The young reporter was very excited to be traveling to New Orleans. It was the heartbeat of American music. The birthplace of jazz. The soul of rock & roll. Its funky rhythms had even influenced the creation of Jamaican reggae. Its cuisine was internationally known and its party hardy French Quarter beckoned to him from New York City. He was going down to report on the activities at a black music conference where DJs, record label staff, promoters and would be artists gathered for panels, showcases and around the clock networking. Plus, he’d heard that Creole women (called “red bone” by admiring older men) were supposed to be fine as hell. The young reporter, like a lot of young men, was ambitious and horny in equal parts.
The hotel was near Canal Street, in walking distance of the French Quarter, the convention center and the Super Dome. The young reporter took him in the street cars as he exited his taxi and felt the thick Louisiana humidity smack him in the face. The lobby was already buzzing and it was the middle of the day. After checking in and putting down his bags in the nondescript room, the reporter went down to the lobby in search of familiar faces.
Sitting on a sofa the reporter saw a lean, cute young woman in a yellow sun dress with skin sun kissed orange. With the bold innocence specific to certain men in their mid-20s the reporter approached her and introduced himself. She said her name was April. Yes, she was from NOLA. Yes, she could recommend a good place to eat. Yes, she said to the reporter I’d be happy to take you there. Why had she been at the hotel? The music conference was in town. Figured she’d get into some parties somehow. That was enough for him. He saw her as a beauty to be observed and desired. He wasn’t mature enough yet himself as she saw him.
The reporter and April walked through the beer and alcohol-soaked streets of the French Quarter, which was both more tawdry and mysterious than he’d imagined. They stopped for beignets at Café Du Monde, peeped into the ancient night club Preservation Hall and walked through Congo Square in Louis Armstrong Park before heading up to Frenchman Street, where NOLA residents hung out. The two had alligator tips and gumbo washed down by the sweetest iced tea he’d ever had at a local black owned restaurant. By then the reporter was holding April’s slender hand.
The day had been a dream. A NOLA walking tour, great food and a beautiful local woman as his guide. This was the magical city he’d heard about. By now it was dark and the young reporter’s thought may be April would like to come up to his hotel room. The hotel lobby was now teeming. Drinks were flowing. Smoke was rising. Music from a live band came from a lounge. April came to the young reporter’s room. He moved close to kiss her. She pressed her lips to his briefly and then stepped back. Turns out she had to go meet friends. It had been fun hanging with him. A quick hug and then she was out the door. The young reporter got himself together, determined not to let his disappointment ruin the rest of his night. After all there were music showcases to see. Friends in the business to network with. It’s his first night in NOLA. Plus April wasn’t the only woman in the Crescent City.
Back down in the lobby he surveyed the room. There was April, sitting in the lap of an fortyish promotion man from a Los Angeles based promotion man. He was holding court with a few folks around him laughing at his jokes and sipping his expense account liquor. If April saw the young reporter she didn’t let on. His heart sank deeply into the marble floor. Was she waiting on this guy to arrive earlier that afternoon? Was she his NOLA girlfriend? Was she an escort who used the young reporter for a meal to kill time? Had the promotion man intercepted her on her way out and charmed her? Lots of questions, but the young reporter never did get an answer.
He realized then that she’d guided the day, overtly charmed and likely amused, by his wide eyed naivety. He’d told himself all about himself, while accepting the little she’d revealed, since he’d just been captivated by her presence. If you only see what is in front of you, you’re blind to the world around you. There was a lesson there for the young reporter, but he wasn’t yet ready to learn it. He made one loop around the lobby and then headed back to the elevator. The young reporter would always remember spending his first night in New Orleans sitting quietly before a map of NOLA, going over all the places April had taken him.