City Streets at Night, our correspondent, Kyle, sums up his last night in New Orleans

Johnny White’s bar, on the corner of Bourbon and Orleans in the French Quarter, is the last source of authenticity in a city now dominated by media and military. For those who have stayed, the small operation on the corner is their crossroads for information, cigarettes and beer.

A bartender named Squirrel lights a dozen tall candles as darkness sets in. The ice has been finished off so everything is warm, but no one seems to care. Outside a small crowd gathers around a nine-inch screen powered by C batteries to watch Monday Night Football. The streets are pitch black.

New Orleans is a ghost town. We walked twenty blocks around the French Quarter in darkness. Imagine a modern American city completely empty and lifeless. The two and three story balconies lean over us with their iron frames and cast even darker shadows for the sidewalks to hide behind. It felt more like a haunted house than a formerly functioning metropolis.

Back inside the bar, a local Bourbon resident began telling me his story. His decision to stay was rooted in the gay community within the French Quarter, his pets, and Bourbon Street itself. He then asked “If the media can stay, why can’t I?” I inquired as to whether or not he’d like to see his family who lived in Minneapolis, Minnesota. “They think I’m crazy, but my life is here. My pets are here. I could go and stay with them if I wanted to.” Another concern was the possibility of not being allowed back into New Orleans. This became a common theme among the survivors. Squirrel’s leg required medical attention. The bartender acknowledged the injury as he poured another drink. “If I go for help, they’ll evacuate me.”

As my conversations continued in the bar it became clear that these people were deeply traumatized. The survivors were fighting for shreds of normalcy. The gay man asked if I could get some cabana boys to come to New Orleans. I told him that I’d try to get a tugboat-full shipped in. Bob Brigham chimed in that I was as good as any. We all had a good laugh. For a moment, things were normal and we were just a group of guys chuckling at a Bourbon Street bar.

Tensions rose as the night went on and the situation manifested itself in those deeply affected. One regular started to get into it with Squirrel. The bartender responded by first calling for the man to go and then waving a crowbar. The mood ground to a halt and we decided to go. Squirrel agreed with our move and sighed, “I’m sorry you guys.”

I’m sorry too.