The southern lights

Sometimes you simply write what you’ve lived — other times, you wind up living something you wrote.

“at the cafe” from www.keyemartin.com

All we were trying to do when the day first started was go to City Park and take a ride on the carousel there, just to spend a few minutes remembering what it was like before some storm strolled up and made us all homesick. And so there we were, walking past the museum, when wouldn’t you know it, a second line had broken out. And me being somewhat corrupted by my experiences in the north, I immediately started wondering what the occasion was, “Why are they dancing and playing this beautiful music?”

And the longer I stood there, the less sense it made to ask all these needless questions — questions whose answers anyway are at best some random phrase in some random language. I saw other people carrying brass instruments come running from all directions to join in. They didn’t know each other and they didn’t need a city-issued permit to do so – because all are welcome in a second line. The best kind of party there is or ever was: celebration without cause, celebration for absolutely no reason at all. Just because it was a Saturday afternoon and their horns needed to be played, just because some mysterious joy inside them called “New Orleans” said it was time to dance. 

And I wonder if you would believe me that, for a long moment, it crossed my mind to give up my high-paying job in the big city and just go back home. For all I know, it might still be crossing my mind. I could get a job sweeping streets and clearing away debris. Maybe I could set up a table in Jackson Square and write poems for people passing through. And I think I might just be on the verge of believing that their donations would be enough to keep my head above water until the flooding subsides. Until the Napoleon House stays open past midnight on the weekends again. Until the brass band at K-Paul’s marches through the dining room to the accompaniment of pot-and-pan percussion that can only come from a New Orleans kitchen. Until the ghosts of the Ninth Ward feel safe enough to stop roaming the earth, and just come home. 

When the second line had finished passing by, we made our way past the sculpture garden and over to the entrance gate of the amusement park. I looked and saw the train I used to ride with my father and remembered the first time I experienced the romance of wandering. I saw the place where my mother used to buy me cotton candy and considered it plausible that I had always believed in the importance of indulgence. I saw the ferris wheel that from an early age had done its best to convey a simple truth about this life, and wondered why it had taken me so long to hear what it had to say. 

But all the sentimentality in the world couldn’t change the fact that the rides at City Park were only open to private parties until April. And even after we managed to sneak in to one of these alleged “private parties”, it was clear that on this day we simply did not belong there. Maybe the problem was just that — that these parties were private. I mean, no second line is private, neither is Mardi Gras for that matter. Few meaningful celebrations in New Orleans are ever private affairs when it really comes down to it. So armed with a renewed interest in fully experiencing the ups and downs that a ticket on Stella’s ferris wheel can provide; armed with the desire to wander like a bluesman running from a crazy mistress that just tried to poison him; and above all else, armed with the genuine intent to indulge, we boarded the streetcar headed for Canal Street. 

And indulge we did: before dinner at Le Pavillon, during dinner at Broussard’s, and afterward, following a course that, like most, became successively more uncertain as time went on. But as is often the case, one remembers where it started: our wandering began on Royal Street. On past the lanterns and the lovesick, and the galleries that showcase artists the world will never hear of, we were window shopping — looking for the sense that the evening would never end, that undeniable something floating in the night air that leaves one with the feeling that anything is possible, the one we used to just call New Orleans. And more than any of this, we were window shopping for forgiveness, for never having realized how lucky we were to be part of moments and places, now gone, that were so clearly among the most important we would ever experience or see. 

Our window shopping was interrupted by one of the most beautiful sounds on Earth: the human voice. Two of them in fact, being played to the beat of hands clapping and the rhythm of passers-by dropping change into a plastic container that always sang “Thank you” in perfect four-four time. I listened to them for a little while, and as I listened, I watched. There were three of them: a mother, a father, and a toddler. They had that look of desperation in their eyes that all great musicians have at one point or another. It’s true that they were, literally, singing for their supper. But it is equally true that even with a million dollars, these particular souls would still be out there singing. I dropped five dollars in the bucket — partly because I wanted to help them, but mostly because I wanted to help myself. I was hoping that they would see that I was one of them. I guess I got lucky. Because instead of letting me walk by after my donation, they asked me to stay and join in. And then I belonged somewhere. They gave me a long list of music to choose from. The first one that came up was one of my all-time favorites: an Otis Redding tune, how about that? 

And so there we were, singing at the corner of Royal and St. Louis. Each one of us was homesick, despite the fact that each one of us was also at home. Now, I don’t know if ten minutes of singing on the street with some fellow musicians can kill three years of melancholy, or if it can make a starving family not worry about having nowhere to sleep at night. But I do know that it can’t make things any worse. And for what it’s worth, I know that during those ten minutes none of us cared about anything except singing. 

I walked away that night knowing full well that my jam session on the corner would be the highlight of my trip. I no longer had any expectations, I was no longer wishing for a rush of adrenaline or some moment where I felt alive. And I suppose it is fair to say that there are times where giving up one’s expectations leaves one with a greater sense of freedom than previously, in part since they are open to any new possibility. 

We made our way to Chartres and then on to Jackson Square. We had indulged in all of the things that matter: we had shared music with complete strangers and watched them become our friends; we had fine cuisine and even finer wine; and we still carried the memory of the southern lights passing through the great oaks in City Park. 

It is safe to say that we were intoxicated. 

---