I watched the second half of the game at a house full of people on Ursulines Street in the French Quarter. As soon as the Super Bowl ended we all spilled out into the street.
Packs of people just like us did the same--dribbling from alleys and side streets like they had just heard the clang of a signal bell clapper. It was as if a giant magnet or a bright and shining light was summoning a sea of black and gold to Bourbon Street. Every encounter was a high-five and a "WhoDat!"
We all knew where to go. This was an entire city moving in the same direction. Screaming the same chant. It was a beautiful communion.
We passed a three-piece band--snare, bass drum, and trumpet. Then a four-piece. A lone accordion player. They all played as they marched.
The rest of the night continued following the same script. We hopped from bar to bar, and everyone repeated the same things. Shaking their heads in disbelief. Begging to be pinched.
I got a wild hair to road-trip to New Orleans to watch the Saints' first Super Bowl with the Who Dat Nation. I knew the experience would be rich, no matter the outcome. And in the back of my mind, I thought, "How phenomenal would it be if they actually won?"