Let's Just Get This Out of the Way

Really, I should have known. It’s honestly a little embarrassing it hadn’t occurred to me before. Surely everyone else knew this: The entire French Quarter in New Orleans smells like barf.

Yep, it’s true. If you’ve been there, you know. You just never mentioned it to me. If you haven’t been there, now you know, too, because I do feel the need to mention it. Why? Mostly because it’s amazing to me that any outdoor area, save perhaps the flowerbed at a frat house, can smell like vomit ALL THE TIME. This is impressive to me. I’ve seen the street cleaners of New Orleans at work. They work. And, by the additional scents present, they use chemicals. But, the incredible power of hurl is still winning the olfactory battle. Especially on that most celebrated of streets in Vieux Carre, Bourbon Street. Frankly, I think the street would smell less like barf if they served more bourbon. Straight up. No twist. No mixer. Good, solid, honest bourbon. It’s a fast track to intoxication and without all the sugary goop added (no offense, Hurricane drinkers), people might have a better chance of holding their liquor. This, of course, doesn’t apply to anyone under 25 or anyone whose emotional intelligence is trapped at 17. They’re going to puke in your bushes no matter what, so you’ve just got to count them in a control group all their own.

When I was there, I peered into the street grates, seeing only a bit of dirt and a few leaves on an otherwise relatively clean drain. I wondered about the concrete and bricks that make up the streets. Porous enough to actually absorb generations of alcohol-propelled stomach contents? A thought I felt the urge to…quickly dismiss. Mostly because I think there’s some truth there. As we wandered around and neared our hotel, Scott reminded me to “turn left at the smell of barf.” I told him if we did that, we’d be walking in circles all day. It was just that strange, acidic, faint odor. Never so over-powering that you can’t have a fine time anyway. The other thing to note is, I never actually saw anyone upchuck. Nor did I see evidence of anyone having done so recently. That also impressed me. I figure if your concrete smells like puke, but there’s no visible puke, someone is doing a decent job cleaning up. That, or these drunks manage a great aim in secluded spots. I’m a bit cynical about that theory, based simply on the above-mentioned frat house. Some folks just don’t run fast enough to get to a proper vomit environment.

And that’s the beauty of the party that is sometimes the French Quarter. It accepts you. It lets you dress up in glitter make-up and corsets, regardless of gender or size. It lets you feel the rhythm of the door hustlers, opening their arms like circus barkers to draw you under the Big Top of the day. It lets you drop your guard, but hone your senses. And in its salty movement, it makes you feel right at home. It’s filled with smiling people hoisting Hurricanes and Hand Grenades, music blowing out nearly every window and street performers filling in the gaps. There’s dancing in the streets and whatever celebration people need to create can find its props behind those shuttered doors.

Of course, this is only one slice of the story…