I Left my Heart in New Orleans

The Jazz & Heritage Festival: A Review

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I can’t remember my first visit to New Orleans—not because I was drunk but because I was a baby. My father had just finished an internship in the U.S., and after that, the young family boarded a boat back to Brazil with all their pots and pans. My mother used to say there was a big storm at sea, and she was sick. I think I remember that somehow. Babies have a unique memory for their mothers' distress.

But this time, it was a different kind of storm. We went to the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, baby, and saw the Stones. There is the jazz festival, and there are the Rolling Stones. This show was different. Ladies and gentlemen, the Rolling Stones!

Our first night out, and anyone can see that this is a drinking town. Not only on Bourbon Street but every other street. It reminded me of Dublin, a party town with a million pubs. But I don’t drink. I walk around thinking — this will suck. But soon, I’ll realize that when you’re truly having fun, drinking comes around naturally. So, I have begun to drink. From that point on, I fell into the melting Gumbo pot, that is, New Orleans.

Southern Hospitality. And that invokes some belle epoque images. Southern Comfort is a…