The location of each of the foot-tapping ensembles in the ornate French Quarter seemed to be divided by radius of sound. No matter where in the Quarter one stood, no artist overlapped another, yet the music never seemed to end.
From big band to zydeco, drum lines to country music, opera to bluegrass, all holding firmly to their knots tied on the tug-of-war rope of jazz. The closeness of humidity, and the smell of hot pavement and cooked meat hung in the air.
Tents, trucks, and tables sold creative Creole dishes to accompany the mainstays; crawfish ettoufee chili dogs, Cajun meat pies, alligator sausage po-boys, crab beignets, crawfish boils, and pralines. Washing down the heat of the day and the heat of the food with ice cold local beers and frozen daiquiris never tasted so refreshing.
A meandering stream of bodies weaves through the streets, oxbow lakes of people formed around each band, some bouncing with the rhythm, some dancing, and some just sitting in the hot sun, trying to conserve energy.
The night ended where New Orleans was both famous and infamous for; Bourbon Street. Refreshed and probably tipsy, the crowd renewed itself on this singular street, closed to traffic but open to alcohol and indulgence. Beads fell from the sky when those on the galleries deemed it appropriate. Huge beers, hurricanes, and hand grenades were peddled from open doors; the drinks, not the natural disaster or the weapon.
As the evening progressed, so did the intoxication level of the general throng. Ending the evening before midnight and falling into bed, jazz music was the soundtrack of my dreams.
In Bello’s Cigar Shop in Little Havana, I admire the largest cigar I have ever seen with the appreciative gaze of one who values a fine art, as a hand rolled cigar is clearly art, regardless of the size.
“Is it real?” a tour participant asks the tour guide. “Can you smoke it?” he pushes playfully as only an American can think to derive pleasure from the destruction of something that undoubtedly took days or weeks to create.
“Yes of course it’s real. They made it to smoke the day Fidel Castro died.” She said with a certain distaste as she spoke Castro’s name that was distinct even with her strong Siberian accented English. “When he died, they had a big celebration in the streets here in Little Havana. They took the cigar out to smoke it, but they didn’t smoke the whole thing. That’s too much!” She laughed, a clear twinkle of pride in her eye. “My husband is Cuban,” She explained.