Hardly anyone takes my advice on this; actually no one that I am aware of, but everyone should – especially locals.
I will try again:
One day soon, go to the Toulouse Street Wharf in the French Quarter, look for the ticket office and take a ride on the Natchez riverboat. This is one of the great experiences in the city that tourists will instinctively be drawn to but that too many locals shun by mistakenly thinking, well, “that’s just for visitors.”
There are two cruises a day: afternoon and night. I advise the latter because the skyline becomes more radiant, more colorful. It is also a dinner cruise and the Dukes of Dixieland perform. Most of all, there is that skyline.
(Disclosure: I know that this is starting to sound like one of those media freebie deals written in return for favorable coverage. But it is not: We were paying customers celebrating a special occasion. Nothing was free but our spirits.)
At first it looked like those spirits would be dampened. As we chomped into the salad that preceded the buffet, the outside was starting to look ominously dark and the wind was being impish. A big ugly system was floating across the city. I just hoped it moved faster than the boat. By the time the Natchez left the port, the rain was lighter but the wind still had passengers on the outside deck holding on to their caps – yet the weather’s challenge was nothing that a boat launched in 1975 hadn’t handled before.
We were heading downriver. The steeple of the St. Louis Cathedral pierced the skyline. Soon we would be paralleling Marigny, then Bywater, past Jackson Barracks and into St. Bernard Parish, then past the Domino Sugar refinery where the P.A. system tour guide could not help saying, “How sweet it is.” By this time, we were done dining and had relocated to a bench on the second deck. There was a near-capacity crowd on board, probably all tourists, except for the two of us. One group of three women, who had apparently just come from some sort of party, admired the sequins on their cocktail dresses without noticing that the boat was being paddle-wheeled down one of the great rivers in the world after departing from one of the most poetic cities.
On board were the Dukes of Dixieland. This is no mere tourist band; the group is very good. It specializes, of course, in New Orleans Jazz, plus there was a little Fats Domino and other rhythm and blues mixed in. One Duke even played a jazz flute that embellished the music like an extra shot of rye in a Sazerac.
All that was wrong with the moment is that the sky was darker than it should have been because of the storm. There was still a light drizzle. If only the weather could have changed.
And then, suddenly, although the weather did not change, the boat did. At a wide spot in the river near Plaquemines Parish the Natchez made its scheduled 360-degree turn. The ladies in the sequined dresses did not notice, but we were now heading upriver.
Most importantly, the scene had changed dramatically.
Every so often this happens:
I have always loved New Orleans but then occasionally there are moments when the city casts a spell and hugs tightly. You can’t back away; nor would you want to. Damn! This is a special place.
There was no rain, as though it had been blown away by the Dukes’ music. This was a moment of total sensory fulfillment. The windy dark sky was behind us, so too was the rain. We were heading toward a clear night, and, even more, in the distance was the bold, gold display of the setting sun decorated by slivers of purple clouds. Fronting it was the gracious silhouette of the New Orleans skyline made jagged with tall building, more steeples and even a stadium covered by a dome.
But then the spell was broken:
Soon after passing the Cathedral’s steeple again, this time on the starboard side, we docked. Worse yet, the music stopped.
As we walked down the exit ramp, the thought reverberated, “Locals need to see this.” They cannot truly know New Orleans without experiencing it from the river that created the city.
One final thought, this column, now in its second to last paragraph, may be making literary history. Probably seldom has an article been written about the Mississippi River and a steamboat without once naming that person– you know, the early humorist always pictured in a white suit and his silver hair.
He rode the river many times and would have been enamored when a ship suddenly appeared from the other side of one of the river’s many bends, and then quietly glided by. There was always something memorable to write home about. Afterall, he was a tourist too.
