A Night in New Orleans
Finding America in the curated clownshow
I spent a short weekend in New Orleans with the guys, bidding bon voyage to an old friend who’s repatriating back to Japan.
Though bittersweet, the mood was festive and raucous. Rife with memories, like that time in college when—let’s call him “Kenji”—snorted a line of cayenne to prove a point. Exactly what that point was, I’m still not sure…but he made it pretty completely.
Or there was that one spring break in Vegas, when four of us decided to Hunter S Thompson some magic mushrooms and wander the Strip…where my brother and our other friend saw the neon—while Kenji and I saw the hideous shadows cast behind. Sharing a terrible and hilarious introspective nightmare that I encourage no one to attempt.
After engineering school, Kenji went back to Japan to stake his corporate claim in that culture of status for a few years. One morning he sent video of a creeping wall of water washing through Tokyo after the earthquake. A little while later, he messaged us all on WhatsApp after rappelling into the cooling stacks of Fukushima—one of a few turbine engineers qualified for the task.
After that, his job sent him back to the States, married. He settled in for a while in Florida, had a kid. Joined our annual reunions and worked on his golf game.
And now he’s headed back to Japan, for whatever the next chapter.
Au Revoir… Konnichiwa
A couple of us arrived early and camped out in a little cocktail bar off Jackson Square, where I ordered a Sazerac to baptize myself right away in the Big Easy spirit, while waiting for the rest of the gang.
This old New Orleans classic is one of my favorites. With a long and interesting history I won’t get into here (once upon a time it was made with cognac, etc).
Drink du Jour: Classic Sazerac
2-3 oz rye whiskey
1/8-1/4 oz simple syrup
2-3 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
1/4 oz absinthe
Rinse a chilled rocks glass with absinthe & discard
Stir the other ingredients in a mixing glass with ice
Strain into the rocks glass (up, no rocks)
Garnish with a lemon twist, well expressed
Amok in the Big Easy
Like all dry and dusty pilgrims to that unholy and unhinged mecca of music and spiritual frenzy, we eventually found our way to Bourbon Street. A calamity of noise and jostling humanity and bright signs advertising all kinds of classic New Orleans accoutrement.
“Daiquiri,” Kenji shouted pronouncing it Japanesely. “I want a Daiquiri!”
He sauntered out of the bar with a tall plastic urn filled with some neon-red frozen muck, still marveling at the whole drinking-on-sidewalks thing. We caroused in and out of a few bars and juke joints, skirting the guy sleeping broadside on the street, and reveling in this crazy and bejazzled slice of Americana.
Then one of our friends copped a bag of cannabis from some guy in the street, and we rolled one up on the rooftop of a tiki bar. Where we got asked to leave by the hostelier next door.
Then back to the carousel street for another turn around the stiles of sundered sobriety…in and out of a few more bars and dens of dipsomania, including the infamous NoLa Hand Grenade…joining the ceaseless and directionless parade up and down the ever-rowdier Rue, the unending churn of inebriated wanderers blurring all around us.
At some point Kenji’s spirit left him, and his body trudged along mechanically for a while, obeying all the rules of gravity, but not really present per se.
“Dude I gotta go to bed,” he finally said as if just realizing he was still awake. So our least-responsible friend escorted him back to the hotel, while we tried to pick up the pieces—but the night was pretty much spent.
Old-man hangover
Next morning we all dragged ourselves to breakfast, squinting in the daylight and cracking jokes at our own hubristic expense. Trying to rouse ourselves for the afternoon ahead.
But Kenji was AWOL, still in bed. Where he spent the day groaning in misery and texting unwarranted apologies to the group, while we all hid from the sun in the fine and fabled WWII museum (highly recommended).
Alas the poor bastard missed most of his going-away trip writhing in an agony of twisted sheets and sweat-soaked daymares. With a pulse-throbbing headache to remind him of all the good times and freedom.
At some point that first night—between vino veritas and full banzai wildman—I asked Kenji what he’d miss most about the US.
“Honestly?” he said. “This is gonna sound weird.”
“Try me.”
“One thing I’ll miss is how nothing’s based on seniority here. Like just because someone’s older, doesn’t mean you automatically have to listen to them.”
“What about when you’re older?” I said. “Bet you’ll like it then.”
He thought about it for a minute and grinned. “By then I’ll probably be back here.”
Back in the land of the free, home of the unaged.