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An
Enduring City I liked it from the first: I lingered long in that morning walk, liking it more and more, in spite of its shabbiness, but utterly unable to say then or ever since wherein its charm lies. — Charles Dudley Warner in the January 1887 issue of Harper's New Monthly Magazine. My memories of New Orleans begin in the Vieux Carré, the French Quarter, where the streetcar spit me out at the mouth of Bourbon Street, leading me into 120 blocks of wonderland for my high school self.
I went to New Orleans my senior year in high school with my dad on a college visitation trip, with Tulane University the last stop on our list. I had basically decided before we landed that Tulane was the place for me. I'd lived in the South as a child, and ached to return (or so I thought). Plus, the legendary French Quarter lured me with its promise of endless parties. I fell in love with New Orleans on that first trip. There was so much history in everything, something that didn't exist in my small coastal town of North Bend, Oregon. History there was in the old-growth forests that were steadily being clear-cut into barren slashes on hillsides. But history in New Orleans was outside our hotel in the Garden District. A streetcar bisected St. Charles Avenue, traveling from the mouth of the French Quarter at Bourbon Street and on past Tulane University. And history presented itself in the mansions of the Garden District, in the plantation grandeur of the sweeping porches and Italianate and Gothic facades. Tulane University's campus was a landscape of gnarled oak trees, old stone buildings and tradition. The French Quarter, though, is what I remember best. Of course I knew New Orleans was famous for its freewheeling, fancy-free attitudes. I knew the French Quarter was the center of that carnival, and as a small-town high school student I was thrilled to experience a small taste of the home of the biggest party on either side of the Mississippi. On that trip with my dad, though, I experienced a French Quarter that's not often seen by tourists. We were there sometime mid-week, sometime midday. The checkerboard of streets that make up the French Quarter were empty and had already been cleaned from the previous night's excitement. Iron balconies leaned over the narrow avenues, sculpted into lacy extravaganzas dripping with bougainvillea and jasmine. Narrow passageways between buildings offered glimpses of secret gardens tucked away in private courtyards, luscious jungles that would never survive Oregon's cool rainforests of pine trees. We strolled along with no particular plan, browsing small stores and exploring the feather boas, beads and other tawdry wares at the chaotic French Market. I gnawed on sugar cane and boiled peanuts and savored the crumbly texture of pecan pralines on my tongue. I slurped the meat from the crimson crawdad carapaces and nibbled the delicate spider body of a softshell crab. We visited Café du Monde for beignets, sprinkling powdered sugar over our laps, then watched street performers do acrobatic tricks on the steps leading up to the Mississippi River. The riverbanks enclosing the wide, brown river rose above you while sitting in Jackson Square, New Orleans a bowl scooped out between Lake Pontchartrain and the mighty Mississippi. As it started to get dark we headed back to the streetcar at Bourbon Street. Jazz floated across the square and couples danced in the twilight in front of St. Charles Cathedral. Along Bourbon bar doors were opening and neon signs were flickering on. Dance music and country tunes vied for attention and drowned out the plaintive strains of the saxophone. The French Quarter was waking up. I did end up enrolling at Tulane University, and only lasted a semester before realizing I missed the ocean and cool Oregon breezes. But while there I learned that the French Quarter has two faces. I had only seen its calm, polite daytime persona; as a student in the city I saw it get ready for night. None of my friends were New Orleans natives, and we all wanted to party Big Easy style. A couple weekends after school started New Orleans celebrated one of many weekend festivals: Southern Decadence, which turned out to be a gay celebration that included parades of old men in skirts and no underwear, flashing things this innocent young girl had never seen on a Saturday afternoon, and wild parties along Bourbon Street. I saw things you don't normally see in small-town Oregon; one man turned to his partner when I teetered by in my high heels on the cobblestones — "Oh my god, that bitch stole your dress!" Those same balconies that had so enchanted me on my previous visit were now thronged with drunks clumsily slopping beer out of plastic cups and demanding that girls flash their breasts in exchange for plastic beads. I have always been modest, and even alcohol could not encourage me to participate in that traditional New Orleans activity. I saw young women I recognized from class disappear into a horde of panting men with flashing cameras and whirring recorders the minute they teased with lifting their tops. Halloween weekend I complimented drag queens on their costumes and was told by a toothless old man that I was a vampire. I shocked middle-aged couples enjoying coffee and beignets at Café du Monde with my Moulin Rouge costume. My friends and I coerced out-of-town boys into buying us the signature Bourbon Street drinks: hurricanes and hand grenades, as lethal in their own way as their namesakes. And by morning the people would be gone, the streets emptied for a few hours, except for the street cleaners washing off the vomit and urine from the previous night before the heat and humidity curdled the mixture into a toxic aroma. But always, despite the dirt and crime and the crush of tourists, the French Quarter had something unique: Santa and his eight tiny alligators alighted on a shop roof in the December heat and middle-aged men danced the streets sans panties, and the people took it all in stride, embracing the off-center personalities. And that's New Orleans: a little off-center, a little different from other cities. A little class mixed in with some good old-fashioned fun, a few drinks, and a history that spans several cultures and nations. And New Orleans will persevere. Music will drift through the Spanish moss at twilight, drunk tourists will gleefully toss beads, and St. Charles cathedral, which has survived a fire and a hurricane, will serenely preside over Jackson Square. The city that has inspired musicians and authors and artists and casual visitors alike will endure. Hannah Beth Shanks is currently a UO senior majoring in journalism and Spanish.
