Southern Hospitality

Day Two
After a long day of boredom and work and stuff [not life], I was finally free. Went to have some dinner with good friends at Palace Cafe, where we sat outside and people-watched and I enjoyed oysters. Such an ocean-y, mineral-y, sexy food. Love it.

Then after parting ways, I headed to Chris Hannah's bar, Arnaud's French 75. I approached the bar, ordered, (you guessed it, a French 75), and sat to soak up yet another top notch bar establishment reminiscent of none other than Rick's Place from Casablanca. The 30's era French chanteuse piping into the dusky room. The snazzy, clear-eyed, tuxedo-ed bartenders, the cigar smoke and quiet ambiance. It was altogether elegant. I had to take an emergency phone call and this is what happened... I leave. I come back. And my drink is gone. I'm feeling embarrassed, like they thought I booted out of the place or something, so I sheepishly pull out my wallet to pay. The oh-so-professional bartender spins behind him and deftly grabs my drink from the fridge and places it on a new napkin in front of me.

He didn't want it to lose it's chill. Yes.

Then he proceeds to tell me, "I do hope everything is okay, m'am". I am kind of in love at this point with all the chivalry and manners. I was, at this moment, glad I hadn't totally mortified myself in front of one of the world's greatest craft cocktail creators. Next, a very nice man sits down next to me and we have a long and involved conversation of the sort you could never have in the city of Las Vegas. We talk about Stockholm, and Merce Cunningham, and choosing a profession, and cell phone preferences. He smoked a cigar. I think he was wearing a bow tie. Eventually, I settled my bill and left this nice little cocoon to walk out onto Bourbon Street. It is a maelstrom of drunken chaos, so I retreated to Royal for more calm sidewalk.

At my hotel, I noticed that the bar/restaurant Lüke is across the street. I stop in and order a Sazerac. As I am sitting at the bar watching nice people eat mussels and frites, I think to myself that it is all very jolly. I almost go home at this point, but I decide to just walk by Loa. Once there, Loa looks intriguing and calm and not really very far away from my bed, so I go in and sit down and order a drink with Campari. Every bar in New Orleans has Campari. I consider this a sign of civilization. While enjoying my drink and observing the insanely complex mixology taking place in front of my eyes, I start talking to a nice patron to my right. Turns out he is the owner of the bar and hotel. We chat and somehow he ends up mentioning to a group of very nicely dressed local girls that he thinks they should "take me out on the town". I am skeptical, but decide that it's no big deal. Especially, since one girl is from Gothenburg.

We end up going down the block to probably one of the most fancy French restaurants I have ever set foot into called Le Foret. They seem to be friends with the bartender and staff. The wait staff open numerous bottles of champagne and I go up to the roof with one of the ladies and some waiter with a European name. We all have a cigarette and take in the view. Then we drink more champagne out of these fancy glass flutes. I think one of the girls hugs me. I wanted to talk about Southern girls here, but I won't. Mysteries of the universe.

We leave the French place...at this point I have not yet paid for a drink (nor will I the rest of the night)... We proceed to the Davenport Lounge at the Ritz Carlton. One of the girls is wearing a stylish designer dress that has a pink satin skirt. Everyone is dressed to the nines and has tasteful eye makeup on. Hair is shiny, polished. Lips red. I am happy I only brought strappy dresses and nice shoes to New Orleans. There's a tank top for the plane ride home.

Up the elevator at this exquisite hotel, where the hit saxophonist of the moment is performing and the creme de la creme of New Orleans are having a fine old time. There is more champagne (where does all this bubbly come from?)...and dancing. Classy, cocktail dresses and suits dancing. Not clubbing, not at all. Like from another era. Gorgeous, beautiful people dancing and smiling and taking in effervescent bubbles and perfume. Sultry jazz, hardwood dance floor, a bit of a breeze. Abandon. It was amazing. There were lots of people. They were talking to me. Someone was speaking Swedish to me and comparing Swedish girls to Hollywood starlets.

Unfortunately, I had hit my limit, and I needed to go home. The lovely Southern girls all hugged me tightly, as if we were sisters. They kissed my cheeks and thanked me for coming out with them, though I had done absolutely nothing. They offered to walk me home, to get me a cab, to share phone numbers. These strangers; so, so, kind. I made it back to my room and softly drifted to sleep...dreaming before my eyes were even closed.