The cab driver maneuverd the beat up champagne colored suburban through the New Orleans highway traffic. The skycaps at the airport called him Pac Man. I wondered how he had earned such a name. I sat quietly in the back watching him as he somewhat skillfully drove with one hand while using the other to hold his cell phone. He spoke in low tones and in some dialect of his native Arabic tongue that I could not understand. Pac Man postured himself in a gangster lean
with his left elbow propped up against the window, and his head and body slightly tilted to the left. This provided optimal position for holding his small phone to his ear. At one point in our journey he slid his right hand down the steering wheel and to the left to pull up the trun signal lever, indicating his intent to move the vehicle into the right lane. After making the lane change, he left the the blinker on for about five minutes, turning it off only after he had finished his conversation.
The highway was well traveled and in dire need of some state or even federally funded repairs. Gazing out of the windinw in silence, we passed a couple of well manicured but very ordinary neighborhoods. In my mind I envisioned some white haired little old lady pruning her pink petunias while here bald husband wattered their plush green grass in his high-waisted shorts and brown dress socks.
As we continued down the highway, we passed something which I found extraordinary. The Lakelawn Metairie Cemetary was so vast that it stretched out to both sides of the highway. All at once we were surrounded by a sea of white stone mosoleums sprouting from the sacred earth. They were like white orchids which had grown from the ground to mark the spot where someone’s loved one was laid to rest. It was not until later that day that I realized that all of New Orleans dead were laid to rest above ground. The city is situated below sea level, therefore it is not possible to places corpses in the ground. That is of course, unles you want to see dead bodies floating around after a good gully washer.
We soon exited the highway, navigating through more battered streets. The thoroughfares were narrow, consisting of two lanes on each side of a tree inhabited median. The right lanes on each side of the street were occupied by parked cars, transforming the passages into one lane roads.
The driver turned right onto St. Peter and made another right onto Barracks Street passing the French Market. He brought the large vehicle to a hault on the corner of Decatur and Barracks. A construction crew prevented him from dropping us off in front of our final destination. Pac Man jumped out of the suburban, presented us with our luggage and thanked us as we paid our fare plus a twenty percent gratuity.
Takinkg a moment to get our barings, we proceeded southwest down Decatur Street, toting our luggage behind us. We felt like helpless prey in full view of the perched vultures of the decadent city. The construction crew had a large hose penetrating the surface of a massive mound of dirt. We could not determine if it was dispensing or extracting something and truthfully we were not eager to find out. Six workers were at the site, though only two seemed to be doing any work. The street was lined with Spanish/French colonial style buildings that were constructed in the late 1800’s. The balconies were adorned with ornate, black, wrought iron railings. Various aromas wafted past as we continued down the covered sidewalk. Most of them were not what I would consider, well, pleasant. It was then that I noticed all of the shops, boutiques and residents placed their trash on the street curbs to be picked up who knows when by city sanitation crews. This was a practice that had undoubtedly gone on for centuries. A practice which I felt should have been dispensed with right along with the very refuse that it purported to collect.
We finally arrived at the address. Tucked away between two store fronts was a long narrow walkway leading to a green wooden stairway. I grabbed the door handle of the iron gate that stood between us and what we presumed was our final destination. It was locked. Our access denied, we pulled out our itenerary to see if a contact number was anywhere to be found. No such luck. We then decided to call the friends we were sharing this mini-vacation with on our cell phone. Upon realizing that she had recently changed her number, we returned to our previous state of unanimated despair.
A few moments later a young man walked up and opened the locked gate. We quickly interrogated him in the hopes that he was our mysterious contact. Neil was a white male of about five feet, ten inches in his mid twenties. He was lean with glasses, and short wavy brown hair. Neil was kind enough to invite us up to the condo he and his friends were renting and provide us with the number for Kurt, our contact. After spending about fifteen minutes getting to know our generous hosts, Kurt swung open the door and introduced himself. Kurt was very thin with dark hair and a thin but prominent nose. He had high cheek bones and wore a yellow t-shirt, beige cargo shorts and sandles. His sunglesses were sitting on top of his head, pulling his hair back in the front and falling over his ears at the sides. I do not think I have ever anyone so friendly and full of energy. he smiled as he told us about his life and New Orleans. Like a child telling his parents about his first trip to the zoo, it seemed Kurt could not get the information out fast enough. Places to eat, museums to visit, tours to take. He told us all he could within the thirty minutes we conversed. Whe he did not tell us, he promised to provide via cell phone. He and his partner were taking a spontaneous trip to Pensicola, FL for the weekend. In a flash he was off, leaving us with a number of sticky notes, scribbled with the names and directions of places we should not miss.
We sat around for hours waiting on our frineds to arrive. Bored we left the condo to visit some of the local boutiques. Eventually the rest of the gang arrived in style, pulling up to the hous in a strecthed white limousine. The eight of them filed out of the stately ride like clowns in a three ring circus. The limo driver removed their luggage from the trunk, collected his fee plus tip and drove off into the sunset.
I led the gang, luggage and all, up the stairs to our awaiting retreat. not everyone was pleased with the place. The space was large, with exposed brick walls, skylights, and beaded glass windows. It had a rustic feel. The other condos were much nicer than ours, but ours was the only one that could sleep more than 10 people somewhat comfortabley. Hungry, we all set out for Harrah’s to partake in their buffet. After a night of minor gambling and a few drinks, my wife and I retired. We left our friends on Bourbon Street, drinking the night away. After tucking my wife in for the night, I sat on the couch and read until our friends returned. They all arrived in various states of inebriation, ranging from slightly buzzed to falling down drunk. All seemed to have had a good time. After filling me in on the events of that evening, we managed to find our way into our beds for the night. I drifted off to sleep trying to imagine what Saturday would have in store for us.