Gary Recounts His Daughter’s First Time In New Orleans

I'm beginning to really like the "On This Day" feature on Facebook. I've lived some pretty good times, and when an anniversary of something cool comes up, I like to reminisce. Being a parent, a lot of those good times involve my kids.

When I saw my "On This Day" this morning, I realized that this is an important anniversary for my eldest child and me, and every parent from Louisiana should have this one under their belt, in my opinion.

Today, three years ago, I took my teenage daughter to New Orleans, specifically the French Quarter, for her first time.

Now...before you ask questions...No...I did not take her to any bars, I did not let her drink, I did not buy her a Lucky Dog (don't...don't ever eat those...ever). I just showed her the splendors that is the open Quarter at Midnight on a Friday.

Here's the story...

It was summertime, and my 15-year-old daughter, Darby, was to go to Pensacola for a month to visit with her mom and little brothers. Her mom and I determined that we would meet in NOLA for the exchange. Since Darby had never been to The Big easy, I figured that this would be the perfect opportunity to show her what New Orleans was about. We were to arrive on Friday, her mom would pick her up Saturday, then I would drive back to Shreveport on Sunday.

We left late Friday afternoon after I had gotten off of work and arrived in Treme' at about 10:30 that night. We were staying at a hotel called the Empress, which boasted a two-block walk from the Quarter and $50 a night rates. It certainly wasn't the Four Seasons by any stretch, but it had all the amenities you need while staying in NOLA; a bed, a bathroom, and an air-conditioner.

We settled into our room, and I told Darby to get ready.

"For what," she asked.

"We're going to the French Quarter," I responded.

She looked at me half puzzled, "Isn't it kinda late?" The digital clock on the dresser said 11:05 p.m.

"Heck no," I said, "The Quarter is just waking up! Let's go."

So, off we went, on our two block journey to N. Rampart, the upper edge of The French Quarter. As we got closer, you could hear the party get louder and louder. Darby asked me, "Dad, what is going on?"

I said, "It's the Quarter, Darby, this is what they do...every night...all year...all the time."

"Really? Just like a big party in the streets?"

"Yup."

"Wow...."

We walked onto N. Rampart at Ursilines, and we could smell the smells. A combination of food, spilled drinks, bad decisions, and all manner of other things that I'd rather not write about, but if you've been to The Quarter you know what I mean. The people were sparse there, but as we got closer to Bourbon, we could see more and more folks getting their party on. Darby grabbed my hand in anticipation as we stepped onto Bourbon Street, and her eyes opened wide.

Bourbon Street is legendary. Everyone has heard of it and what goes on there, but little prepares anyone for their first time walking those cobblestones, especially a fresh faced 15-year-old girl with a head full of stories and her not-so-well-adjusted father at the helm.

"Darby," I gestured, "Welcome to Bourbon Street." She was awestruck. Dumbfounded. Speechless. And for anyone with my DNA, speechless is highly uncommon.

As you can see from the above picture, that look of sheer amazement was plastered on her face for the rest of the night. We walked up and down every street, through Jackson Square, went to Marie Laveau's House Of Voodoo, ate at Krystal Burger (Side note, neither of us really liked them..we were both sober. I ate the heck out of them Saturday night, though...because by then...I wasn't. HAND GRENADES FOR THE WIN!), and generally just walked around looking at everything.

We were about to head back to the hotel when we saw the most French Quartery-NOLAesque thing we could have witnessed, and I'm glad Darby was there to see it her first time.

"Dad...what is he doing?" She wasn't sure that was even an appropriate question. She didn't know if I would have an answer.

"Well, honey, it looks like he's directing traffic."

There he was...a 6'6" tall African-American man, with short bleached-blonde hair, wearing a pair of booty shorts, a halter top tied in a knot, and fabulous heels. He was directing traffic through one of the side streets connecting the Quarter with the outside world with flamboyant hand gestures, a few dance moves, and a police whistle. Because, safety is important..or something. The spectacle was better than any explanation I could have ever have dreamed up. Sometimes in New Orleans, you just accept things for what they are and don't try to rationalize them. If a Drag Queen wants to direct traffic...then that's what happens. And no one pays it any attention.

Ahhh...NOLA...you never disappoint us lovers of the weird.

After that, our brains were full. We went back to the hotel and laughed ourselves to sleep at the sights seen.

The next morning we woke up to Darby's mom's arrival, and we all went to Cafe' Du Monde for beignets, chicory coffee, and pigeon avoidance. Darby recounted the events of the previous night to her mother who could not stop laughing and repeating the phrase, "Yup...that's New Orleans for ya."

We went on some day sight-seeing, and then early that evening Darby left with her mom for her visit. I stayed another night and enjoyed the Quarter, both child and guilt free. I'd tell you about that night, but what happens in the Quarter stays in the Quarter.

Unless you have a good story to tell about your teenage daughter's first time in NOLA when you saw a man in heels directing traffic, then all I can do is quote my ex-wife.

"That's New Orleans for ya."