It’s hairy getting in and out of Musician’s Village at night. Young, angry men stare us down as we jog along Bartholomew Street. We are hoping to get back without getting killed. Some of those boys brandish bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 or they smoke Black and Milds. No amount of “howdie dos” will loosen their stony silence. No smile will open their hearts. They have no idea why we are passing by this way, and they really don’t care. They just know that we do not belong here. We do not add up.
But, once we cross over Claiborne Avenue, I can hear the music from the village museum. The population is older and decidedly more friendly, and they ask us who we are and if we are lost and would we like to drink with them? We are a strange sight in these parts (our banana pie faces and European shoes), and they do not hesitate to tell us so. We smile because it’s all we can do. Everything is too complicated to explain how we managed to get ourselves to this one spot in Musician’s Village in New Orleans, LA on this cool and pleasant night.
