Destination: New Orleans

The drive down from Memphis to New Orleans is about eight hours if you stop for nature calls, fuel, and gobbledy quick meals. It's more than eight hours in terms of difference.

Memphis lives in a green, pastoral, comfortable landscape. New Orleans sits on the edge of the world, always about to end, but it always survives, and always comes back stronger and more defiant to stay that way.

The drive down was comfortable. It was a good, quiet drive, not too challenging, yet diverse enough to keep me interested in the surroundings. The bears are thick down here. Kojaks with Kodaks making sure that humanity is safe from the demon speeder. And they have every reason to be vigilant. On the way down I was doing just over the 70 mph limit and was being passed by everything but truckers, and retired people from Florida. Even had I been been doing 10 over the limit, I would have still been slow. Nobody uses their turn signals to change lanes, yet somehow you know they are about to change lanes.

I was about 30 minutes from New Orleans and I had just ended an OnStar call to my brother, when the rain hit. Actually it was dry one second, and the next was like being underwater. I could not get the wipers going fast enough, soon enough. The best I could do was follow the example of the car in front, four ways on, wipers on high, speed on slow, and pray to God and the Universe this is not my expiration date!

I often find on the road there is no convincing some people that outside of your pathetically weak metallic auto shell, you can die, quickly, suddenly, and ugly. Arrogance with driving privileges sailed past with no regard to the conditions. I quickly learned that I wasn’t the problem.

Understand that we weren’t even on a road per se. We were on a raised causeway, above the delta with concrete barriers on both sides. If an incident happened vehicles would be like marbles on a pin ball table.

About ten minutes later I emerge as suddenly as I was enveloped. Safe, but trying to get my heart under control, as fought to deep breathe through what seemed like ten years of pure adrenalin fuelled driving.

With the help of the GPS I find my way to the hotel. I have a two night reservation at the Four Points by Sheraton, right down in the French Quarter on the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse. The location puts me right in the heart of the “action”. I skilfully, if I mat say so, people walking down the middle of the streets with open alcohol. I have a lot to learn here. Stay tuned, there’s a conversation about to happen on that. I find the hotel, park in a fire lane out front, and run inside to find the valet. I’m on the wrong side of the hotel, and it takes me twice around the block to figure out the valet entrance. The streets are narrow, one driving lane and one supposed parking lane, which is mostly filled with delivery and construction trucks.

The hotel is nicely appointed with a King bed, and ample room.

 

 

I step through the real French doors onto the Toulouse Street balcony and realise I may have a noise problem. I’m halfway down the block from Bourbon and I can hear clubs trying to out noise each other. I pour myself a beer and sit in the comfortable chair on the balcony to soak it in. The number of people on the street has increased. It’s now after 5 and the crowd is growing. I realise with some discomfort that there are people/tourists who think Mardi Gras lasts all year. Bourbon Street is closed to traffic after 5, and people wander the street with alcohol fuelled abandon. Most people are good about it. For some it’s a frat party atmosphere.

I walk out of the hotel to try and get some flavour. After a couple of blocks it becomes apparent that music is not the draw here. Even though it seems that the music is the initial draw, there is not much in the way of what I consider either jazz or the blues. Mostly, it’s just loud noise pouring out the open doors of drinking places advertising “two for one” or “no cover” on crudely hand written signs. Hawkers in the streets carry signs advertising “big ass beer” and other such things. Cover men and girls try to entice me into Hustler’s Barely Legal Club, and across the street another place advertises both men and women erotica dancing. I could have stayed home for this.

I walk the length of Bourbon Street and the only place I find that seems serious about music, is Irvin Mayfield’s Room at the Sonestra Hotel. It’s crowded and full so I only take a moment to peer in. I wonder if this is the same Bourbon Street of Louis Armstrong, Pete Fountain, and Al Hirt. If so it has fallen on hard times. The pitchmen, come on artists, the silver and gold painted mimes, the sleazy frat house atmosphere is too much for me. 

I reach the end of Bourbon Street and walk one block over to Royal Street. I am heartened to find art galleries, antiques shops, small bistros (all full), and some quiet. A church with a front lit Christ statue fairly begs for a picture. 

I return to the hotel somewhat disheartened. I ask Joseph, the Desk Clerk, if he can suggest someplace quiet for some jazz and dinner? It’s after 9, but he tries the Bombay Club for me. Their kitchen is only open until 9:30 but on Joseph’s name they say if I get there quickly they can accommodate. I walk the two blocks up Bourbon, and over one block on Conti to find it.

What a wonderful surprise. The bartender and servers are friendly and professional. I surprise myself and take a look at the cocktail menu and do something I have never done before, I order a martini. I know, those of you who know me are saying “WHAT??” But it’s true, of all the things I have ordered in bars, martinis were not on the list. Wine, beer (in all it’s different wonderful varieties and flavours), gin, vodka, and occasionally a Shirley Temple, but never a martini. Scratch one more off the “bucket” list!

