Nawlins

[Sweder]

OK, not quite all . . .

New Orleans, Louisiana, April 1987.
A cocky young man from South London arrives in the Big Easy for the first time. Amazed at the mixture of life that dwells in these dark streets of wrought iron and grubby cobblestones, he spends his days working in the riverside halls, evenings absorbing cocktails and fine music in equal measure.

He comes to the Old A Bar on Bourbon Street; a ramshackle house of ill repute, managed by close friends of one Francis Sinatra. Tonight, Brian Lee, blind genius of the blues, Miss Maggie and the Jump Street Five are wailing in the lounge. He sits in the corner, orders Sex On The Beach, settles back to let the R&B wash over him in the hot, steamy night. Hour after hour he sits, smoking his way through two packs of cigarettes, barely noticing the spritely blonde waitress as she glides between tables, re-fuelling the patrons under the steady thud of large overhead fans.

The set ends, and the lad seeks the girl to settle the check.
It's 2am. In Nawlins, the night is young.

'Goin' so soon hun?' the Blonde grins at him. 'Still plenty a life left in this ol' town, if you know where to look.'
She tips him the wink and leaves the table.
He hesitates, computing the signals.
'Err' he ventures. as she zips by with another laden tray.
'Don't s'pose you'd care to show me. Where to go, I mean.'
'Good lord, honey - I thought I was gonna hafta write you a note. I'll get my stuff.'

They tour the French Quarter, in and out of bars you'd never find without a guide and a powerful flashlight. Through the streets of Anne Rice's Lestaat, the early morning mists mingling with the heat rising from the street. Human flotsam festoons the grubby sidewalks and sun-worn benches. Humidity wraps the them in its warm embrace.

'Wow', breathes the Englishman.'This place is amazing. I've got to get my camera!'
'Sure honey,' Blondie agrees. 'Your hotel's just up here . . . '


November 2001, two old friends on the wire across the Atlantic.
Woman: 'So when are you getting back over here? It'd be fun to meet up, talk about old times.'
Man: 'I'm not sure - there's a lot going on but since 9/11 business is down. Not much chance to get over these days.'

They talk about their families, children, the old days, that night in the Big Easy, their time together. He laughs as he remembers watching PeeWee's Playhouse on Saturday mornings on her sofa, the huge electric fan wheeled in across the polished wooden floor to dissipate the heat.

'I miss Norton and Ralph' he says. There's a pause.
'I loved those boys' she sighs.
Norton and Ralph, two playmates who'd scamper freely around the appartment, their hammock-strewn cage always open. Some mornings, he'd wake to find one, or both on his chest, sniffing his face, whiskers twitching. Norton and Ralph, gen-u-wine New Orleans house-rats.

'I still laugh about that line about getting your camera' she giggles. 'Talk about cheesy - and I fell for it!'
He laughs with her.
'You know that was no line! I was an innocent young man and you took full advantage.'
More laughter.
Woman: 'So, no idea when, huh? If you do, you better call me!'
He laughs. 'You have my word.'


November 2004.
The man arrives at his hotel, the Royal Sonesta, on Bourbon.
He checks his bags and goes down to the street-side bar, orders Sex On The Beach. He watches human traffic cruising by in the warm evening and thinks of her. She can't make it this time, too much happening back home, some stuff with her ex, her sons' school, yada yada yada.

He's here for business. Brian Lee's playing at Storyville next week but he'll miss the old fella as he'll be home by then. Lips and the Trips are on tonight at The Kerry, the small-but-perfectly-formed Irish pub on Decatur. He drains his glass and heads into the night.

Two hours later he's on stage at The Kerry. The Guinness lays gentle in his stomach as he grabs the microphone, belting out the chorus to a Van-the-Man classic. There's two guys with him, crowded 'round the old-fashioned mic; across the stage a couple of local girls join Lips, the leggy, wide-mouthed singer.
"G-L-O-R-I-A - GLORIA!" they scream, 20 or so punters clap and cheer wildly from the dark corners of the bar. An hour ago these were strangers. In the wee small hours, they leave as friends.
This is Nawlins - the Big Easy.


November 2005.
A re-union planned, business again the pre-requisite. Flights and hotels booked, old friends anticipating warm nights of story-telling, drinking, maybe even the occasional dance. Then Katrina and the cruel waters of the Mississipi wash it all away, along with the lives and livelihoods of thousands of the most warm-hearted Americans you could wish to find. It's hard to grieve for a city but Nawlins has a heart, a pulse. This week she is stricken, wounded, maybe dying.
My sadness knows no bounds tonight, for I have lost a dear old friend.