Sunday Quieter Day with Rest

I ended my day in New Orleans (NOLA) early and tried to rest. Sadly, sleep was interrupted, not by noise, but by nightmares, having to prove hydration, and letting my colon empty. A bug bite on my hand itched and swelled; 1/2 of a Bendryln controlled that, but now I have a slight fuzziness from the medication. It is difficult to get this blog started on this sunny and warm morning in NOLA. Coffee is made in the Keurig, one cup at a time. Yes, I will drown sleep and fuzziness in industrial pod coffee. I think I will get some real coffee pods today; I saw Cafe du Monde coffee pods for sale.

Aside: This is a haunted hotel, but my room is not one of those. Still, waking from a nightmare alone in a dark room in a haunted hotel does not improve your mood! The sounds outside had stopped, and the room was oddly still. Nothing happened; the stillness faded, and soon, the city noises started again. I was happy to finally sleep again.

Moving to the start of the end of the evening, I walked back from Pere Antoine Restaurant. The bartender, Rose, had invited me back, so I had a light dinner and a German lager-style beer there. Rose and I chatted, and she has my information and may contact me to connect me with friends who run a B&B if I want to avoid hotels on my next trip. Rose was dressed the same, in a pirate-like belt that was more to protect her back, I think, than for the look and a lowcut shirt; she was again all black with dark black hair on her shoulders but dropped the fangs. Her makeup was not undead pale, but Rose sported makeup that lined her eyes with a complex eyeliner pattern that winged twice and added emerald blue hints around the eyes in three shades.

Rose was offended when I said their seafood gumbo should not have tomatoes, which is not usual for gumbo, according to my cooking class. So I ordered a cup of their regular gumbo and the seafood version with tomatoes. The seafood was the best I have purchased so far. The regular gumbo is the oversalted for me, blackish plain stuff I have been getting in the French Quarter. Just not memorable. Their seafood was a lighter broth, hinting at species and subtle flavors. Better.

Rose was busy as crowds came to get drinks to go. It is legal to walk with drinks in New Orleans. Most bars may stay open all year round at all hours, except on Ash Wednesday, when they have to close for an hour. This is the clean-up after Mardi Gras and the only mandated closing time.

I was now noticing the men with the long-legged and low-cut gals on the streets of NOLA—their dates, if you like. Most are in a T-shirt and tight-ish blue jeans—not shorts or a polo shirt. Some have shirts with collars, but never a dress shirt—something with a pattern. The guys were clean-shaven primarily, but beards, well-trimmed, or heavy five-o’clock shadows were a significant minority. They are as tall as their date, even with the heels on those long-legged gals, and they all look like they have gym memberships.

Before heading to get gumbo with Rose, I was at the Toulouse Theatre, where jazz is played while the original Preservation Hall is being remodeled. I had bought tickets and arrived too early as the staff told me they had an issue on the stage. A previous show was still breaking down when they arrived, and they ran an hour late on set-up. The staff would be sloppy and stressed, and ticket processing would be slow.

Next door is the One Esterica Witch Occult Store. I read on the sign, “Come in and enjoy the Peace and Quiet,” and decided to try it. Its supplies, books, idols, and many others related to darker powers were for sale. For example, one of Alister Crowley’s books was for sale. This was an occult store, not a voodoo tourist shop. One wall was a pharmacy-like wall of herbs and plant bits, some dangerous, available for purchase by weight. The shopkeeper told me that the mandrake was the safer and lesser version; though she has handled the hazardous kind, she would only supply that to experts. Interesting. I said the sign brought me in, and then we were shocked to see that the sign did not say what I saw. The shopkeeper was concerned that someone had changed her sign, checked it, and pointed out that it did not say what I had seen. We all smiled at that. Yes, a spell. Hmmm. After the jazz, I would buy a card and a small book, ignoring Crowley, which I can get cheaper used at Powell’s if I wanted it (I don’t).

I told the shopkeeper to set sets of frankincense and myrrh for the holidays; small file packs would do. I suggested a little oil bottle with gold foil, but she told me she would not do the Christian stuff. But still, she thought it was a good idea and would do that and even give them away for larger purchases, a little extra gift. I was happy to help.

The jazz hall had us packed into the entrance for a while, and my situational awareness went off; this was unsafe. Breathing slowly, I waited without panic (but not wishing to remain much longer in an exposed position), and soon, the line moved. I was in the front row! I shared a table with three others.

I had read that these shows are short, less than an hour, and they were. The music consisted of Louie Armstrong and other 1920-30 jazz pieces performed at a formal concert. I thought it was a bit dull, and the playing was done with less zing than I am used to. I nodded off on One Enchanted Evening. I have a show on Monday, but that is it for me for this venue. I have heard that the original hall is better and likely more zing. This was also the Sunday afternoon show, and I don’t think Sundays pack much zing at that time.

The electric guitar player was a younger guy in tight blue jeans, a dress shirt, and no tie. His well-trimmed beard matched his face, and his haircut was slightly long but still short. He smiled while he played, looking like the archetype of any young band player, the one you sigh over.

The drummer was in a dark suit with a plain black cop tie and had an unshaven look that was sexy until it wasn’t. He was intense and watched and listened to the other players. He was the other young guy you can fall for and then be sad to be ignored. Intense.

The rest of the band included the sax player, who was older and grey, and he used a walker to get on the stage and sat the whole time. The bass player was mid-aged and slightly heavy, which matched his instrument. The leader wore a bright white dress shirt with no tie contrasting his darker face and tight black haircut. The lights would cause his brass trumpet to flash when he played. He also sang with his voice hinting to Armstrong. The trombone player was a woman who clapped and enjoyed all the other solos. She was the happiest member of the band and also middle-aged.

They finished the gig with “The Saints Go Marching In,” but it seemed sleepy too. It was a good ending.

Before this, I tried another gumbo at Stanly’s near Jackson Square. It was a black, salty attempt with some flavor. This was a snack before the jazz and a recommendation that did not pan out. The quest continues.

Near noon, I took a donkey cart ride around the French Quarter. This included a tour with the driver telling stories about places we passed. It is a pleasant trip, but at $30 each (plus tip), the clientele is usually young couples or older groups. Folks with kids cannot afford that price. I learned a few things, and Storytown was included in the histories this time. Excellent.

Moving to the start of the day, Rebecca and Gina connected with me by text and agreed to meet at French Toast. It was a twenty-minute walk for me. I was there and waited another thirty for them. It was a lovely day, and I did not mind. Rebecca ordered the oyster and toast, a giant amount of food. Gina had a mountain of French toast from king cake. I ordered ratatouille on toast with a fried egg. We also had a set of aebelskivers, tiny ball-like pancakes with various sweet sauces. All too much.

Rebecca and Gina went to the Witney Plantation, and we compared our experiences. I did the Oak Alley Plantation tour on the same day but later. Their tour was emotional and focused on the plantations’ slavery. It was a self-directed tour with a listening device. They believed there was an option for a tour guide. They thought my experience with the house, live tour guide, and walking in the slave quarters was better, and my ability to ask questions was something they missed.

The gals and I said goodbye, and they found a sandwich later they recommended (today’s lunch plans). They flew home, and the last I heard from them, they were safe. We may connect again, but finding new friends and sharing a bit of NOLA was fun.

I rose at 6:30 to write the blog and be ready for my breakfast with the gals. As I covered, sleep was hard.

While I could not focus on the task, I started my sermon for All Saints Day—yes, I was asked to do that day while sitting on my balcony here in NOLA. I already decided we should do the same song I heard today: The Saints.

Thanks for reading.