Thursday in NOLA

Continuing with the early flight on Thursday, the plane arrived in Dallas, and soon, I discovered iconography and walked through the airport, which was waking around us fully awake, slightly fearful, busy passengers and flight crews. The plumbing was not on display (as Douglas Adams’ description of airports), there was no heat, and excessive air conditioning had me looking for frost. I put back on my sweater. A train ride had me locate my gate and discover all the food places were still closed, which was unsurprising as the local time was just after 6.

It was still dark, and the pre-morning black outside made it seem like it was still the middle of the night in Texas. The hall was cold, and folks were putting on their outerwear that had been removed when on the steamy plane rides. Food joints are opening. I ignored the chicken sandwich place. First, I don’t like their politics, and second, I wanted something not quite so corporate for breakfast (but I will admit they treat their employees well and make excellent food at a reasonable price).

The stirfry and Asian-style place was still assembling and putting away their deliveries. A gal with a golden front tooth offered me pad thai for breakfast and suggested chicken. I agreed. While expensive (everything is at an airport), she made it for me while I watched, and it was fresh and made with feeling. Even Texas is a melting pot in the USA, and it was a joy to have excellent Asian food by 7ish in the Heart of Texas. The family sitting beside me at the next table got the breakfast bowls of rice and stir-fried veggies with a fried egg, which looked amazing and were freshly made.

I got to my gate and soon sat in a cheap middle seat on another full flight. We were a chatty bunch. Amanda was in the aisle seat, working and flying to NOLA and taking an Uber to a site out of town to evaluate it for environmental costs/risks. The other person’s accent and being on my unhearing side was friendly, but I missed his name, and he was connecting a set of flights to get to a work gig. I chatted about travel places we have been and work (theirs). The time disappeared, and soon we landed at NOLA, and like most travel meetings, we disappeared from each other and headed out.

After a long walk, I found the baggage claim, and nothing had been delivered, even with my 33rd seat and not that hurried walking and stopping to supply NOLA with slightly used Texas water (having supplied Texas with Oregon water as payment, again used somewhat).  Soon, my bag appeared on the track (undamaged), and I found the taxi line and took a $36 ride back to NOLA.

I drove this last time and enjoyed the ride. The memories started to flood back as I looked at the familiar greens and trees; I love it here. The raised cemeteries let you know this was NOLA and not just any place in the southern USA. There was traffic last time as the Palestinians had decided to block traffic as a protest, and thus, I did get time to look at the area. No protestors, and traffic was moderate. I soon paid my cabbie with cash, a $100 bill from Corwin as payment (change was received) for the truck I bought for him. My usual deal: I will forgive half if he pays it on time (and he sort of does). I keep the cash and use it for trips and expenses. My hotel, this time, is a block from the action and loud at night, with cars blasting music and blowing horns. I tried to sleep with the door open to hear the city noise, but this time, I closed it so I would not be blasted out of my bed. I did roll over, and my unhearing ear let me sleep. My only advantage so far from brain surgery.

My hotel checked me in, but my room was not ready, and I would likely be late. The place was overrun by football folks. Tonight, the big game of Denver Colts vs. the Saints was at the stadium (infamous as a last resort sanctuary with Hurricane Katrina). NOLA was awash in Saints and Colts wear, and folks were happy. I could not have been prouder as I designed the computer interface and processes to allow those jerseys to be produced when Nike got the NFL.

With no room, I changed shirts and washed up in the men’s room and then stored my bags (my usual practice, which I did in Chicago). Then, I headed into the city and tried to remember my way. I was quickly lost; like any tourist, I was looking at my phone all the time. I managed to change a two-block walk into four, but I started to remember the places and purchases from last time. I located the New Orleans Cooking School and soon chatted with the gal running their store, Kathern. She wrote all my cooking school reservations on a legal pad and gave them to me. I was asked to return before the class time.

I walked through the area and took Kathern’s suggestion to try Napoleon’s for a light meal. I met Chris who was in line before me. We chatted, and he said he daydreamed about the gumbo here when not in NOLA. Like me, he is a single traveler and picks hotels with balconies. I got a bar seat between people and soon had a ginger ale (booze was out as I was sleepless in NOLA) and a nice bowl of gumbo. There was no spice, and I thought the flavor was flat. I am still fighting to get my tastes to work after the surgery and side effects; it might have been great, but it did taste complex. I saw Chris and the gentleman in a Saints Jersey (he told me they were headed to the game), both with gumbo and using a lot of hot sauce, but a gal had an excellent muffuletta salad. Something for another lunch, I think. This is a deconstruction of the sandwich with the same name. With food and something bubbly inside of me, I was feeling better.

The foot traffic was higher, and Bourbon Street was starting to swing already; it was just past noon, with the orange of the Colts and the whitish gold of the Saints starting to fill the sidewalks and streets (you may walk on Bourbon Street with only an occasional car driving through). I walked back to my hotel, mainly to figure out where it was relative to the other places. I did not walk an efficient route and had to look at my phone a few times. I am back and sit in a chair in the lobby. It is a mess of late check-outs. I nod off a few times. I call and text some folks and step outside by the pool. It is warm outside with the sun and no wind.

