Monday Busy

I rose yesterday at 7 with the alarm waking me. I could have lounged in bed until late but rose to write. The sun rose as I completed the first paragraphs of the blog. Keurig coffee, industrial, was my lot as I forgot to get some pods of good coffee.  With the travel, time change, and other distractions, I am more airhead than usual, c’est ta vie. But my life is more like this: Please dance and sing with me!

Last I heard, the gals I met were home. Lisa emailed me back and was home today and working. Maybe we will connect. Jeff at Cresent City Books remembered me and asked me how the writing was going; he told me they sold the vampire slaying kit they had on display, which I admired when I was here last. The bartender at Napoleon’s remembered me. My tarot reader, Lórien Phoenix, is here or on FaceBook for those who wish to connect to Lórien.

I wrote all morning, and despite some focus issues, I finished before 10 and went outside walking before 11. I watched New Orleans wake. I wandered the streets, enjoying recognizing all the places I had been. I have not left the French Quarter except for a short sojourn on Frenchman Street and just enjoyed walking the streets.

It is Monday, and Bourbon Street is full now, but not with partygoers. It is now a parking lot for trucks delivering and repairing trucks. Yes, Bourban sounds like a warehouse and construction site on Monday, the jazz of kegs being replaced and light repairs, as the crazy of the weekend is discarded, and the new crazy is put on like a new clean shirt of supplies and fixes. I learned that for many in the French Quarter, Monday is like their Friday, and Tuesday and Wednesday are their weekends. I see many places reopen on Thursday.

I find a grocery store and pay too much for a pack of disposable razors. Mine is failing. The grocery store is overpriced, like many in the inner cities of the USA, and it is also a grill and bulletproof liquor store.

But Jeff is running Cresent City Books this morning on the upriver side of the French Quarter, not the downriver side where I walked. I managed to make a long circle and enjoy Jackson Park twice. Somehow, I only did 8,500 steps yesterday. After dodging more sewer repair trucks (NOLA has a hangover from the weekend), I arrive at Crescent City Books.

I found a copy of the Veganomincan tenth-anniversary version in their new book section. I have to have the lime green cookbook just for the name. I also found an English book on the story of prostitution in Argentina. After reading NOLA’s history of Storytown, the once-official redlight district, I bought the book to see how the story compares to the Big Easy’s history. Jeff is happy to mail the books to The Volvo Cave, like last time. I shook his hand and told him I would see him in a year or less, and he smiled, “If we are still here.” I said I was hopeful, and he told me the crowds were back and they were thrilled with the sales during the weekend. Not just booze and gumbo was consumed this weekend in the French Quarter!

Jeff also told me that chess is the city’s game. I have seen chess tables and games offered even on Bourbon Street. Jeff explained that there are more than ten grandmasters in Cresent City, and one even sets up a table in the French Quarter to play. This is a focus for another trip!

With my pilgrimage and sacrifice made at the bookstore, I walked back to Napoleon’s, as the gal sent me a picture and told me I needed to get the muffuletta. The bartender (his name I forgot) welcomed me back, and I ordered a gin and tonic and half a muffuletta sandwich; he was going to get me a quarter, but I said a half, and his face was unchanged, but he was laughing, in his body language. A quarter is a large sandwich with fresh bread and warm meats. An excellent sandwich, but I had two. “You can take the other half and enjoy it later,” he said knowingly.

Sitting next to me was a fellow single traveler, Justin. He had time between flights to have a bowl of gumbo and a drink at Napoleon’s and walk around for a while before returning to the airport for the next flight. We chatted, and he seemed surprised that I like to travel alone. I gave my blog address, and I got his business card. We enjoyed each other’s company, but I was done, so the bartender got me a box, and I paid the bill.

The sandwich is so good I walk the spare quarter of the sandwich back to my hotel room and put it in the frig. I retrace my steps for the third time today and am dressed in a T-shirt. I notice that, at this time, I am being treated more like a tourist by the locals. I had two dress shirts left and thought saving them for the last two days was best.

I return to New Orleans Cooking School for today’s demo: more gumbo, jambalaya, and pralines. I had to get some coffee to counteract the relaxing gin. There, I meet Justin again. He is on his way back and getting an Uber. Justin works and is traveling for Jobe Systems, which builds all those cool electronics for expensive homes of the rich and fabulous (I Googled it).

After coffee, I sit at a table while Chef René demos the official recipes and shocks us with his directness. He will not eat it. His gumbo uses okra, and he only likes his own. He says every family that cooks in Lousianna is the same; only Mom’s recipe is eatable. He added a few different items than I did last time for gumbo. Jambalaya was made with more smoked meats, a pour of Kitchen Bouquet, and much of the same spices as the gumbo. Chef Maria said it was not worth demo-ing in my first class; “it is too easy,” the chef said, and now, seeing it, I agree.

