The Jolly Inn in Houma, Louisiana

      We approached the Jolly Inn as the sun was sinking below the treeline and were struck by the overflow of cars jammed into every conceivable parking spot. It seemed like three generations of every family were flocking to the famous dance hall to socialize and revive the tradition of Cajun dancing. The large room was evenly split into an open floor and a crowd of plastic tables and chairs packed with patrons. The walls were cluttered with memorabilia, framed letters, ancient photographs, and bright neon signs advertising classic, cheap beers. Busied waitresses squeezed through clusters of people holding long necks to deliver paper trays of onion rings, fries, seafood and burgers. The short stage at the front of the hall burst with the enormous house band, Couche Couche, crooning and tapping out Cajun waltzes and jigs on guitars, accordions, washboards, and triangles. After every song, the dance floor cleared and folks returned to their seats, only to rise a minute later and begin the next dance.

We were greeted at the entrance by “Allie Gator”, an original patron who tallies how many people have entered and collects the cover charge in exchange for free beer. He proudly showed off his short sleeved, button down shirt airbrushed with his nickname and wooed us by playing a tie-shaped washboard tucked into the collar of his shirt. When we insisted on taking his photograph, he repeatedly jested, “You can but you’re gonna break your camera. You’re gonna have nightmares after looking at this face.”

        We managed to find a place to sit at a table filled with older patrons and LSU fans who observed the familiar scene and chatted with us about college football. We were initially intimidated by the skillful dancers, spinning, turning, dancing backwards, and forming complicated shapes with their hands clasped together. This trepidation was exacerbated by the numerous people who came to ask where we were from.

        “What about us gives it away that we’re not from here?” I wondered aloud to our companion, Marissa, who had initially steered us towards the Jolly Inn.

        “They just don’t recognize your faces.”

Our outsider status only made us a target for the iconic Cajun hospitality. An older gentleman named Alan twice asked me to dance and patiently taught me the most difficult steps I had watched others perform. When I apologized for my stumbles, he chivalrously dismissed them, telling my friends “I know she’s a good dancer because she can follow a lead with two left feet.”

When Trent recognized one of the waitresses as a coworker from Baton Rouge, we were astonished to discover she was the owner’s granddaughter. She explained to us that her grandfather had founded the establishment and the house band, and now she worked as a waitress and her brother manned the kitchen to help out. We watched as the aging patriarch took the stage to sing a few songs for old time’s sake, and then she gathered her family in front of the kitchen window for us to take their picture.

        I left the Jolly Inn with a skip in my step, a belly full of birthday cake from a celebrating family, and a new appreciation for the lifetime bonds formed between loyal friends.