The city descended on Bourbon Street. New Orleanians, as a general rule, do not like to go there. It is a tourist trap, too crowded and cheap. But on Sunday night it was a beating, living, pulsating mass of people, like a capital city of some country after a dictator has been overthrown.
Beer-stained, bead-scattered Bourbon Street was black and gold wall to wall — the bars on either side were half empty, playing either “Stand Up and Get Crunk,” the Saints’ current theme song, or the old standby, “When the Saints Go Marching In.”
From the balconies, in lieu of confetti, they threw cocktail napkins. In lieu of expensive Champagne, people raised the cheap stuff.
A middle-aged woman stood in a doorway wiping tears from her eyes. In the middle of the street someone was holding up a banner: “HELL FREEZES OVER”
“We won the Super Bowl, brother,” said a man in a tuxedo, leaning on his friend who was wearing a Saints jersey. “Can you imagine that after 40 years?”