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As promised, here are pix of our French Quarter excursion from Saturday.

We started out in the flea market at the edge of the Quarter, looking for cheap sunglasses and funny T-shirts. We batted .500 on that one.

The Cafe Du Monde will reopen tomorrow.

We’re getting married up in that building, with its great view of the river and the square.

Bourbon Street’s never a pretty sight by the light of day.

We ate at Cafe Amelie.

It was a cliche, sure, but I went to Preservation Hall when I was a student down here.

A couple of musicians were performing near Jackson Square.

The Square was pretty haunting, because it was so empty, I guess. I don’t recall ever walking through the middle of it before. It looks unreal to me, like a perfectly manicured Disneyscape.

Bonus picture: My breakfast partner contended that I am “cool, awesome and handsome”, but three-year-olds’ standards are pretty low.

Got back from the French Quarter a few hours ago. During the drive in, we wondered what areas were hit badly by the flood. Then we passed over the 17th St. Canal, and realized what it really looked like. The landscape was gray-brown. It was as if the floodwaters took the color with them when they were pumped away. Amy sez it was like going from Oz back to Kansas.

We came in via I-10, and got off at the Poydras St. exit, the Superdome looming before us. The roof was half-tarped, the rest looking rusted and corroded. Off the highway, the first few traffic lights were shut down for lack of power. Closer into the central business district, the lights were active. There were a few lane-shifting detours on Poydras, but the drive was pretty smooth. Amy said that it was the easiest drive in to New Orleans that she’d ever seen.

We drove past the French Market on Decatur, parked on the edge of the Quarter, and started walking around. Our first challenge was to find funny T-shirts about the storm in the section of the marketplace that was operating. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a good selection of really good ones. A few were variations on the Survivor logo. One was a collegiate-looking design about being part of the relief team. The best was one that read, “FEMA: Federal Employees Missing Again.” I guess I should’ve mentioned that, down here, “FEMA is a four-letter word,” as Amy’s dad said after we got off the plane.

So we checked out the selection of cheap T-shirts, sunglasses and other junk, because nothing says French Quarter to me like a selection of cheap T-shirts. Well, drunken frat boys and momentarily topless girls are a close second, but I’m all about the cheap novelties.

We started walking toward Jackson Square, which is across the street from Jax Brewery, the building where we’re having the wedding. The square was utterly empty, a sight I’ve never seen, including the time in 1999 I got locked out of my hotel room and had to walk around the city all night long. There were tourists around, but not many. They were interspersed with military and police, as well as some locals and some indigents.

Amy had some trepidation when she noticed several cockroaches lying dead on the pavement. “Looks like natural causes,” she said. “I didn’t think cockroaches had natural causes to die from.”

Jax Brewery was sealed up; a couple of the restaurants and stores had signs up saying they’d be open for business on Nov. 1. Across the street, Caf� Du Monde–which Amy was really hoping to hit so she could score some beignets–said that it’ll reopen on Wednesday. There was a sort of anticipatory air in that section of the quarter, as shopkeepers talked about which locations would soon open, and what it took to get their own locations up and running.

We headed over toward Bourbon Street, figuring we’d find an open restaurant for lunch, and also to scope out the bar scene. Pat O’Brien’s is still closed, so I’m afraid you won’t find any photos of me drinking a Hurricane. We checked out Johnny White’s, which was the only bar to stay open through the entire hurricane and its aftermath. It wasn’t distinguished, but that’s Bourbon Street for you.

We thought of stopping in at the Tropical Isle for a Hand Grenade, but we discovered an interesting phenomenon about Bourbon Street: If you remove the reek of beer and tourist-piss, the street and environs smell overwhelmingly of ass. I guess there’s some strange gestalt at work, with a stable, less-offensive smell emerging from the grotesque odors of those streets.

Given the out-of-balance smell, the scene really wasn’t conducive to eating or drinking. We got lunch a few streets over at Caf� Amelie, which was pleasant and overpriced. There were about 10-12 customers in the courtyard, brunching away on the limited menu. We sat inside where it was cooler and split a muffaletta and a roast-beef sammich. Looking outside, I noticed how utterly clear and blue the sky was today. I told Amy that it reminded me of the days after 9/11, which were cruelly lovely. If you’re sitting in a city of ghosts, shouldn’t it be dark and foreboding?

We got back to meandering, and approached Jackson Square from the other end, by the state building and the church. Pirates Alley, home to an eponymous bookstore, was all shuttered doors. I couldn’t remember which doorway was that of the bookstore, and that depressed me a little. I hope it comes back, but that brings me back to the issue of how they’ll bring the city back to life.

There was a pair of musicians playing on the corner, getting tips from the few tourists for their Beatles medley. That square is usually crammed with musicians, psychics and painters, but now it’s bare bones. Dying or sleeping? When will we know?

We talked about how much progress the city’s going to make in the next few months and how our friends who come in for the wedding won’t believe our descriptions of this weekend. If it sleeps, can it dream?

Keep walking:

Muriel’s, with a limited dinner menu for the next few weeks

military Hummers parked up on sidewalks

a couple walking into the Square, the woman photographing the man in front of the statue of Andrew Jackson

an open door in the Jax Brewery building, entryway for the elevators to the condos, a relief of air conditioning in the well-appointed hallway

horse-drawn carriages waiting at the Square, an occasional guest climbing in for a tour of the empty town

refrigerators on the sidewalk, covered in magic-marker scrawls against the White House

the pigeons devouring bread, a gift

We drove home. When I got in, my only NO,LA-based buddy wrote to me. He’s been relocated to Houston, and he’s getting along.