In honor of Mardi Gras, which begins tomorrow, and to continue to celebrate one of my favorite cities, I am reproducing a two-part article I wrote for The Traveler’s Pen website in 2007. I’m posting Part I today and Part II tomorrow. 

Part I

Andrei Codrescu in his introduction to New Orleans Stories writes, “There are certain cities and certain areas of certain cities where the official language is dreams.” When I first read that line several years ago, I found it revelatory. I have been traveling to New Orleans for once or twice a year for 16 years having discovered a connection to the city like no other. For writers, musicians, and other creative types, New Orleans harbors a lifetime of inspiration.

I first visited New Orleans in June of 1991 with my then-boyfriend-now-friend, Arthur. To stretch our students’ budgets, we seized free lodging in Baton Rouge from Arthur’s father and drove the 70 or so miles along I-10 every day (and back every night) past marsh grass, swamp land and egrets. Our one fancy dinner out was at Bon Ton’s, courtesy of Arthur’s father. We changed for dinner in the lobby men’s room at the Sheraton on Canal Street, freshening up as best we could after a day swimming in the humid heat of the French Quarter. Putting on our clean shirts, and requisite suit coats, ties and dress shoes, we hailed a taxi to the CBD (Central Business District) praying to get there before our dry clothes soaked with sweat. We made it, mostly. I have no recollection of what we ate, but I remember having a delightful time. My mom still has a picture of the two of us looking quite dashing sitting at our table at Bon Ton’s, smiling at the waiter as he memorialized the event for us.

Another picture from the same trip shows Arthur and me sitting in Pat O’Brien’s with Arthur’s father’s much younger then-girlfriend, Nancy (also Arthur’s mother’s name) looking happy to be in from the midday heat. Later that day after a quick lunch at the Napoleon House – Arthur’s father is an impatient diner – Arthur and I headed off to the bars for an afternoon of leisurely imbibing.

Being able to experience the same city with the same person at different times in your life is one of the magical benefits of life-long friendships. I have been to New Orleans many times with Arthur. On a more recent trip four years ago, we reminisced about that first fancy dinner together some 12 years prior. The city is older and we are older, but the feeling is the same; what connects it all is still there.

In July of 1995 I subjected my new boyfriend, Stan, to a New Orleans summer. I should have known the trip was doomed. Stan was having problems with his feet before we left, and the combination of too much walking and too much heat made for a miserable introduction to a city that prides itself on overwhelming visitors with sights, sounds, scents, and other sensations. After that trip, he swore he hated New Orleans and would never go back. And he did not until May of 2003 when he joined me for part of an extended writing trip. We had perfect conditions for Stan’s second visit; the weather was just right, and we had no agenda. We allowed the laid-back atmosphere of the city to envelope us. The most energy we expended involved strolling through Sunday open houses in the Quarter after a lunch of fried chicken, collard greens and sweet iced tea. Having finally understood the allure of the city, Stan has been back several times since.

Never knowing what awaits me in New Orleans is part of what keeps me going back. During one visit, accompanied by a gay civilian employee of the Department of Defense befriended at a festival reception at Brennan’s, I savored an exuberant one-woman tribute to the life and work of Tennessee Williams. On another occasion, I debated the cultural significance of comic books in a Bourbon Street gay bar with a Tulane professor of English. And on yet another slipped into an inaugural writer’s conference for gay and lesbian writers where the speakers bashed New York and San Francisco with relish designating both soulless cities absent surviving character. Such is the Quarter demimonde in all its ironic beauty.

While New Orleans’ legion of fleshly pleasures – food, drink, and sex – dominate the perceptions and waking hours of most visitors, the city’s cultural and artistic heritage feeds the souls of the willing. Two of my favorite retreats from the Louisiana sun are the museums housed in the Cabildo and Presbytere, flanking either side of the St. Louis Cathedral on Jackson Square. The Presbytere museum features a fascinating permanent Mardi Gras exhibit tracing the history of the pre-Lent celebration and how different communities, including the gay community, have shaped the event. I have also escaped the Quarter’s crowds inside the mystifying Voodoo Museum and stately Old US Mint. The New Orleans Museum of Art (NOMA) waits at the other end of a short bus ride to Mid City. Sadly, I witnessed sparse museum attendance even during the 2003 celebration of the bicentennial of the Louisiana Purchase.

And that was before Katrina.