Chef René explains how he cooks, and once we have gone through and tried the school recipes, we all have new ideas of things to try. You try the recipes at home, send a note, and they will send you your certificate. He explains how to cook okra. Fry it in the bottom of the pan in neutral oil until the slime is gone. We also learned filé thickens gumbos and has a subtle, traditional flavor.

After the class breaks up (we are stuffed and plied with a local beer), I am welcomed by Chef Terry, who compliments my cooking skills and is thrilled to see me again. I show the chef the video of her lighting off my Banana Fosters from yesterday’s class. I am surprised and flattered by the praise.

I have to leave and walk to Toulouse Street and the temporary home of Preservati0n Hall (which is undergoing renovation). It is the same crew, and I get in line. This time, it runs well. I have the seat against the stage in the middle this time. The music is fast and gets you moving this time. This band cuts teeth at parties and now plays in a concert setting. They moved, danced, laughed, told jokes, and had a great time. While this was the brass jazz concert, there were drums and pianos. Three of the men sing. They allow us to take photos and record The Saints Go Marching In, the ending to all concerts here.

Next, I headed to the vampires. The apothecary bar was full of lovely young people, some with fangs, I suspect, so I took the restaurant and got an excellent seat with a window onto the street. I ordered an absinthe drink mixed with gin. The absinthe is locally made and more traditional (it is wicked). Served in a heavy martini glass with a cherry on a swizzle stick and a skull bead that looks like it is dripping a dark red liquid into my drink that settles on the bottom. Perfect.

I paid highly (the vampire’s bite extracts money from tourists) for short ribs that were nearly perfect and almost too much to eat. I got another drink, a vampire version of the local Sazerac (which I highly recommend over the Corpse Reviver #2 I started with), and started my thirty minutes with Lórien Phoenix. Her tarot cards are a set she was given and likes better than the more standard Waite deck. This deck shows angels and cheerful lights, focusing on the phoenix for the Death card, for example.

Lórien had me cut the deck and explained that if I wanted to shuffle, I was welcome to, but I must be careful not to reverse the cards, “my deck will reverse itself,” was said as an explanation. The deck was lovely.

Trying to remember all that Lórien said, my cards contained many major positive cards, and nothing was inverted. For my reader, it was an unusually bright and happy collection of cards. The Magician showed that I was in control. A single Sword (an ace) meant I had tools available to me, and I knew how to use them (more would be a darker reading), and The Hierophant meant that I had control of my spirit, and combined with the other cards, I was removing things from my life I did not need. The two wands were a card for starting things, and wands meant love or relationships. The number two meant I was starting things, and the three would mean success. The future had challenges and pleasures. The Two of Cups said the other love or relationship was positive and with tastes of pleasure. The six wands and five swords meant there were challenges, but the suit matched other cards, meaning I had the tools to deal with them, and, more importantly, these were optional and could be avoided.

Lórien is more scared than me. She speaks in a rush and shares that she is introverted and loves to read the cards, implying that it is the people interaction she finds difficult. I ask questions about how she reads and about her deck and crystals. And she was visibly relieved that I was not a creep or made any suggestions she had heard too many times. With the positive read, I am doing my best to give her a friendly grandad look (she is so young she could be my grandkid); she seemed to have enjoyed this reading and just looked at the cards and smiled. I suspect not all readings are positive. She tells me she knows the cards’ meanings; she has been reading since school (not college) and just recites them. Lórien also does tattoos and is happy to be doing what she loves.

I finish my drink and get Lórien’s links for her web connection to include in the blog. I had two—the number is everywhere for me now—so I head down the streets. I text and talk on the phone for a while.

Today, I notice that the men primarily wear loose-fitting T-shirts, with only a few wearing polo shirts that show a treasure beneath them. Long legs and low-cut tops are out, too, and they are escorted mainly by a guy in jeans and T-shirts. Those guys who have muscle shirts look like they run the gym, not just members. For gals, more tattoos usually mean more skin is showing, but this is not always true. Also, for women, Monday has more flats and fewer leather boots and outfits. There are some shorts on today. Men are in long, loose shorts, just above the knee. Women are usually shorter, with many showing exposed curves. Monday is less sexy, but Bourbon Street is loud after 9 and filled with the young, hot, and less grey-haired folks like myself. The air seems to taste of desperation for those here on a Monday.

I am back in my room, sober now, showering, and soon in bed. The sewer workers discover the need to open the street near me. I hear lots of noise for an hour, but soon, it stops, and I sleep.

Thanks for reading.