New Orleans is a city that makes me think I don’t spend enough time in bars drinking alone. A man can get a lot of serious thinking done that way. This particular epiphany entered my mind the Thursday before Christmas, as I sat on a barstool at Harry’s Corner sipping a Nola Brewing Blonde.
The day was in the late afternoon. I was alone in the bar, except for an older jazz musician talking about the euro and his favorite Parisian cafes with a companion and the bartender. A friend was traveling southward but was still a good three hours away. My girlfriend wasn’t due in New Orleans till the following day. The afternoon and early evening were mine alone. This made me happy.
Part of this contentment arose from the place. Part of it from being totally alone. No one was bothering me. I didn’t need to lead or follow a conversation. The only words I spoke for an hour or so was, “I’ll have one more” — and it was always one more.
The New Orleans French Quarter of mid-December is perfect. Not too hot. Not too crowded. Less tourists. Way less families. More locals doing some Christmas shopping. All of this made me happy.
After arriving via train shortly before 3 in the afternoon, I’d checked into my hotel and then headed toward the Mississippi River. I always make this excursion first when visiting the Crescent City (something I try to do once a year). It’s good to stand on the banks of the mighty river and take it all in. The wide expanse of the muddy monster as it winds through New Orleans makes me realize how truly small we, as humans, are. The river existed before mankind. The river will outlive mankind. It’s wise for any New Orleans trip to begin with a visit to the river. A view of the Mississippi places life in perspective.
Following this reflective moment, I headed straight toward my next New Orleans ritual: a first beer at Harry’s Corner, the world’s most perfect dive bar. Only a block from Jackson Square, the small bar is eons away from the idiocy of Bourbon Street. No drinks served in plastic, hand grenade-shaped containers. No frozen drink machines churning technicolored concoctions. There’s good beer on tap and cheap beer in cans. Liquor and wine. The jukebox plays Professor Longhair and The Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter.” The windows are open in the day allowing rays of sunlight to penetrate the otherwise dimly lit bar. This is all perfect to me.
And so I sat and drank. I eavesdropped a little on the conversation among the jazz musician, his friend and the bartender occurring at the other end of the bar. And at one point during a break in their talk, the gray-bearded musician and I made eye contact and silently raised our glasses to each other. But mostly I sat, drank and thought.
I’d brought a copy of that day’s New Orleans Advocate with me, but upon spying a headline about Louisiana Gov. Bobby Jindal defending the nonsense that is Duck Dynasty star Phil Robertson, I decided my soul was better off outside of the manufactured outrage over that moron’s suspension from TV and the people who were “offended” by his suspension, Jindal included.
No, best keep my mind clear and drink some more beer, right? So I did, ordering another and another and another. And I thought about the mundane — what Christmas presents I could purchase my family members while in New Orleans (pralines — always get Leah’s over Aunt Sally’s) and what my four-day New Orleans vacation would involve beyond the immediacy of the beer in front of me (eat at Cochon). And I thought about more serious matters. Matters yet to occur and such, and more.
But my mind kept returning to how truly fulfilled I was sitting in a bar in New Orleans drinking alone. The city lifts my spirits each time I visit. It offers adventures unforeseen and leaves visitors with memories and stories. I knew all this was coming as were my girlfriend and friend, and the thought of us together over the next few days filled me with joy, too.
So I sat at the bar and drank, and thought I don’t spend enough time in bars drinking alone.