Every so often I think I’ve figured out this place. I know which pothole-heavy streets to avoid, what not to say around locals, when to “costume,” where to take visiting family and friends to eat. But every time I think I’ve figured it out — like bam; it all makes sense — I discover another layer, another sensory experience … another New Orleans.
Last weekend, my best friend since third grade visited us. She was excited to be in New Orleans for the first time, and I was equally thrilled to show her “my city” and reveal why it’s better than our native Jersey. Yet somewhere along the way, I morphed into a fawning tourist as we canvassed the city, mouths agape, bellies full, souls swooning.
As fate would have it, she and I visited places I’d never been to, and in a span of two days (yes, two days!), we consumed the following:
-Daiquiris upon pick-up from the airport
-Naked Pizza (healthiest food in town!)
-Hansen’s
-K-Paul’s deli lunch (the best bread pudding in the Quarter!)
-Beignets and frozen café au lait at Café Du Monde
-Appetizers at Eiffel Society
-Brunch at Dante’s Kitchen (the best brandy milk punch ever!)
-French fare at Crepe Nanou (best crepes south of the Mason-Dixon)
-La Boulangerie (best pastries in town!)
-Willie Mae’s Scotch House (best fried chicken in town!)
-Southern Candymakers (best pralines in town!)
-Joey K’s (best cabbage and catfish in town!)
-Sucré (best macaroons and mochas in town!)
Of course we did other obligatory touristy things like visit Lafayette Cemetery, pose in front of Jackson Square, see homes in the Lower Ninth Ward and listen to Quarter bands. But I continued to learn valuable lessons as we ate, loved and sashayed from one fork to next. At one point my friend turned to me and chuckled: “You’re enjoying this just as much as I am. And I don’t blame you; who wouldn’t?!”
Sometime on Saturday we pulled up to a red light on Camp Street. I’d unknowingly driven into the turn lane with the intention to go straight, and when the light turned green, the car to our left pulled in front of us. Almost simultaneously my girlfriend and I yelled out “WTH,” as I laid on the horn. It was an authentic Jersey road rage moment. But what happened next surprised us both.
The car in front of us slowed up and rolled down the window as my friend and I passed alongside, “fixin’ to blow up.” In the nicest, most sincere voice ever uttered, the guy in the other car said: “Hey, darlings, you were in the turn lane. But don’t worry about it — just keep it in mind down the road.” Then he smiled and drove off. Naturally we felt like Northern banshees. He was so nice and gracious it caught us off guard. For the remainder of our drive, we laughed about it and dreamed up all the ways the same situation would’ve played out in Jersey, none of which involved smiling.
“Living here is good for one’s well-being,” I recall my friend saying. And for the umpteenth time, I echoed the same thing. It might not be good for your liver or your weight or your cholesterol, but it’s certainly good for your soul.
