Part of the damage will forever be invisible. Eventually the water will go down, the loss of human life and money will be tallied, and the healing and recovery will begin.
The loss of New Orleans’ spirit and creativity and silliness will take decades to appreciate and absorb.
What New Orleans meant to America, to the vibe, rhythm, heartbeat and palate of our nation, was enormous. The city gave America a certain flavor, a flavor extolled by the likes of Mark Twain, John Kennedy Toole and James Lee Burke.
It will come back, of course, because we’re a nation of rebuilders. But will New Orleans ever again be the haven it once was? Will it ever again be there for those of us who need a long (lost) weekend?
New Orleans will rise again from its sodden ashes, as some cloned version of itself, but it will be newer, shinier and something different, because New Orleans’ authentic oldness was its charm. You felt in New Orleans that you were drunk on the spot where Tennessee Williams was drunk, and you were probably right.
When Las Vegas was nothing but a few gas stations in the desert, New Orleans was a sultry mistress offering illicit and tasty promises. Walk on the wild side? Gumbo, meester?
Its dark side coexisted hilariously with its dorky side. Strippers from Houma in miniskirts danced with tourists from Cedar Rapids in Madras shorts. Bachelorettes wore collars of beads they earned by doing things that would become hazy memories.
The Superdome, where so many have been suffering, is where the 49ers beat the Broncos in 1990’s Super Bowl XXIV, 55-10. I was there, and I remember watching dejected Denver fans stumble out into the French Quarter and suddenly start dancing on St. Peter’s Street. Later that night, a high-profile Denver swell kissed a cop’s horse.
That’s when I fell in love with New Orleans, and I returned again and again. Too many drinks, too many meals, too many laughs.
Everyone talks about melting pots in America, but New Orleans really was the last great stew. African-Americans, American Indians, French, Spanish, Creole. I loved to walk and watch. Kids dancing on Bourbon Street with taps on their sneakers. A man posing statuelike in the street, pretending to walk a poodle. Buskers juggling. Soothsayers at tables surrounding Jackson Square, a nearby brass band forcing them to yell their predictions at their marks.
The antique stores and art galleries on Magazine Street were treasure troves. Used-book stores handed out maps to other used-book stores.
I rarely ventured from the French Quarter, a rustic neighborhood of historic buildings just 14 blocks by six blocks, about twice the size of LoDo. In that one little part of town, there was enough to entertain you for decades. Voodoo shops, daiquiri bars, jazz halls, transvestite clubs, strip joints, karaoke bars, cover bands, the best restaurants in the world.
I would start every morning the same. Walk down the Mississippi and stop at Cafe du Monde for rich chicory coffee and beignets, those delicious sugar-dusted fried doughballs, served hot by Asian staffers. Lunch would be a Dixie beer and a muffuletta sandwich.
I took every tour I could, despite the bad guides, including the spooky one through the graveyard to visit the dead voodoo queen Marie Laveau.
The memories come back in rushes as I watch the news. Eventually, after the grief has registered, there will be a nostalgia. There is some already.
We say to each other, “What I wouldn’t give for one more meal at Galatoire’s. What I wouldn’t give for a table in the corner, some red wine, gumbo, crabmeat remoulade and lamb chops with a quart of bearnaise, and then some music at that little place we liked so much, what was the name … ?”
Oh, yeah. What I wouldn’t give to see it all whole again, tonight, to hear people laughing along those dark, dry streets.
Staff writer Bill Husted can be reached at 303-820-1486 or bhusted@denverpost.com.
