The jazz clubs were closed tight, and only a few restaurants were open. I'd wait for Celia to experience Bourbon Street at night. So I walked the narrow streets, called banquettes, catching glimpses of inner patios rampant with banana trees, brick, and antique wrought-iron grillwork. On the edges of the French Quarter, carriage rides are offered by drivers in top hats holding the reins of bored mules. Gift shops offer ceramic masks, T-shirts, and sex toys.
Restaurants do a brisk business despite outrageous prices.
I passed near a group of punks jousting on the grass around a fountain. When a beer bottle shattered at my feet I kept walking, taking a turn onto a quiet street full of antique shops, and exited to Canal Street, where the St. Charles tram took me back to the hostel where I was staying. For the first time in three months I would wear something besides jeans, boots, and a black tank top. We took a nap, and then took the tram to Bourbon Street. We'd bought them in a shop that had 36 flavors whirling behind a gleaming white bar.