The Second Line and the Storm

I can’t be sure (this was a couple years ago after all) but I don’t think this took place on a weekend night. I think it was on some random Tuesday or Wednesday. The quarter was hardly busy at all, anyway, that much I know for sure. Even Bourbon Street was rather barren, all things considered. I was just about halfway through a ghost tour, with a decent sized group of twenty two. It was a fine group. Not too wild, but with enough enthusiasm to make sure things wouldn’t get too boring for me. Of course, as I’ve said before, I had no clue how generous the group would be when it came to tipping time, because you can never know such a thing until it happened. But something inside me wanted to believe they were gonna be good to me at the end. But who the hell knew? 

So it goes, as Kurt used to say. 

Anyway, I had literally just finished the dreaded LaLaurie Mansion story- ending with my standard exit line “and they say the house was recently put back on the market, going for a cool 4.5 mil, so if any of y’all have that kind of money, and I think YOU do (I point at a random person while I say this, always gets a laugh) go ahead and buy the mansion and we can all see what’s going on in there at night these days!”- when I heard a terrific noise coming down St. Philips Street on the river side. I, along with the rest of my group, turned to see what the heck was going on. To my great surprise, and to my group’s supreme delight, we found a wedding second line coming right toward us. 

Now for those who don’t know, if you get married in the French Quarter of New Orleans you normally end with a second line, which is where, after you’ve read your vows and say your “I do’s”,  you exit the church and parade down the streets while a brass band follows you, blasting amazing New Orleans music along the way (there’s actually a lot more history and explanation regarding second lines, but I don’t really have the space to share all that here). Usually it’s the same exact set up each time: groom and the bride in the front, parading and dancing together just the two of them, and behind them is the brass band, and behind the band are the rest of the wedding guests, who are usually going absolute buck wild. The wedding second line goes on for a good number of blocks, until the band drops them off at whatever hotel or bar that’s hosting their reception. Got it? Good.

So anyway, there were two reasons why I was perplexed about seeing this second line in front of me at that moment. One, like I said before it was an otherwise quiet, peaceful weekday night in the quarter, and two, wedding second lines usually don’t make their way all the way up to Governor Nicholls Street, which is rather far from the most action of the quarter. What the hell were these guys doing way over here? Of course, that question soon became moot as the second line began to pass us by. 

It’s funny, no matter how many times a wedding second line passes me by, it never ceases to pull at my heartstrings. This is the way all weddings should end, in my opinion. Two people madly in love, about to start their new life together, dancing down their street in their beautiful dresses and elegant tuxedos, while a brass band plays happy music behind them, and all their closest friends and family follow them in a parade of fantastic humanity. I’ll admit I can be a cynical, seen-it-all, tour guide at times, but a good wedding second line always gets me.

And even if you were some cold-hearted bastard of a tour guide who felt nothing while watching this serene display of love, you would still feel something when you turned around and saw your group collectively having their mind blown. What the hell is going on? What is this amazingness that’s passing me by?! I have to know now! 

More than a few times I’ve had people on my tour take in the sight of the second line only to excitedly decide that they must do the same thing for their wedding. Which of course means they must have their wedding in New Orleans, for we are the only city to be smart enough to understand that sometimes love requires big musical displays of happiness. 

So there we were, appreciating this grand sight on this otherwise quiet night in the quarter, and that’s when the bride, followed by the groom, noticed our group watching them and beckoned us to come join them. Now, I’m sure this has probably happened to me on tour before, but I honestly can’t remember when. Normally, brides want the public to notice them, but not join in on their special day. 

“They want us to join them! Can we?!”  a number of folks in my group asked. Ninety times out of a hundred I would have flat out refused this offer, because it’s insane to think you would ever get your group back once they become intimate with the joys of a second line. But there must have been something in the wind that night, because I found myself honestly not caring if my tour dissolved into blissful chaos. I’d be sacrificing my tips for the night to be sure, but for whatever reason, at that time I just didn’t care. 

And while I was going back and forth of whether to commit to this rather stupid decision, I realized they were heading left down Royal Street, which meant we could parade with them for two blocks before leaving them at St Phillips, just a block away from our bar break. 

“Alright you hooligans!” I screamed at my group, “We can join them right now, but y’all have to promise me that after two blocks you’ll get off with me at St. Phillips so we can continue the tour.” 

The group eagerly agreed, and as we jumped in with the wedding guests parading behind the band, I reminded myself I had twenty two in my group, and I’d be lucky if I had half that by the time we got to our exit. But like I said, maybe I was just swept up in the amazing energy around me, but I didn’t care, and so off we went, parading our asses off to song I Got a Big Fat Woman. 

I can’t honestly remember another time quite as unique as this one. The tour guide and his group molded into one, the class structure of the ghost tour had been eviscerated, we were all just a bunch of party revelers celebrating the love of strangers, and the uniqueness of the city. And it wasn’t just our group feeling the specialness of the moment either. As soon as all twenty two of us jumped in line, the wedding party cheered like a pack of wolves howling at the moon. That unwavering high energy that was already there tripled in a blink of an eye, and we all just went nuts at the same time, dancing side by side, cheering on the bride and the groom up ahead, and whatever New Orleans ghosts might be watching from the sides. 

Yeah, it was definitely a top five tour guide moment for sure, easy. 

We were just crossing Ursuline Avenue,  one block away from where we would have to leave, when I felt the first drops of rain on my head. I’m sure the rest of the second line felt them too, but they probably just ignored it because they weren’t locals, so they didn’t know what might be soon happening. 

