FRAGMENTS OF NEW ORLEANS
- quentinberoud
- May 1
- 4 min read
Updated: Jul 26
Huddled in a bar, storm rain lashing down outside, there is a general buzzing. Everyone reaches for their phones; it’s a flash flood warning. There’s something strangely unifying about this moment, the equivalent of everyone of huddled around a crackling radio for an emergency broadcast. Strangers look to each other for reassurance – “you get one too?” – while the few locals shrug it off: “you think this is bad? Pfff.”
Outside, the rain’s still coming down. This isn’t British rain, to be sighed at as you look out of the window, this is rain that demands an exclamation, or forces a laugh. This is rain that doesn’t fuck about.
Inside, sat at the bar, I’m looking up at the $2 beer selection, intrigued… how bad could they be? I simply must sample cheap American beer while I’m here; it’s an experiment. For science. In the end, I go for the only one I’ve seen anyone else order, a Rolling Rock. As soon as the words leave my mouth, both the heads of the couple on the stools next to me snap round in unison.
I ask them if I’ve made a mistake. They strongly advise me to change my order.
“There’s a horse on the can. People say it’s ’cos it tastes like horse piss,” says Mike, almost apologetically. I take their advice and go for a PBR – “that one’s ok if it’s really cold” – instead.
Mike seems quite perturbed by my determination to drink terrible American beer - he doesn’t know it’s for science. He insists on buying me a nice, local brew – a Jucifer – to follow up my PBR. Whether out of patriotic pride, or concern for my sanity, I don’t know. Before long, though, I’m exceedingly grateful to him, as the PBR warms up and takes on an unpleasant sweetness. In fact it’s almost impossible to find a mass-produced American beer that hasn’t been sweetened; even a Peroni has sugar or corn syrup added for the US market. All the more reason to go for a nice local brewery, and the Jucifer was deliciously hazy and crisp.
From henceforth I shall follow the gospel according to Mike – I vow that if I ever see a tourist order a pint of Carling in the UK, I will do my utmost to dissuade them, and if they pursue their folly (in the name of science, say), I will buy them a pint* of something nice and local to cleanse their palette.
*a half in London, I’m not made of money.
Fragments of N’Awlins
As this was our “holiday” week, I don’t have all that much to write about, also because there isn’t too much to say about New Orleans, except: if you can go, go. It’s like nothing else on earth. Even though Bourbon Street has been lost to stag dos and neon drinks in grenade-shaped plastic cups, the spirit of the city, its haunted gothic beauty, lives on all around you as you walk through it. The best music we saw was just walking around the streets, on our way to somewhere else. Music that makes you stop and listen, makes you forget your destination. Thank you, Doreen’s Jazz and the Dirty Rotten Vipers.
Here are just a few shiny objects I picked up for you along the way…
There have been a few places on the trip so far that have felt like America Meccas; Preservation Hall is one of them. Founded to maintain traditional New Orleans Jazz, it feels like a sacred place. Much like the Vatican (too soon?), it has a relentless get-you-through-the-door-and-out-again vibe as you queue up, followed by a strong have-you-seen-our-gift-shop pressure as you leave. But as soon as you’re in the small chamber itself, a hush descends. No phones, no photos, just a room full of tourists, huddled together in a cramped room with peeling walls, listening to the best musicians around bouncing off each other. You know you’re on a holy site when buying merch feels like an act of worship, and boy did I worship (Prayers also welcome for our daily budget).
New Orleans loves a parade. There were at least three on Easter Sunday, each getting steadily more extravagant. Felt very lucky to have been there for both Easter and Jazz Fest. It would be wrong to write about New Orleans and not give you some music, so here's a little taste of Jazz Fest:
A deacon at the gospel church we went toon Easter Sunday, reading the parish notices:
“There’s a bake sale after the service today, so please stick around for that… Our human trafficking awareness workshop will take place on Wednesday evening. It’s a pot luck, so bring a dish”
That’s it folks. I’ll be back with more to say about Alabama soon, but enjoy Leyla’s beautiful pics in the meantime. They tell the story of the place better than I ever could:
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