Out
for Dinner I recently attended the college graduation of a close friend — and by close I mean we feel each other's hot flashes. Darlene and I have been best buds for 20 some years, despite the fact that she lives in Seattle, a distance from Eugene of approximately 10,000 anytime minutes. After her commencement ceremony, a group of us went out to dinner, Darlene's treat. On her lesbian-divorcee budget, out to dinner usually means a restaurant with disposable table settings. But tonight she had a more-than-generous gift certificate to one of Seattle's finest restaurants, a graduation present from her employer — possibly a hint not to expect a raise commensurate with her new credentials. The place was packed with grad-night celebrants and proud upper-crust moms and dads to foot the bill of their festive revelry. Darlene, old enough to have children the age of her classmates, didn't look like your typical college grad. And we three Eugene dykes didn't look like wealthy parents. Our frumpy party of four would have to wait. The hostess sent us upstairs to the lounge, a mood-lit jazz bar packed with martini-sipping hetero couples in sophisticated cocktail attire. We took a seat on a curved velvet couch behind a granite coffee table. A friendly, well-groomed server waltzed up to welcome us. He introduced himself as "Quincy. With a Q." We all laughed. Major mutual gaydar moment. Quincy brought our drinks and hung around to chat. He was fascinated with the story of how Darlene's lifetime dream of completing her college education had been put off while she nurtured a relationship, had kids, and reached the jelly-splattered ceiling of her career in childcare. He clasped a well-manicured hand to his clean-shaven cheek in the "I'm appalled" pose while Darlene retold how her 15-year domestic partnership collapsed when she discovered her ex's long-time affair with a man. A baccalaureate was Darlene's ticket to independence from her cheating ex, and to better-paying, less-sticky employment. Quincy tsk-tsked about Darlene being the only middle-aged lesbian in her class and nodded enthusiasm that she persevered and earned a bachelor's — or in her case, spinster's — degree. "You go, girl. No wonder your friends came all this way to celebrate," Quincy said. Toasts to Darlene's success and more dissing of her evil ex ensued. We liked Quincy. Since it might be "heavens knows how long" before we got a table, Quincy offered to serve us in the lounge. On his recommendation, we sampled the restaurant's famous appetizers, which we loved but couldn't pronounce.
We were contemplating our next dish when the hostess from downstairs announced our table was ready. We thanked Quincy for a good time and followed the hostess downstairs. Our new server was all business. "Good evening, I'm Jocelyn." She recited the specials. No eye contact. No savoir-faire. None of the refined pampering we'd had from Quincy. And utterly gaydarless. "Ladies' night out? Taking a break from the men? Hahaha." Darlene — now a low-income single mom thanks to her ex's failure to take a man-break — bristled. We all did. We were still giddy from our soiree with Quincy and were not pleased to be mistaken for escaped hausfraus. Heterosexist assumptions put non-hetero people in a bind — you have to either accept invisibility or confront the ignorance. No point adding to our server's rough night, but it seemed a teachable moment. Darlene used her firm mom voice, "We're ALWAYS taking a break from the men." "Oh, sorry." Jocelyn got it. "I don't know what I was thinking." Despite the indignity of having been presumed straight, we enjoyed our meal and agreed to leave a 20 percent tip — a hefty amount we hoped would inspire Jocelyn to stop assuming women must be attached to men. She hustled off to the register and returned with Darlene's card. The gift certificate had more than $50 left on it. Our graduate-of-honor was feeling magnanimous. She signed the balance over to Quincy. Sally Sheklow's Living Out column has appeared regularly in EW since November 1999. She's teaching "Laughing All the Way," a Dec. 3 holiday stress reduction workshop at Tamarack Wellness Center, www.tamarackwellness.com
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