The Morning After on Bourbon Street

It's barely recognizable at sunrise.

The stone sidewalks have already been hosed down, leaving only a sporadic whiff of what was a pretty strong and enduring stench of vomit the night before. Occasionally, a diehard reveler strolls by, in a feathered and sequined headpiece, perhaps, or maybe shorts that ride up a bit too high (for my northern sensibilities, at any rate). A drunk stumbles along the periphery of nearby Jackson Square, ranting about the chaos of the Trump administration. Sobering.

I wandered into a clothing store yesterday, on the more tame end of town, already pessimistic about finding anything to wear to Jazz Fest, something light and cool but sufficiently modest for me to keep my butt cheeks to myself. The ladies at the counter were relaxed and friendly, welcoming without being overbearing. It was a good sign; I hadn't had much luck allowing college students to dress me.

Yes I walked out with a couple of cute items, but that's not the point. These women understood me, knew what I would like and why, and, more importantly, what I shouldn't like and why not. "Take that off. It's not you at all." They were right, having known me for all of seven minutes. Far better than the amber haired willowy beauty from the day before, looking nauseatingly gorgeous in her combat boots and clingy long skirt and torn tee shirt barely covering what looked to be another torn tee shirt and a half of a bra. "That doesn't look so bad," she assured me. In other words, aim low.

Bless her heart. That's another thing I learned from my new friends in the other store, women in the early stages of middle age but women who have already embraced the harsh reality that the trappings of youth don't last forever. When kind southern ladies say "bless her heart," they mean it in the most condescending way. As in poor thing. Don't hate them because they're not beautiful or bright. They can't help it. The truth about southern hospitality and its hidden charms.

Bless their hearts, my new friends in the store. And I mean that in the nicest way. We talked about life, our children, how wise we are (bless our hearts) even though our children don't really think so. We hugged, and I promised to come by again in a few weeks, when I'm down in NOLA for my daughter's graduation.

Bourbon Street will be barely recognizable to me this evening. The joggers will be gone. The stench will be stronger. The bizarre parade of revelers will have returned. The drunk might still be stumbling and ranting, but he will be drowned out by the music and all the other stumblers and ranters. Bless all their hearts.