David Haynesworth says “they” call him the “Ambassador of New Orleans,” whoever they are.
Haynesworth was a tour guide for the city, helping unsuspecting rubes like myself and my three wandering companions navigate the most authentic Nawlins experiences. Now, he does it under the table as a federal program dedicated to funding tour guides dried up, leaving him out of work about a year ago.
In about five to 10 minutes, a lingering Haynesworth, decked out in a Saints parka of black and gold, spotted us on Decatur waffling over where to eat, engaged us in some Big Easy banter and gave us some unsolicited advice. He then grabbed our map and traced out a walking route with hand-written notes on the best, cheapest, most local experiences we could handle in our final two hours in the French Quarter.
That’s about the time we found out he did this service for tips, and we gladly paid him. Yet it turns out, after fact-checking Haynesworth’s story with the New Orleans’ mayor’s office when I returned home, Haynesworth’s story doesn’t hold up.
But his advice, his map, his friendliness, and the love of his city did. Whatever the truth, for me and my group, he might as well have been the Mardi Gras King and Saints’ savior Drew Brees all wrapped up in one.
The clueless either get preyed upon or they get pitied. I’d like to think we got more of the latter and just a smidge of the former. Even while that was happening, it was harmless, and we got more out of it than he did.
He told us how to hitch onto a $50 cemetery tour for free, how to get our souvenirs 30 percent to 40 percent cheaper and where to go for lunch that wouldn’t break the piggy bank. He got a fistful of crumpled ones. I’ll take that trade off any day of the week.
I’m not necessarily calling Haynesworth a charlatan or raconteur, but it seemed even someone with less than noble intentions just wanted you to leave New Orleans having had a great and memorable time. I heard those very words leave the lips of several shopkeepers, waitresses, even maids in the hallway of the hotel I was in. Did you enjoy your time here? Did you have great experiences? Would you come back?
It wasn’t just about ensuring a robust tourism economy, it also seemed to be a point of serious pride, as if all the city had been through and all it had come back from with the devastation of Hurricane Katrina made a huge psychological impression on all who remain. Or it could just be the tourism dollar; either way, it’s all good.
New Orleans is a strange mélange of grit and glitter, where a hotel like the Roosevelt Waldorf Astoria on Canal Street, where I attended a newspaper industry conference, could be decked out in marble and gold filigree, and exist right next to a building with boarded up windows and a bottom-floor greasy spoon called Daisy Dukes.
Many of the four- and five-star hotels looked as if King Louis XVI of France had projectile vomited all over the lobby, yet outside the cab stand it smelled like someone really had vomited. And frankly, with the open container laws being what they are in New Orleans, it’s surprising we didn’t actually witness someone doing as much.
It’s this mix of the sacred and profane that makes this city so interesting. It’s all on display —- the pimples and the perfection; the kitsch and the artisanal; the artifice and the inspiration. Someone has to work for their New Orleans experience, they have to decide whether they want live life a little safer on Canal, Bourbon or Decatur, or whether they want to throw the dice on one of the side streets in search of something a little more daring.
New Orleans can be seedy —- and dangerous —- but residents really care about the impression people like me take away, and it shows. Just ask David Haynesworth. Who dat? Why, he’s the “Ambassador of New Orleans,” and there are a couple hundred thousand more where he came from.
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