldn’t hear us. Too scared to move we remained standing. She started chanting. This was the voice we had heard. What she was chanting we could not make out. All we heard was a murmur in the distance. Our fear turned to exhilaration. She rocked back and forth in front of a lit alter, unaware of our presence. Now we stood there unafraid. Her voice whispered through the night air. Spirits stirred under the blue moon of a ‘Nawlins sky. The spell could not be broken. 

Copyright 2001 by Mimi