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.