This is the perfect excuse to tell one of my New Orleans being New Orleans stories.
I went to college in New Orleans, and years later I returned for Jazz Fest with a friend I didn’t go to college with. New Orleans has this way of feeling nostalgic even if you didn’t live there. I was fighting a lot of the time the feeling of deja vu all over again, to the point that I was very deliberately not doing things I’d done in college to avoid the disturbing feeling of traveling back in time.
One night my friend took me to one of her friends’ homes. It was, of course, on Fountainebleau Drive, which is one of the more famous streets in Uptown - a street I’d been on many times in college as there was a famous party house there rented by several really cute boys I knew (“the house of good looking men,” my roommate and I had dubbed it). I’d dated one of the guys for a month during Mardi Gras, so I’d been on Fountainbleau a lot. So much for not doing things I’d done back in the day.
Some pics of that neighborhood, sadly many now have FEMA trailers in the yard.
We go to the house and we are sitting on their big front porch with fans swirling overhead eating steamed artichokes and remoulade sauce with the home owners, this couple that’s about our age. We were also drinking some damn fine sazeracs which the husband had made for us - his specialty.
The man works as a PI and he had previously run a small, traveling circus. He told us that one of the reasons that he was good at being a PI was that in his line of work, you occasionally just had to punch someone and back in his circus days, he had learned that it was expected that when someone ran away or acted up the manager was supposed to beat that person up. So, he got good at randomly beating people up.
The guy had fallen down a stairwell about 10 stories once when the doors to an elevator had opened but the elevator was not there. Ever since he had had problems with being confused. It sounded like a terrible, traumatic experience.