I breathe in deeply for what feels like the first time in far too long.
I don’t get out of New York often enough, is what it boils down to. I grew up in the Hollywood Hills in a house full of staff and drama and a kind of luxury that frayed at every edge because luxury at that level should bring some degree of happiness, but it never seemed to. We were parented—if it could be called that—by nannies who did their best with four very hard-to-handle boys. Our father was usually at work or in his office, where he wrote. He couldn’t stand to be interrupted, and we always did that because we were starved for his attention. It was his work that consumed him—and our mother, who was mired in her daily meltdowns.
It was decided that all four of us needed to be sent to boarding school on the other side of the country for what my parents considered an “elite” New England education. Which might as well have been prison.
So I left California a long time ago. I went to boarding school near Boston, then went to Harvard. Once I graduated, Wall Street was my destiny and I’ve been there ever since.
New York inspires me like no other city could, in a work-yourself-to-the-bone kind of way. I’m a relentless workaholic whenever I’m on the island of Manhattan.
But New York can also feel like a cage of sorts. Like I’m just another grinding cog in its greedy, dog-eat-dog machine. I’ve managed to make the most of it, but the jazzy southern music in the humid air tonight feels downright magical, and it reminds me that there’s more to life than work. Theoretically, at least.
The driver comes to a full stop on Canal Street to wait for a group of tourists moving in a slow, loose herd across the street. I watch them without any impatience at all and it’s an unfamiliar feeling. Tonotbe in a rush. To not give a single fuck about what time it is or where I have to be.
We turn the corner. A few minutes later, the limo drives through an open metal gate into a hidden courtyard with a circular driveway and an old marble fountain that looks like it’s been doing its thing for several hundred years, which it probably has.
We’ve arrived at the back entrance of the hotel and a doorman is waiting.
He opens the door of the limo and I step out.
“Welcome to the White Swan, Mr. Wilder. Your private elevator to the penthouse is ready for you. We’re honored that such an esteemed guest has chosen to visit the best hotel on Bourbon Street. You’re in good hands.” He offers me a small white envelope with a swan logo. “Your key cards, the Wi-Fi password and my personal phone number. My name is André Gerard. I’m the executive manager here at the White Swan. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything at all.”
“Thank you.”
“May I accompany you to give you a tour? Your suitcase is currently being delivered to your room.”
“No tour necessary. Thanks again.”
That was mercifully brief. I take the private elevator up to the penthouse suite on the fourth floor. The top floor.
It’s gloriously … empty. No demands or expectations waiting for me at all. Just peace and a haven of quiet.
I barely register that the space is nicely decorated, with modern touches but enough color and character to stay true to the New Orleans vibe. French doors open onto a balcony high enough that the noise of the always-festive Bourbon Street crowd below is muted.
The walls are exposed brick, the floors a wide-plank wood that creaks as I walk across it. The sound is, weirdly, a relief. No steel or concrete to be found. New Orleans is so much …earthierthan New York. It’s a detail I didn’t realize I craved. The furniture is dark and carved in the old Creole style but the bed is a super king, enormous and white and modern. Marble and brass gleam through the open door of the luxury bathroom.
I make a mental note to tell Todd he’s chosen well this time.
I shower and change into jeans and a black shirt, then grab my baseball hat and sunglasses—things I always pack in case I want to remain relatively incognito. Sometimes it works, more often not. For better or worse, I’ve inherited whatever it is my parents had. Some structural accident of bone and symmetry that cameras love and that strangers clock at twenty yards.
The hat and sunglasses at least give me the feeling of a perimeter, even if the perimeter is imaginary.
Tonight I want a beer and some soul food. I want to walkaround this city without a single person asking me for advice or a job or an elusive piece of insider info that will help them strike gold.
I make my way downstairs, tip my hat to André—who’s busy with another customer, thankfully—and make my way out onto Bourbon Street.
6
It’seasy to blend into the crowd on Bourbon Street on a Friday night at eight p.m. My hands are in my pockets and I have no destination. People drift in clusters, drinks in hand, enjoying themselves in that loose, unfiltered way I’ve never quite mastered. The night is balmy, alive with sounds and scents.
New York City has been stuck in a cold snap for over a month, so the warmth tonight feels like some kind of cosmic gift.
As always, the bars are open and loud. Music competes from every doorway. New Orleans parties like it’s fully aware of its own precariousness, being located six feet below sea level, and is trying to get as much joy out of each day while it still can.
Piano music wafts from nearby and it gets my attention. Whoever the player is, he’s fucking good. Bluesy and talented. I walk closer to listen and the crowd moves around me.
I step inside.
It’s an old hotel that’s seen better days but still oozes with unpretentious old-school charm. It’s the kind of place that has looked exactly like this for fifty years and will probably look exactly like this in fifty more. Old photographs on every wall, a chalkboard menu, a dozen or so tables with flickering candles in small red lanterns, mostly occupied by people who seem to have come for the music.
