Mississippi was a long slow afternoon of green and brown fields. It was Saturday afternoon and we saw few people out and about. The fields yielded to marsh with white egrets flying low from one hillock to another. Gradually the marsh gave way to swamp (more water, less land) and then ultimately melted into the great Lake Pontchartrain which we crossed on the world’s largest bridge. It was unnerving to spend so much time on a long, low bridge with only water in all directions.

We had been to New Orleans once many years ago, but I was still not prepared for the heat and humidity. It was like being handed a hot, steamy towel to wrap around my neck, a Louisiana lei, to greet me.

The town was in full party mode. Tulane was playing Grambling State. LSU was playing BYU and The Southern Decadence Celebration occupied the French Quarter. It seemed as though everyone in town was either dressed in purple or not dressed at all!

Our hotel was a little boutique called The French Market Inn, with an inner courtyard consisting of a pool and fountains. Somehow it was three buildings connected together in a way that was not at all obvious from the street, Decatur St. Across the road was the Mississippi River.

We spent a goodly amount of time unpacking and sorting through the fistful of coupons the receptionist had handed us. While we wanted to taste the local cuisine, Lydia is not fond of hot spicy food. We opted for a seafood place two blocks away. It was called Oceana. There was a line outside, but because unlike most of the parties there were only two of us, we were quickly seated at a cozy window seat. We began with crab cakes smothered in a mushroom and crawfish cream sauce followed by deep fried catfish for Lyd and shrimp for me. We shared a soft shelled blue crab. I cannot describe how good the food was other than to say I did not even touch the French fries, so I would have room for more fish.

We left dinner for Preservation Hall, three blocks away, stopping every half block or so for me to catch my breath, or to just be tourists and soak in all of the “goings on”. There was music everywhere, little three-piece combos, or adolescent black kids playing rhythms on upturned plastic buckets. The crowds flowed down the streets around them, male couples in short-shorts and suspenders, without shirts holding hands, women with huge bums in leggings that would make my compression socks seem comfortable. Everyone, but us, carried a drink. Cops wandered around in groups of three or four. Parked cop cars with blue lights strobing were on every street though we could see nothing to indicate trouble. Possibly they just wanted to add the party lights for the evening.

We checked in at Preservation Hall and got our passes, which were cards that folded out into fans, a good indication of what to expect inside, and went next door to Pat O’Brian’s to await show time in an air-conditioned space. A mint julep later we entered Preservation Hall and seated ourselves on a bench next to two gentlemen who may have been tackles for the Saints. They did not see the need to share the small bench willingly, though the four of us were assigned to it. I forgave him later when he put $5 in the tip jar and requested St. James Infirmary.

Preservation Hall was not fancy. It was old corrugated tin, cardboard, plywood, and torn screen. I am not sure if it was meant to evoke a time when jazz was just lowlife music played in sleazy clubs or, if it was just what it was, a little beat up room that hadn’t changed in decades. It was hot, stuffy, and crowded. The band was four black men, two young and two old, a white guy on clarinet, and a Japanese woman on piano. The audience was just as mixed with old, young, Asian and Mid-Eastern. It was a pleasure to sit in such a tiny room and watch the musicians blend into the music. Later Lydia said that once the music began she forgot all about being hot, crowded, and uncomfortable. For a $20 tip the band closed out with “The Saints”. I couldn’t tell whether they wanted more to play the song because they were tired of playing it, or because it was sure money. Maybe a bit of both.

Stepping out of the Hall, the party was still in full swing, just a little drunker and a little louder, with fewer clothes on.

The Road