Bourbon Street smells like vomit.
And that big brass noisy band of lively boys on the corner promised so much more.
Bourbon Street these days is a lascivious right of passage for men and boys looking for girls drunk enough to pay them the attention they believe is their due.
Frankly, I wouldn’t eat there if they were givin’ it away.
Anyway, I couldn’t possibly open my mouth to that smell.
I wandered along with the early evening crowd, sure footed among the cacophony of booze and lights and smells and promises of barely legal girls, and then, suddenly, one more step and the air cleared.
I was still on Bourbon Street, but the stoopidness of inflated and hateful and broken masculinity passed with the crossing of one more street. No longer performing for me, the tourist and stranger, the street brightened into a corridor of pretty houses.
The air was easy.
The homes built like those of the Spanish, with enclosed courtyards shuttered from the street.
Tiled signs declaring ‘Calle de Bourbon’ . . .
And now I’m wondering why they call this the French quarter?
And then this:
Look carefully at this picture.
I turned left, circling back to my hotel via anywhere but Bourbon Street, and left again into Dauphine Street.
Ahhhh, a small sweet deli (there’s tomorrow’s breakfast), a seafood restaurant (lunch).
And up across Canal Street to the gorgeous Pavillion Hotel.