A Love Letter To My Big Easy

New Orleans, you were perfect last night—even in the midst of a pandemic. Thank you for making music, for dancing (singularly), for wearing your masks, for tipping the bands, for being so friendly and loving and accessible.

These past months have been rough. There was the “Mardi Gra Flu” that turned out to be anything but, and the subsequent (and continuing) deaths of so many musicians, Indians, and culture-bearers. There was the fast-formation of mutual aid groups, the installation of community fridges, the new graffiti reminding us to “please be brave.” Then there was extralegal toppling of slaveholder’s statues, the marching and organizing, renters rights demonstrations in front of municipal court, more graffiti, reminding us that “everything you love about New Orleans is because of Black people;” the lo-fi exhibit on the Cabrini bridge, dozens of photos encased in plastic with names and dates—all those Black boys and girls, men and women, nonbinary folx who should be alive today.

We’ve tried to keep ourselves occupied, picking the berries and citrus your parks and overgrown lots and front yards generously offer; parsing the boggy outdoors, kayaking all the bayous, exploring the crumbling forts and abandoned theme parks, hospitals, and warehouses. We’ve eaten free vegetarian food along the bayou on Sunday evenings, faithfully provided by the Hari Krishna, hundreds of take-away boxes stacked on a folding table in front of a grand house in MidCity.

We’ve sheltered friends who suddenly had nowhere, broken with birth families and healed with chosen families, sweated mercilessly, biked a million potholes, left, and returned and left again. Last night, New Orleans, you reminded us of why we always return.

So there was no Blackpot this year, no Bayou Bougaloo, no Festival International. So the Second Lines are smaller, more private affairs, not posted publicly. So partner dancing is indefinitely postponed, and who knows when Saturn Bar’s perpetually-packed, 10+ years-running, monthly mod dance party will return?

But it’s okay, because last night, there was Sabine McCalla and Sam Doores and “friends,” several of whom are actually personal friends, and they made mystery and magic on the corner of Royal and Clouet, in front of the twinkly lights of a beloved, low-key venue, best known for Cajun brunches and rollicking folk events. We made contact, but only with our eyes. We held each other’s eyes as we danced, with friends, with strangers, with strangers who would certainly, in short time (in normal times) become friends, because this is that kind of small city where you run into the same people over and over again.

We had so many conversations, gave and received so much love, humor, and gratitude; saw many friends for the first time since Covid, friends we used to just run into a few times a week, friends who recently got back in town, friends who came out for the first time since the birth of their 9-week old baby…

Then Sam and crew played this song, and EVERYONE was grooving—even though it’s a little ironic, because we WERE the party. And we had everybody. It was chilly, but we created the warmth, we tossed aside sweaters and jackets, and as we moved, we felt YOU—our exceptional city—and we felt ourselves, our hibernating bodies and souls, coming alive again. New Orleans, you are the best. New Orleanians, you make it the best.