Besides the martini, I order the Pork Porterhouse, 16 oz steak with green beans and small scratch potatoes. Both are wonderful. 

Except for a couple at the bar, and some expense account types, I have the place to myself. And it’s quiet. Sadly the jazz band doesn’t play until Thursday. One more strike against mid-week travel. One more thing, the whole meal cost more than the night’s hotel room in Rapid City.

I wander back down the excesses of Bourbon Street sated in appetite, and take some pictures of the signs. I retire to my room, pour myself a martini from my travelling kit and settle onto the balcony to enjoy the cacophony from a safe distance. 

Oh, wait you want to know how I can make a martini in my room from my travelling kit? Simple, I didn’t say I had never had a martini to drink before, just that I had never bought one in a bar before.

I crawl into the Sheraton Perfect Sleeper bed about an hour later, snuggle on down and quietly fall into deep sleep. The outside noise isn’t that bad after all.

I wake up without the alarm around 730. Rested, and comfortable, I head out of the hotel at 915 to wander my way down to the French Market. The plan for today is to wander through Café Du Monde, the French Market, see the river, and then cab it on over to the Commander’s Palace for lunch and a wander through the Garden District.

As I wander along Toulouse, and then Decatur I am struck at the diversity of store offerings. Oh sure there are the t-shirt, faux voodoo, palm reading, and beer counter type places. But there are genuine art shops, coffee shops, and antique stores.

Café Du Monde is a great place. Even at 945 in the morning there is live music in New Orleans. I order a café au lait and some beignets.

I have chosen this occasion to have my one cup of coffee this year, and it’s worth it. So are the beignets, though I nearly choke after inhaling some icing sugar down the back of my throat. A quick sip of coffee fixes that. The wind picks up and the rain that was lightly falling a moment ago is now coming down in sheets, and driving on to chair at the back of the café.

I choose to wander off down Decatur, under the covered walkway and check out some more stores.

I buy a Kermit Ruffins CD in one, a t-shirt in another, and coffee to take home from the Café Du Monde gift shop across the street. After 20 minutes the rain has gone and I wander over to the river,

 through Jackson Square,

listen to a trumpet player who only seems to know the opening notes of the Dragnet theme (I tip him a dollar anyway), 

watch the cops put some ‘cuffs on a local woman while her friends look on, look at the Cathedral where Pope John Paul spent the night, 

and then head back to the hotel to change my shirt. It’s muggy, and sticky, and my shirt is soaked through, so by noon I’m back on my balcony in the sun, drinking a cold Corona I bought at the Opera Annex across from my hotel. At noon the church bells chime.

I abandon plans for the Commanders Palace for lunch. Instead I wander up Bourbon Street again looking for some place nice. The hawkers and pitch men are all out trying once again to get people into Hustler’s Barely Legal, Larry Flynt’s, and the like.

I find the Red Fish Grill. I am seated immediately and Terrell, my server offers up the draft beer choices. I choose the Abita SOS (Save Our Shores) Pilsner. http://sos.abita.com

The BBQ Fried Shrimp Po Boy sandwich looks good as well. The sandwich is lettuce, tomato, flash fried shrimp in sweet pepper sauce, served on a baguette. Both the sandwich and the beer are exceptional.

It’s time for a nap, and as I walk down Bourbon Street back to the hotel there is a smell of raw sewage that occasionally comes up though the manhole covers. The bars that are open still have music that is inversely proportional loud as to the talent of the artist. Or maybe it’s just too loud to hear the talent come through?

I fall fast asleep on the bed about 130, and don’t wake up until nearly 3 when housekeeping need to clean the room. As they work I sit out on the balcony for a bit feeling groggy and tired, taking notes on the day.

Around 430 I head out to wander along Royal Street again. The galleries I saw last night were all closed, except for one who lost all interest in me when I said I didn’t have room at my place for his large works. I wanted to see some of the other work up close. Sadly I am later than I should be and most of the stores are once again closed. I buy some small pieces, framed prints of past jazz festivals that in color will compliment my Heather Brown surfing pieces, but which in style are quite different.

I stop for dinner at Desire, the Oyster Bar at the Sonestra Hotel. Ordering the Cajun Shrimp Fettuccine, and an Abita Pale Ale. 

 

The fettucine is not too spicy, and shrimp very fresh. Overall very enjoyable.

After dinner I stroll back to the hotel, by now immune to the come ons and the cajoling of the club hawkers.

I stop at the hotel bar for a nightcap martini while a jazz duet on the piano and the stand up bass play The Lady Is A Tramp, and other standards with just enough of a twist to keep it interesting.

Tomorrow is another road day.