Syncopated in NOLA

I can’t sleep. It’s been 5 hours since I stepped off my 14-hour-long plane ride, and I find myself staring a hole into an evergreen wooden ceiling at 2 AM. Right about now, I’d be bundled up in my cozy cabin all settled in for the night, but instead, I’ve wrestled with my blanket several times and maintained my insomnia thanks to the buzzing street lamps near my window. I roll out of the unfamiliar bed and pull my phone off the nightstand in hopes of finding something mindless to do. I check social media, YouTube, the New York Times, and even the Sports feed–nothing grabs my attention. Looks like it’s going to be a long night. 

While my Airbnb shotgun house has a certain charm to it, I can’t help feeling claustrophobic after being confined to economy-class seating for what felt like an eternity. I need to get out and do something, anything. When I was in college a couple of years ago, I’d switch on my radio and take aimless drives in the middle of the night for no particular reason–it was my way of escaping for a bit. After being in the real world as a number-crunching analyst for some time now, maybe it’s time I return to those carefree roots and embrace the rhythm of the night. I’ve heard there are quite a few places to explore here, so I may as well indulge in some exploration.

I grab the car keys off the counter and head out the front door with a glowing enthusiasm. It felt so freeing to embrace the unknown again after following such a strict routine for so long. The road in this quiet neighborhood was a minefield of potholes, a typical staple of transportation around here; I can’t help but wonder why anyone doesn’t do anything about them. Maybe they think it adds character? While the streets were rocky, the sky was dancing with specks of light and the warm smell of rain–after all, it was the rainy season. 

It’s been a while since I’ve had real food besides cheap airport snacks, so I might look out for bars in the area. Luckily, there’s no shortage of those around here, so I’ll keep heading toward the heart of the city. Although, a certain curiosity pulls me toward them for a different reason I can’t explain. Maybe I just need to blow off some steam with a drink and some banter. As I pass through dimly lit streets with twisted shady trees, I happen to notice the uniqueness of each one of the buildings I pass. Every house resembles that of my own, but...different somehow. My temporary stay was quite bland compared to most of these homes, featuring a white coat of cheap paint on the exterior walls and a fine-trimmed front yard. These houses looked like they were taken straight from an abstract work by Picasso. 

Some had classy wraparound porch railings with ornate gables and grand entrances that felt more historic and intentionally designed; most were multicolored brick walls with asymmetrical architecture. No front yard was the same, they all had random shares of out-of-season decorations, sporadically grown gardens, painted mailboxes, and personally designed building numbers. The “character” in the potholes must’ve inspired the homeowners to refuse to conform to the standard visual of suburban homes. Or, maybe the roads are so worn from people driving back and forth taking so many double-takes at the Santa Claus inflatables that are there four months out of season. 

After experiencing many houses and multiple flat-tire pothole opportunities, I’ve finally made it to the city. I find parking in a bleak yet busy parking garage and make my way toward the French Quarter. People flood the narrow streets as I grow closer to the popular location for all walks of life. I’m guided by the faint aroma of Gumbo and Etouffee, but as the scent becomes stronger, I pick up on something far more powerful: music. Everywhere. By the time I’ve hit the center of the magical street, I’ve begun not only seeing but hearing the beauty all around me. The vibrant and vivacious outfits of all that surround me are complimented by the multiple laughs, lyrics, and instrumental vibrations that float around in the air.

I’ve never seen so many faces, particularly ones that aren’t tourists. People of voodoo, people of no particular race, and people of all shapes and sizes fill the truck-sized corner street to the brim. I’m awestruck by how...alive the world feels in this moment. As I stand scanning the area, I feel a hand gently nudge me aside and I’m met face-to-face with a glowing personality. A brown-eyed woman in a white dress ornamented with a floral design stands before me, her hair drapes loosely over her shoulder while an air of familiarity exudes from her countenance. A soft, “Hi, excuse me” coupled with a gentle smile made me feel things a simple introduction should not make one feel. Out of all of the festive personalities, hers seemed to stand out most. 

Before any words can form, I finally get a grip on my reality and move out of the way so that she can help push a well-worn upright piano into the middle of the street. A well-dressed gentleman with a loose attitude rolls up a bench to the piano, places a tip jar reading “The O-Man Band” on the side, and starts playing a tune I can’t name but feel electrified by. The woman begins singing while she and the pianist are accompanied by a trumpet player and saxophonist from the next block over. There didn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason to any of this, and I think that’s what felt so charming about it. As she opens up her surprisingly powerful, soulful voice, more and more people connect with the performance and begin interpreting the melody and rhythms with their own special dances. It was as if Mardi Gras were mixed with an outdoor dance club, and I hadn’t felt this alive from such an event for quite some time. As I dance for a while with the massive crowd of strangers, I’m once again met face to face with the woman who carried my night away. No words were exchanged between us as the instrumentation took over the song, she simply reached out her hand and gripped mine as she moved in no particular direction. Well, it seemed like she went in every direction when she danced. But it was endearing and inspiring; she didn’t care what anyone thought of her, so why should I? 

As we continue dancing and the band begins winding down, she finally attempts to speak over the loud street and asks me something I can’t quite make out. “What did you say?” I try to shout out to her. She says it again and I still can’t hear. I simply nod my head, hoping I can get away with not knowing. She smiles and lets out a laugh, making her way to the pianist and saying something in his ear. I feel awkward for not knowing what she asked, but I assume it wasn’t important. Oh, how I was wrong. As soon as she finishes talking to the pianist, he begins rolling out a familiar jazz tune to everyone. This elusive woman hands me a microphone and announces that we will be singing our last song of the night. WE. ME and HER. She asked if I could sing. Sometimes, I feel like people are way too confident in strangers, but damn it, I’ll give it my best shot. 

It was lucky I happened to know the lyrics, but I’ve never been one to jump on a stage and belt out a song. My palms were as slippery as waterfalls when gripping the microphone, and it felt like my breathing could use a paper bag or two. It felt like a million eyes were on me, but while the nerves were tense, my mind told me to use that energy to my advantage. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me, so it’s time to make the most of it. As the pianist struck the first few notes of the song, I came in on a flat pitch–the first note of a performance is usually a little off. With all of the happy, drunk faces around me, surely none of these people would have even noticed–hell, half of them probably won’t remember any of this in the morning. So, I took it upon myself to loosen up and realize that it’s not that serious; this is meant to be fun. 

Sure enough, as the first verse went on, my confidence progressively improved, and as my voice rang out in the old speaker system, more people joined me in singing the classic tune. Once the chorus hit, my statue stance finally broke and gave me the freedom to enjoy myself. I really got into it; I was swaying and singing so boldly you’d think I was a crooner with Sinatra himself. Nobody had ever given me the chance to be this open, and I have these people to thank for my engaging performance attitude. I was overwhelmed with feelings of ecstasy as the song came to a close, and the woman and her band stayed right there by my side. 

Wait, wasn’t I looking for food when I first got here? I reached over to the woman and spoke into her ear, “Hey, are you hungry? You got a favorite place you like to grab a bite to eat at...5 AM?”. She laughed and said, “Yeah, I know a place, it’ll be my treat since not many get up there and sing on the spot like you did. By the way, I don’t know if you heard me earlier, but I’m Lea Renee”. 

“Wonderful to meet you, name’s Michael. Does it have Gumbo or Etouffee?”