Stirring Point

The sun bears down on the morning like it has something to prove. The heat is heavy and moist and raises sweat from the pores. UV rays search for patches of exposed skin and torch them in minutes. Anywhere else, the temperature would be a real distraction. But here, pinched between St. Claude Avenue and a healthy kink in the Mississippi River, the sun is an afterthought. The neighborhood is just too cool to give a damn about the heat.

The Bywater is a traveler’s dream. From soft yellow shutters to vibrant green facades, the neighborhood pops like fresh paint on canvas. Long known as a bohemian enclave, the art is pervasive and climbs like verdant bindweed. Mannequin arms attached to railings hold out mounds of multicolored Mardi Gras beads. Fleur de lis are painted on concrete foundations and wooden fence posts. Lights from neon signage spill a hot pink glow across the street. Detailed murals dress up old industrial buildings and broadcast messages of change.

Follow the scent of Southern Magnolias down Dauphine St. to the corner of Independence. Here, the Bywater Bakery will grab you by the nostrils with its cinnamon buns and cups of breakfast gumbo. Its famous king cakes destroy willpower like a tempest. Mascarpone frosting and chocolate strawberry chantilly cakes flood the mouth with saliva. Savory Boudin and crawfish king cakes dare to be different from the rest.

Double back down Dauphine St. for a strong Americano at Satsuma Cafe. Grab a seat on the street and crack a book. Or, eavesdrop on the musicians seated next to you as they munch their pancakes and talk about the subtleties of vinyl record production. “We still produce CDs for tourists,” one says. “My crowd is more into wax,” says the other.

Vinyl—what a comeback! Head south on Piety St., toward Euclid Records, and dig through a masterful collection of curated crates. From Freddie King to Tom Waits and De La Soul to Dr. John, Euclid has a copy. Watch record collectors run their fingers along album jackets, searching for imperfections like jewelers inspecting precious stones. Grab a Dirty Dozen classic or a rare Japanese import, then step next door to celebrate with a pilsner at Bratz Y’all. Enjoy a half chicken or a king brat, and your taste buds will sing like Southern Baptists. Sit outside while a local guitar duo plays deep cuts from Muddy Waters that you just can’t place. And you call yourself a music lover.

As the sun tires from its relentless tirade, follow Chartres St. along the train tracks until you reach Bacchanal Fine Wines & Spirits. The quaint storefront welcomes visitors with a gust of cool air and a fine collection of bottles. Your friend grabs the long neck of Big Salt, a white wine with hints of sea breeze and saline. You step into the cheese aisle and tell the shopkeeper that you’re in virgin territory. You love cheese but you don’t understand how their setup works. She tells you to pick out a few of your favorite cheeses and she’ll have a cheese goddess masterfully assemble a plate of goodies. A cheese goddess? Oh yes, a cheese goddess. That title belongs on a business card, you think, but you don’t say it. Someone probably beat you to the chase.

So you reach for brie and a crumbly Danish blue. Your partner grabs a creamy horseradish spread and a slab of Drunken Goat. You pay the lady, then walk through the backdoor into an enormous courtyard. Round tables are crowded with the city’s hip, while dangling lights and a live band set the mood. The stage is small and their sound nearly bursts its seams. The saxophone kicks against the slap of the stand-up base while the drummer keeps time. As you sit and pull the wine from its ice bucket, a drop of the frigid water falls from the bottle’s side and lands on your kneecap. It’s the right kind of cold, like raindrops on a hot summer day. 

They bring out your cheese plate—an act of art by the cheese goddess herself. The display is impressive but seems doable, even with your feeble old hands. Maybe I can be a cheese goddess too. Thin slices of crusty bread are stacked high atop the fromage display, while olives, pickles, chutney, mostarda and seeds round out the platter. You sip Big Salt and the name doesn’t lie. You slide into a slouch and settle into the present. The horn blasts Ornette Colman and your bones fall out, turning you into a relaxed pile of jelly. So you gobble the cheese and you nosh all the olives. You sop up the last dab of brie and chutney on the platter with your index finger. The name of the place is Bacchanal, for Chrissake. It’s your duty to be indulgent.

Your feet are still attached, so you stand and waddle to the door. The night sky is cool and it tells you to relax. As you walk north on Poland St., an abandoned industrial structure towers over your right side. You imagine how the neighborhood kids must go there to break bottles, practice their tagging and smoke dope they stole from their older brothers. You think that’s what you’d do if you grew up here too, so you empathize with them. You had the woods and a tree fort; they have those old concrete walls.

The sign from Bar Redux is hypnotizing, but you save that chaos for another night. Instead, you cut a left on Dauphine and walk into Vaughn’s—a Bywater music mecca. You fall in love with it all: the old Kool cigarette machine in the corner, the silver streamers wrapped around the wooden posts, the way an old lady swings in circles while the band plays zydeco. You lean in and sip your drink from a plastic cup like it’s a chalice. You’re in a musical promiseland and every relic feels sacred. 

You catch wind about a creole band playing at BJ’s Lounge around the corner and decide to take a peak. They sing in French and pull the crowd to their feet. Men spin women, women spin women, and men spin men. The dance floor is an 8 x 10 ft. patch of distressed grass and demands their best moves. It feels like a wedding; it tastes like a celebration.

A nightcap at Bud Rips Old Ninth Ward Bar gives you time to think about the day. As cartoons play above the bar and tires spin on ceiling fans, the urge to sleep comes on like a wave. You pay your tab and head for the door. Just a block away, the streets turn quiet and you walk down the middle of the road. You think about a new life here, about the locals in their shotgun-style homes, about the way their children will grow with music in their bones. And as you walk, you recognize that you’re in the presence of something special. You’re in the Bywater; you’re in New Orleans.