You Can't Be Too Squeamish: Dawn in the French Quarter

You can’t be too squeamish about puke, dead rats, or 15 year olds passed out on a hundred stoops if you’re going to take an early morning walk in the Quarter–crack of dawn, actually, Fat Saturday morning…Oh, then there’s the trash. Mother of Jesus, the trash…

Hand grenade and Hurricane glasses, ceremonial beads by the utter trillions, dozens of phone cases (????), empty Newport packs in the filth (who knew they still made Newports?)

And hundreds, or probably a couple thousand revelers (I am being kind) still marauding the streets, sucking on their last featureless keg beer and smoke (whatever is available, at this godawful hour), still hopeful of meeting Ms. Right, though from the looks of it, the odds are not good.

Still, the Cleaner Guys, the Magicians of the Dawn, are out, and they are truly in the Transformation business. Before my eyes, I see a new day awaken, the Stuff disappearing, the hoses hosing, the trash bag slingers slingin’, and the cops park in the middle of Bourbon, siren going full blast, for probably ten minutes. I guess that means “You might want to think about heading home, Boys…” The Boys totally don’t think about heading home.

I love the early morning here. Even now, at Croissant D’Or, a sweet little shop on Rue Ursulines, it feels like Paris, like morning has broken along the Mississippi. I suspect much else is broken in the Quarter this morning, but we live with our decisions, and that’s how this old life goes.

For all the stupid things I have ever done in my life, and the list would be lengthier than you would guess, here I am, on the right side of the glass, sipping a four buck Americano, getting ready to order some lovely eggs, writing in my journal, loving this life, and thanking the universe for guiding me away from the wrong side of this dawn, from the ersatz bed-stoops of Bourbon, of Royal…