So much exists in the collected awareness of what New Orleans, the Big Easy, is, or is idealised to be, that it is difficult to arrive in town without any preconceived notions of Cajun cool. The French Quarter, cool jazz, Bourbon Street and gumbo, streetcars and levees, Hurricane Katrina and the Saints. It is the epitome of cool and relaxed America, a city so un-American in its Frenchness, that it has become something of national pride.
But there is something else to NOLA, a seething underbelly that is a mix of both unspeakable poverty, absolute desperation and celebrated depravity, that make this city one of the most human in the US.
Arriving in town, with views of the refurbished Superdome looming over us, we take the wrong turnoff and end up on the street where we're staying, just the wrong end. For anyone who is yet to visit the US, streets here are long. It is not uncommon to see a house with the street number 1200 - or higher. One end of a street could be one of the most affluent in the country, while the other end is usually on fire. That was certainly the case for us, as we were heckled and abused driving in simply because we had a car with four wheels - and our van is by no means flash. But that was the other end of the street to where we're staying.
Walking the 15 minutes along St Charles street to the French Quarter, you're immediately immersed in everything New Orleans claims to be. Streetcars with clanging bells clatter past old American mansions, while American Oaks drips with vines and gas lights on porches flutter all day. Then a beggar will harass you because he fought for this country and you haven't given him any money.
As a side note, the right to ask people for money - beg - has just been made legal in New Orleans, and the local beggar population uphold their civic duty to inform you of this legislative change.
The French Quarter, at first glance, is a window to the history of the Deep South. Expecting old terrace houses, balconies sagging under the weight of flower pots and the occasional clump of Mardi Gras beads, we are not disappointed. From Canal Street east exists rows of ordered, and orderly-unordered home almost falling onto the street.
The high levee on the banks of the Mississippi give over to the ordered Jackson Square - celebrating the famed civil war General - and the high tourist area. A bland coffee at the crowded Cafe du Monde has achieve legendary status despite itself and street vendors verge on harassment in an effort to eek out a living in the consumer country.
But down the road a contrast in the French Market as casual, cool cafes oozing the sounds of the house jazz band serve up traditional Cajun cuisine with a smile and a joke and a mix of American attention to service and the routine that defines servers. "Good morning/afternoon, my name is ____ and I'll be your server today", "Our specials today are ____", "Here's the cheque, no hurry, when you're ready", "y'all have a great day now."
Then you get to Bourbon Street. A small confession, I knew very little about Bourbon Street. My favourite coffee blend was called the Bourbon Street and I knew that it was the French Quarter's "Main Street", but not much prepared me for exactly what it is. Around the corner from the oldest convent in the State is a street of such naked depravity that it is difficult to contextualise. Bars, in such abundance, with American barflies - particularly sad people who seem to spend their existence somewhere between sobriety and a routine stomach pump - sit alongside strip clubs in a carnival cruise atmosphere - and as a small note to the owners of the strip clubs, if you want to successfully advertise, it is customary to put your good-looking, semi-naked models on the door, not the decidedly second-hand ones...
But you look deeper beyond Bourbon Street, at the places where the locals go. Beyond the charming, old-world Garden District to the trendy Magazine Street, and you are hooked on everything that this city promises. Cool cat jazz echoes from the charming bar on each corner - the kind where friends come to meet and share a drink, a conversation and a good time. Local food is served from family-owned restaurants and the girl at the gelato store dishes out the best advice on New Orleans as a side to the highly-sugared gelato.
New Orleans, NOLA, is everything it promises, and more that you haven't thought of, let alone asked for. I suspect that, like any city with an international reputation, there is a seething hive of tourist activity and, exacerbated in a city famed for its sinful existence, that hive is a dirty one. But like any city, find out where the locals go and you will find a real gem, and one that is deserving of a reputation.
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