But I did. So I looked up to the night sky and found what I’d fear I’d find, potential disaster. Storm clouds in the east that seemed to be heading in our direction. I had lived in the city long enough to know there was a chance that the clouds could be pretenders, and things would stay at a light drizzle. BUT, there was also the chance that things above could explode right on top of us, and then it would be a real shit show. 

By the time we came to our exit, St. Phillip Street, the rain drops above had increased in numbers, but not by too much. Still though, I wasn’t going to risk it. I shouted and waved my hands in the air, letting my people know it was time to leave this incredible moment. When a substantial group of people followed me to the sidewalk, I didn’t waste time, I quickly, but professionally, guided my group down the street to Lafitte’s Black Smith Shop, our bar break. By the time we reached the entrance, there was a steady stream of rain coming down. Not a drizzle, not a light shower- it was straight up raining. 

When we made our way inside, I found a little luck waiting for us. It was indeed a slow night in the quarter, for Lafitte’s, one of the most popular bars in the area, was practically empty. While I internally celebrated this minor win, I counted out how many people I still had after the second line extravaganza. 

Eighteen. I couldn’t believe it. Only four people out of twenty two decided to stay on the magical wedding parade. I dusted the dirt off my shoulders. God damn, I thought, I must be doing something right as a tour guide. 

As if to punish me for this arrogant thought, a blinding flash of lightning and a deafening crack of thunder parazalyed everyone in the bar for a fraction of a second. And then, as we re-collected our wits, we heard the new noise coming from outside. It was no longer just raining, it was hard core pouring. Pissing down, as the brits would say. 

I could see my group around me bristle and fret over this new predicament. 

“Relax,” I tried to assure them, “a lot of times this hardcore storms pass just as fast as they come. Go get your drinks at the bar and relax at one of the tables, and I bet ya anything by the time you’re done with your drinks, the sky will be clear again.”

This seemed to work, as they all hurried to the bar, eager to get a drink and forget about the situation outside. 

Naturally, I got a drink as well. A whiskey coke. Usually I’d just get a beer, or maybe a water, during a quiet weekday night ghost tour, but like I said, this night was something special. 

I sipped my drink while standing at the edge of the entrance, watching that rain pour down with absolute abandon. It’s not easy to sip a drink while frowning at the same time, but I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I did. Because, even though what I had told my group before was true, a lot of times the hard storms that come quickly also leave quickly, sometimes that’s not the case. Sometimes the storm just gets worse and worse, the rain gets harder and harder, the wind gets stronger and stronger, until you start looking around for a canoe because you just know you ain’t getting out of this on your own two feet. 

Not exactly great conditions for an outdoor tour to say the least. But then I turned around to my group, some still getting drinks, some chilling at the tables in the corner or relaxing by the fireplace in the middle of the establishment, when an idea hit me. Now for those who don’t know, Lafitte Black Smith Shop is unique for a number of reasons. First of all, it’s the oldest bar in the city and the state, dating back to the late 1700s, and the interior resembles a tavern that dates that far back, so it really has that creepy rustic feel to it, ya know? Secondly, it’s the only bar in the quarter that’s lit by candlelight. That’s right, just picture an old fashioned bar with a ton of history that is dark and dim, only lit by the flickering of candles. I mean, could you ask for better ambiance for a ghost story. 

“Alright people,” I addressed my group, “as you can all clearly see, and hear, this storm has not left.” 

“It sure has shit hasn’t,” a middle aged man cracked, causing laughter to ripple out from the group. 

“But we’re in luck. Usually this bar is packed at night, but clearly it’s not right now. So why don’t I tell the next story here, to all you, in that dark, foreboding corner, and hopefully by the time I’m done this storm will have finally passed and we can go back out and finish the tour right. What do y’all say?” 

Not surprisingly, everyone elected to stay in the warm, cozy bar and drink beer while they listen to the next story, which, best of all, happens to be about a ghost who died in this very bar. Dun dun dun! (When I tell you they ate that shit up…)

Of course the next ten minutes go great, and by the time I’ve finished telling about the poor thieving pirate who was barbequed alive in the fireplace that was standing right next to them, they love me even more than before. 

But, the rain was still pounding the street non-stop outside, to the point where we might as well have been in a tropical storm. I cursed to myself. Technically, I had an obligation to get my group back to Jackson Square, where we started the tour, and not doing so could possibly get me into trouble. But there are always extenuating circumstances. And as I looked around my group right now, so at peace with the world, clearly dreading the idea of going back out in the storm, I figured fuck it and propose my idea. 

“Alright guys, what do you think if instead of- ”

And that’s as far as I got before my group cut me off and demanded we stay there and finish the tour by candlelight.  

And so, we simply stayed put in Lafitte’s, drinking our drinks in that dim, candle lit bar, having an amazing time. My group was perfect, gasping in horror at times, laughing at my jokes, and just overall being the best kind of tour group a guide could ask for. 

In fact, it all went so well that even though there was only forty five minutes left of the tour, I ended up telling stories for another ninety minutes. 

To this day, it’s hard for me to think of a better time I’ve had as a tour guide than that one random quiet night in the quarter, where my group joined a wedding second line and danced and paraded with strangers before escaping a nasty storm by hunkering down in a famous, dark bar and telling ghost stories for the rest of the night. When people ask me why I find the city of New Orleans so magical, that’s my go-to story. 

So once all this unpleasantness clears up- and hopefully it won’t take that long- I certainly hope to see all y’all down here, visiting our incredible city, trying to find your own magical moments that you can only find here, in New Orleans. 

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