"I'll go with you," I quickly volunteered, "if my parents will let me." I called home and did some fast talking. The next day I was heading to New Orleans for the first time. The history professor drove a van with 4 or 5 students, and it seemed like a long trip from the mountains of Virginia. I don't remember the boys who went with us from our college, but I do remember New Orleans!
The history conference was lively--there were heated discussions between young black activists and author William Styron because he, a white man, had the audacity to tell the story of Nat Turner in Styron's Confessions of Nat Turner that won the Pulitzer Prize that year (1968). These angry black men in the audience also disagreed with the literary license Styron took in painting his portrait of Nat Turner. We sat in an aisle of the filled-to-capacity meeting room to listen to the debate.
My friend Annie and I continued our historical and cultural studies the next day in a tiny bar as we drank bourbon and Coke, while an older black man played the piano for us and very few other patrons--of course it was before noon! We took a bus tour of New Orleans and walked through old cemeteries and looked for sites associated with voodoo queen, Marie Laveau.
One evening all of us from our college went with others from the history conference on a river boat cruise on the Mississippi. Half intoxicated history professors danced with coeds, trying to grope them. After an overly friendly, middle-aged professor danced with me, I pointed out my friend as a slow dance began and told the professor that she liked to dance much more than I did, which was true. She could also handle herself better in delicate situations.
A tropical rain storm descended as the cruise ended, and there were no taxis to be found. All of us from our school ended up in the revolving bar atop the Monteleone Hotel to wait for a taxi. That in itself was interesting since we attended a Methodist College that frowned on student drinking. We had one drink and watched the city of New Orleans slowly revolve or so it seemed from our vantage point. Once we were able to secure a cab, it dropped off the professor and male students at their hotel, with them all claiming extreme fatigue. We later learned everyone from our college went back out that night, each intent on adventure.
Annie and I were not ready to call it a night, so instead of having the driver take us to our hotel, we had the cabbie take us to a bar we had visited earlier in the week. It had been full of Tulane students, we had befriended the wait staff, and we felt it was a safe option for two girls alone in the Quarter.
We didn't stay there long, however. We soon met two young sailors on leave and with them, we proceeded to hit every bar on Bourbon Street. The shows in the bars were risque and my sailor got a bit frisky, so I made my friend trade with me. I was happier to be paired with the shyer of the two guys. The evening ended hours later with a brief kiss, probably to the disappointment of the sailors. In truth, they were even younger than we were, and at least they could tell their shipmates they had dates for the evening. As soon as our escorts left us, my friend and I were out on the street again, hunting for food this time. We found an all-night diner close-by and put some food into our stomachs to counteract the bourbon we had consumed.
As I recall, we headed home the next day. I've always felt the Crescent City had to live up to high standards if subsequent visits were to be as eventful as my first, but more about that later. . . .
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