After Mandina’s and a ridiculous amount of delicious food, we make our way downtown. We pass through the remnants of a once-vibrant section of the city, past dilapidated relics of Dad’s childhood, including the site of his high school prom, where Professor Longhair provided the entertainment. We coast past a former Pontiac dealership where, Dad tells me, his grandmother used to buy all her cars.
We come down Canal street and loop behind the hotel on Iberville where a Vikings fan, clad in a Favre jersey, hears two “Who Dat” chants from the other side of the street. It’s rather friendly taunting. Southern hospitality-hostility, I suppose.
A quick tour of Bourbon Street is in order before dinner. In the doorway to my left is a pot-bellied stripper, chatting pleasantly with a New Orleans police officer. A little further down the street are a couple of painted men. The silver guy is familiar to me, but the gold guy is new. They put on their robotic show to amusement, some uneasiness and plenty of camera flashes. This is when I first notice the throngs of Saints jerseys around me. They are everywhere.

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