With the likelihood of early access to a room and a nap vanishing, I walk some more and will reach over 14,000 steps for Thursday. I found the mask shop and the used bookstore (with expensive options available), which I enjoyed on my last trip. I discovered I missed the shop where they make the gas lights, and Jeb is there making lamps by folding and riveting pure Michigan copper sheets. There are pews to sit on and watch, and Jeb likes to talk while he works. Excellent, and I ask him many questions as this fits my writing for Holmes and Watson and role-playing games (some set in the late 1800s). Jeb could not answer who supplies the copper, and I wondered what copper place was still open in Micigan’s upper peninsula. This suggests there is one reason to head north on one of my trips to see family. I have not been to the Whitefish area. Hmmm.

I find more coffee and a croissant. I wander more.

Now, at 3:45, I am back at the hotel, Cheatu Le Moyne, hoping the usual 4-ish release for my room will happen. Nope. Another walk. Bourbon Street is now starting to be loud, and there is music. The typical cover is a drink; my sleep-deprived self cannot afford that indulgence, and walking feels good. I found the European Jazz Club, a favorite and the secret home of the vampire bar Potions, and returned to my reportedly haunted hotel. On the way, I saw Chris again. He had just learned his room at another hotel was now ready (they call you), and thus, I realized I was not the only person facing this challenge. Chris is excited as it appears he was upgraded to a balcony and hurries off.

But my room was not ready, which consternated the staff. Soon, though not reported to me, it was revealed that the room was ready and maybe the computer was wrong. I was supplied with a keycard, and my bags were retrieved and handed to me. I took the elevator to the second floor. I have a lovely room; all is forgiven, and the balcony is on the street and wraps around the room. Excellent. It is loud. I love it.

By the way, my room is NOT in the haunted section. I have read about some seriously unpleasant stuff in the other section. Happy here!

I chatted on the phone with Deborah as I unpacked. My suit is folded into my amazing (and expensive) bag, and it is best to hang everything up and put it in drawers. I will be here for a week. I finally have my shoes off and lie down for twenty minutes.

Off with a sweater over a T-shirt for the cooking class (it is cooling off). Jambalaya is dropped in error from the menu (f**k), and I now have two gumbo classes; c’est la vie. Our chef, Maria, tells us her Katrina’s story and how she got into teaching cooking as a Katrina refugee in California. After living on the West Coast for years, she went to homes and taught cooking. She returned to NOLA, missing it and feeling the call to return to her hometown, and started teaching and cooking in NOLA.

There were a few f**k-ups, and as I said, Jambalaya (my reason for booking on Thursday) was dropped for gumbo. I have a cooking surface for myself (explaining the high price), and most share three on a surface. We used induction surfaces, and the surface stops working if you lift a pan or move one off the burner. I managed to crash mine three times due to Maria’s frustration (not so much with me, as this just throws off her game as she has to help me often–their surfaces are not the best for a cooking class, and others are also challenged). I also grab the wrong spices and end up with a more Italian-styled gumbo, which, to our surprise, is quite good. I tried someone else’s version and could barely taste it after the burning hot spices. They liked it. I am feeling quite stressed and not enjoying this, but I am tired. We eat the food we cook, and I feel better. I have a second bowl. Still good. The wine helps (as I am not driving, I have three glasses).

Maria is visibly stressed as the f**k ups, not us, but the setup and menu was changed. We cook shrimp and de-head, peel, and devein our shrimp. We cook the heads in butter and squish them to exact the shrimpy goodness. Heads, peels, and so on are discarded. I add seasoning and cook the shrimp. Grits were started before, and now we add butter and cheese; don’t stir much (Maria warns us that stirring grits makes them glue).

I arrange the shrimp over the cheesy grits and pour some sauce on top. The rosemary seems more like pine needles, but the flavor is good. Maria’s assistant suggested I cook the sauce longer next time. I am unsure, but it was still excellent, and the shrimp were not overcooked. The grits were terrific.

Banana Foster is next. I am getting my cooking mojo back and enjoying this, and Maria helps others more. My surface crashed without help this time, and Maria got it back online, and we lit off my dessert. I enjoyed it at the table with the crepes I made (I have the pan for this and will have to make them again).

We exchange information, and I head back to find the hotel. The Saints did not win, but Bourbon Street swings and is filled with orange and white gold. Young women folks look great with long legs and low-cut outfits (I am sure the guys are good, too), but I know most will be tossing their cookies soon from too much sugar in their booze. Been here before. While the jazz tempts me, I have had three glasses of wine and no sleep for 40+ hours. I would likely walk into the kitchen and start cooking anyway after a few more drinks! Best to rest!

I shower and find my bed. The noise is horrific, and sleep comes and goes with various sounds. As I wrote above, I close the door and sleep until about 4, then roll over and rest until after 7.

Thanks for reading.