Rain! I love the rain here. Hot and thick it makes everything feel sultry and sexy. I fuck umbrellas and walk from shop to shop on Decateur Street. I spend the majority of the torrential part of the storm in Beckham's Books, an extremely large and creaky used bookstore. I buy a novel in french because it feels appropriate, and walk back to Café du Monde for more café au lait and to read.
I feel like I belong to this city. I've already been offered a lap dance, a proposal, and a house. For the second time in two days I am fooled by a convincing transvestite--and in both occasions I was first struck by her awesome fashion sense. The day I look that good I'll know I've succeeded. I literally do not ever want to leave this city, and am already daydreaming of reasons I could live here post-France.
DAY FOUR
After having essentially done nothing other than wander and eat, I decided it was time to check out some cultural attractions. I head back to the official voodoo museum I spotted back on my first morning here. In this city voodoo is synonymous with Marie Laveau, New Orleans' very own queen of voodoo. Marie first gained notoriety in the mid-1800's, when she and her band of followers were the only healers able to cure yellow fever. However, her specialty was love potions. The museum itself is tiny, though packed with information, and I learned many useful things such as how to fashion my own voodoo doll and the process of turning a human into a zombie. (Horrifying, by the way.) I also was able to submit my own special request and offering to Marie Laveau herself, through her magical "wishing stump." (No joke.)
Having had my fill of animism I decided to hit the other end of the spectrum with a visit to the oldest Catholic Church in the U.S. Built in 1794, the St. Louis Cathedral was designed in the Spanish style, and has become an enduring symbol of the city. The inside is a dizzying array of gold and stained glass, and I was literally stunned the moment I walked inside. I tried to soak in as much godliness as I could. (This would become useful later.)
Nighttime in New Orleans
After a breathtaking bout of indecision about where we should go, we finally decided to go the tourist route and do Bourbon Street. First stop was the Bourbon Street standard, a noisy dingy bar with live music. The clientele consisted essentially of older men and women trying to re-live their youth by getting drunk and rowdy to music of the seventies. However this was no problem for us, as the open container laws allowed us to pour our beers into plastic cups and walk the streets. (And by walk the streets I mean dodge drunkards and avoid eye contact.) Blaring music and flashing lights are the norm, and revelers line the balconies above the street dangling beads and dancing in the hopes of just one glimpse of boob. I'm already feeling proprietorial and shoot the tourists dirty looks.
And speaking of flesh, we pit stopped at the "Big Poppa's Love Acts" which held the promising advertisement of no cover and "live sex acts." In this sense I have to confess that New Orleans was a disappointment, since I wasn't aware that sex included two females grinding on each other and a poll with the majority of their clothes on.
The quite possible highlight of the entire trip, however, was the very famous Pat O's Piano Bar. A historic building in its own right, (it was around during prohibition when a password was required for entrance!) the place oozes good times. Home of the hurricane cocktail, guests are jam packed into an outside courtyard where dueling pianist accept requests from the crowd and everyone sings (screams) along to their favorites. Since an ideal night for me almost always includes drinking and singing, I don't think I belong anywhere else.
The rest of the night is a blur, but I'm pretty sure we went dancing and had some kind of drink that tasted remarkably like Dr. Pepper. Missed the piano bar already.
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