My Lesson is Your Blessin'

New Orleans- a little bit French, a tad bit Spanish, a whole lot Catholic, and entirely Southern- is a one of a kind. Even if its city motto wasn’t “Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez” (Let the Good Times Roll), I would still love it.

Things move at a slower pace down there and, for that reason, I decided the Big Easy would be the perfect place for me to take it easy for a few days.

My first day in the city could not have been any better. The French Quarter was alive, pulsating with bright neon lights and beckoning all to come hither. Entering Bourbon Street, I was immediately surrounded by music which seeped from the bars, burlesques, brass instruments, and street performers’ boom boxes. Interwoven, the various sounds became as one singsong melody that can only be described as New Orleans.

With this New Orleans sound still dancing around my head, I moseyed along further down Bourbon Street. I could see Saints fans crying in their beers and hurricanes while the faithful followers of the victorious Tampa Bay Buccaneers smiled and gloated between drinks. Others, who were oblivious to the fact there was even a football game that day, continued about their merrymaking in the pick your poison setting of the French Quarter.

It was more than I could handle. After devouring a serving of beignets, I caught the first street car I could find and made my way back to the quiet of my Garden District bed and breakfast.

I awoke early that next morning and dug through my suitcase for something to wear. Much thought went into the packing process for this trip. I wanted to remain inconspicuous and look nothing like a tourist, so naturally I packed all orange Tennessee shirts and companioning caps. I even packed my pride and joy- my burnt orange cowboy boots. The moment those orange boots hit the sidewalk, I knew it was going to be a great day.

Boy, was I wrong.

If red is the color that invokes fury from raging bulls, then orange must be the color that invokes grabbling from New Orleans panhandlers. I was hit from all directions. It was like a great neon sign was placed on my back saying, “I’m not from around here. Please, ask me for money!” Seeking refuge, I dashed into Cafe Du Monde and found comfort from a serving of beignets. (No matter the circumstances, beignets are always a great decision.)

I emerged from the cafe full of vigor and determined to have a good day despite the pre-beignet fiasco. I walked along the riverfront while sunlight danced merrily on the water. Children were laughing and all was right with the world. And then it happened.

I heard, “Hey, Tennessee!”

I turned to look behind me, hoping that by chance someone named Tennessee was standing there. Tennessee wasn‘t there. It was then that I knew I was the target.
I thought I would simply nod and walk on by, but he said something about my boots. I stopped and heard myself ask, “What did you say?”

“Those are some mighty fine boots you got there,” said the panhandler. “I bet I can tell ya exactly where you got ‘em too!”

I was intrigued. I decided to play along.

“One thing,” he said. “If I tell you right, you have to let me give you a shoeshine.”

I agreed. He smiled.

“You got your boots on your feet! That’s where you got ‘em!”

My blood boiled as he laughed. I started to walk off, but before I could, he commenced to squirt my boots- my pride and joy- with some unidentified liquid. He pulled out a rag and halfheartedly rubbed the liquid in. As he worked, he said to me, “Let my lesson be your blessin’!” After twenty seconds, he was done.

The shoeshine panhandler stood up, studied his job, and looked at me. “That’ll be twenty bucks,” he said.

I handed him two dollars.

“No, no, no! It’s ten on each side,” he cried.

“No. It’s two dollars,” I reiterated by handing him the two bills again. I knew that if I was going to dig in my pocket a second time, it would be for my hawkbill knife and not a twenty. He must have saw this in my eyes and he resigned himself to the two dollars. I decided to go find another shirt.

Later that evening, I met up with some locals and we began discussing the panhandling problem. One kind of laughed and said, “People are always getting suckered in by those shoe shiners down by the riverfront.”

“I’d never get fooled like that,” I lied as I stood to leave.

My lesson is now your blessin’. Don’t get fooled like I did.