6:45 a.m. - 2022-12-12
The Marigny
We were the only guests in a 5-room boarding house in The Marigny; a neighborhood that, 17 years after Katrina, seems to have found gentrification's “sweet spot”. Just blocks away from the jazzy mayhem of Frenchmen Street lie these quiet sidewalks, punctuated by stretches of cobbled brick dating back to the early 1800's. Shady lanes where bohemians of every stripe walk their dogs and greet each other with languid, local familiarity, where tucked-away cafes bustle...friendly and unadvertised.
I realize that this sort of municipal "renaissance" comes with rising property values, typically at the expense of marginalized communities. And that in New Orleans this was precipitated by catastrophic flooding that displaced thousands. How direct is the correlation between that broken levee and the urban idyll we savored in The Marigny? I can't say. One of our taxi drivers, who hailed from the lower ninth ward, alluded to it, and I would have loved to hear him expound on the subject. But it was a short ride, and I was tired from a long day of walking, drinking and nuptial festivities...
Said festivities were wonderful by the way, and I'll summarize them briefly before addressing any first impressions of my Diaryland wedding-date. (Which is what you're really here for, right? This rare instance of platform-incestuous, cross-blog drama? Well fear not, I will dish. I'll expound on her appearance and posture; her table-manners, wit, and fashion-sense. On her dental hygiene, singing voice, sexual proclivities and predilections...I'll share my honest opinion of her archery skills and political leanings. I will top-off the inkwell twice-again to provide the salacious detail the occasion merits and that you, dear readers, demand.)
Anyway, there'd been some miscommunication with the would-be wedding venue; a charming two-story rental on Chartres St. Maybe it had to do with fire-code/occupancy limits? Maybe the owner was just a prick...didn't matter though, the bride and groom rolled w/the punches and responded w/an aplomb that bodes well for the marriage. Couldn't hold the ceremony inside? No worries, they tied the knot on the front porch as we toasted them with champagne from the sidewalk. That toast was the cue for a small brass band to launch into a rollicking march and, as retired cops blocked traffic, we all paraded up Frenchmen, around a few blocks and back again...whereupon the musicians mounted the porch and continued playing as revelers (invited guests and passers-by alike) danced in the street. But what of the reception, you ask? Well, this was handled in the most New Orleans way possible; they just did it in a fucking park. Set up some chairs and an open bar and laid out the buffet in some local green-space. It was festive and spontaneous and perfect. But we didn't stay very long...
Wait, what? An open bar? Set-up in a park? And Ernst left early? Of course I'd come to NOLA with a bacchanalian thirst, and fully expected to wake up the next morning with grass in my teeth and dew on my suit-coat. But aside from the bride and her father, I knew no one at the party. Curiously, she hadn't invited anyone else from the small Texas town where she'd grown up. The town where I'd met her years ago when she was working as a bartender, and where we hold friends in common. So it was a new-to-me clique in attendance, one made up primarily of hipster kids in their 20's and 30's. A scene that, to be honest, I find a bit exhausting.
This isn't a critique of the wedding though, which was awesome. And I have no doubt that some of the young guests would have been equally nonplussed at the prospect of being buttonholed by a liquored-up 53 year old tradesman... But regardless, if you were gonna marry a hipster, our handsome and charming groom was your guy. He wore his ginger locks long and straight, and his woolly Victorian mutton-chops were well-conditioned. The dude showed up in a red, crushed-velvet suit for the ceremony...the dude drives a Cadillac hearse. She'd introduced us a year ago, and I would have loved to have sat down and emptied a bottle w/the new couple but, sadly, an old friend's wedding is just too-hectic of an occasion to catch up with an old friend...
Also, a certain 53 year old tradesman had had a long day, and wanted nothing more than to lay down next to his lovely wedding-date in their tiny room in an otherwise-empty guest house on a quiet street in The Marigny. A street that became even quieter a few hours later as the neighborhood was blanketed in fog. I'm a light sleeper and heard the first distant horn...a tanker was making its way down the misty Mississippi, and it sounded like a big one. These were long, deep pulls that boomed out over the water and echoed back off the city, a three-second delay that would fold-again into that sonorous and steady signal. I lay awake listening as the ship drew closer, thinking about the region and its history until, scant blocks away on the river-bend, the ship let out a blast that rattled our windows, shook the frame of the old wooden guesthouse, and startled awake my gently-snoring roommate. Startled her upright in the foggy early hours of her birthday...
~ ~ ~
That fog was already burning off when, on a post-breakfast stroll together, I clocked a familiar neighborhood bar. One I knew from a previous visit back when a friend (yesterday's bride, actually) had lived a few blocks away. It's a joint that opens early, the kind of spot I'd deem “gentrification-proof”. Stepping out into the morning light was a lady in what appeared to be a “Sexy Mrs. Claus” costume. She was soon joined by another, and then several. All with drinks in their hands. “Some kind of bar-crawl?” we wondered, following them as they crossed the street...The avenue was lined, in either direction, with parade floats. It turns out our costumed cuties were members of a dance krewe (The Mandeville Milkmaids) out pre-gaming before New Orleans' first annual Christmas parade. That city loves its parades (the proposal for this one had been part of the new Mayor's campaign platform) and the locals were abuzz. So of course we checked it out. We saw the tiniest dancers in sequined leotards, concentrating hard on their choreographed moves; hair braided tight by their moms that morning...or perhaps braided by their older sisters, who paraded in matching costumes behind them, executing more practiced versions of the same routines. We saw local high-school marching bands; the serious, almost hard, expressions of the drum majors and majorettes coexisting in contrast to the campy antics of the krewes performing around them: the mermaid-themed Sirens of NOLA, the blonde-bewigged Krewe of Dolly Parton, the Muff-a-Lottas...and oh yeah The 610 Stompers, a troupe of middle-aged men in like, softball uniforms. Only with tight shorts. And sparkly gold shoes. (And despite whatever pride I take in the relative breadth of my vocabulary, or the disdain I harbor towards clichés...I've little choice here but to describe these gents as “fabulous”.) We were, of course, pelted with beads and candy thrown from atop alligator floats by elves who'd been drinking all morning. It was quintessentially New Orleans, and it doubled as a serendipitous birthday celebration for my wedding-date. Who seemed genuinely happy to be there.
She'd said she was nervous about meeting me in person, and I get it. The whole “meeting a strange man in a strange town” aspect of all this. And yeah, both me and New Orleans check those boxes off in triplicate. But I found her to be easy company, exhibiting an essential trait; one that's a constant in (and a requisite for) all of my relationships, she was game. This came as a pleasant surprise after our phone conversations, where she'd oft-express strong opinions on random subjects with her trademark phrase, “That's disgusting!”. But maybe it was the change of scenery, because within an hour of arrival she loosened up...
I'd been suggesting itinerary options over the phone a few days before the trip when she blurted out, “I hate jazz”. Well...um, red flag. (I made a mental note then to get two sets of room keys, in case we got “separated”.) But, holding hands in a crowded joint with a tight trio tearing it up on a tiny stage, she felt the vibe in context. She “got it”. Plus she was cool with my ambling aimless walking tours and, even though she's not a deviant or a drug-addict or even a drinker, she hung out (at length) w/me in the rotten, rotten spots I gravitate to. Making conversation while I tilted back Budweisers and befriending bartenders whom I suspect couldn't get hired (and probably wouldn't want to be) at the upscale suburban eateries where she works. (Although who knows? Sunshine just might charm the pants off them midwestern boys...)
Anyway, she has a quirky charm that I was unable to resist and was even-prettier-in-real-life and yeah, as first dates go...Ça c’est bon.
