I woke before my alarm at 6ish and soon made coffee and wrote the story of Wednesday and our first partial day in New Orleans (NOLA). The hotel, Le Richelieu, with its balconies and thin walls, can be loud, but as we are far from the crowds, I again slept well. The ten thousand steps might have something to do with the sleeping.
I wrote the blog and soon finished a summary of the day before showering, dressing, and all that. I also ran Quicken, and updates flowed in, including my payment for my new insurance, paid in advance via the government website. I keep a close watch on accounts.
I met Dondrea and Donna, ready to start the next adventure, and we headed to French Toast in the quarter. We walked for about five minutes, and there was no line when we arrived. But they were busy inside, and we took a table outside. Soon, we ordered classic breakfasts (with grits) for Dondrea and me, but Donna gave the eggs and salmon a spin. Lots of coffee marked that we were in a two-hour time difference. Little birds kept landing, and some even chirped to beg for food. Yes, I was panhandled by chickadees!
We then explored the much-reduced flea market and farmer’s market. It was closer to Portland’s Saturday market with local crafts and food shops than a Farmer’s Market in Seattle or LA. We managed to resist the author selling their books directly; one sold the story of rising the rails and made a movie I had heard of. Hats were tempting (more so now that mine is lost, but that happens later).
I had some colon issues; I only mention it as folks wonder how I am doing after colon cancer, and I found the necessary public space to manage that. We were able to proceed.
Having enjoyed the markets, we headed to Jackson Square and walked around the area. Donna, with her cane and brace, was doing well with all the walking. My legs were already complaining, but I worked through it and was fine.
John Cosentino, in a green cart with two seats, offered a mule-cart tour for a few bucks more than the usual wait-and-then-go tour. We took him up on it, and Dondrea asked to see the LaLaurie Mansion, famous for its haunted reputation. He was local and soon told us a few stories (most of which are now forgotten). He did tell us he had never seen a ghost. Dondrea got a picture of the LaLaurie Mansion.
We next wandered the quarter and found the Faulkner Museum and Bookstore. I found one book—a remake of the Bluebook from Storyland—listing the services provided by prostitutes. Dondrea spoke to the book seller about Faulkner, not her favorite author, and he agreed he is hard to read, then pointed out a book of stories Faulkner wrote while living in this building. Dondrea bought one.
We next walked to one of the Vampire bars, and it was having trouble as water was cut off during the road construction, ugh. We walked to the Vampire Cafe instead.
A tall man with fangs found us a table. The napkins were red and folded in a bat form. The silverware was across it, suggesting a cross. The place was appropriately gothic. Later, a man in a kilt would sit next to us. He had a marine belt over his kilt, and we soon struck up a conversation with him. He was here for a fair, trying the place out.
We had drinks, mine the AB+, which is their version of a Sazerac, Donna and Dondrea found other blood types that fit their tastes. We ordered some excellent appetizers (still full from breakfast): fried deviled eggs, pork belly bits, and baked Brie (with walnuts on the side, as Dondrea is allergic to them). Our waiter brought us a book from the owner about the local vampires, with a suggestion to look for her at the other restaurant if we bought it and wanted it signed. Dondrea picked up a copy. Our waiter retold the coffin girls’ story (here) and then granted us a pass to Potions. We also were ‘bit’ and she handed us decals to wear showing the bite marks (we did not get those on yet).
Instead of heading to our hotel, six blocks away, we strolled towards Crescent City Books near the end of the French Quarter. There were plenty of stores worthy of a look as we went. A French importer was selling an Art Deco absinthe serving set that Dondrea thought was terrific. They showed us tablecloths and other tempting items.
We did not escape a hat store’s temptations. Dondrea has a new hat to take back with her. I demurred.
The area is full of art studios, jewelry stores, and various forms of antiques and exotic imports. We stopped at many, but most were window-shopped. The least tempting type of visit. But we reached Crescent City Books, and soon I was in for less than $100—low for me—with a copy of General Hood’s (Confederate) account of his experiences in the American and Confederate military. I also found an account of the NYC 1920s-30s about speakeasies published in the 1930s. Interesting. Both are being mailed to my house.
We next walked back to our hotel and soon passed many familiar places. It is more than ten blocks back. Donna will soak her foot in the pool. I rested and napped for a while in my room before dressing in a dress shirt, sweater vest, tie, and dress shoes. Dondrea arranged for a taxi to Arnaud’s (here).
While expensive, it is not overly so, and we had a great time there (about $120 each with drinks and dessert). I had the veal, Dondrea the quail, and the best Filet Mignon I have tasted (we all shared). We all tried the excellent turtle soup, and it was the first time any of us had anything like it. It was a complex, smoky flavor. We added their famous soufflé potatoes and okra. The service is an art and a performance that you will not often find with old-school meals. Customers, there is a dress code, and I was reminded to hang my hat on a hook. Most are dressed up a bit, but with few ties. We had dressed up a bit for dinner. Our last treat was Banana Foster for Dondrea and me (Donna picked a baked Alaska), which burned at the table—spectacular—and we got some glances from other diners for the show.
We walked to Potions, taking our pass, and headed to Bourbon Street and Fritzel again. We were tossed beads by folks on a balcony. Potions requires a pass and is above my favorite Jazz place on Bourbon Street. We had to pay a cover, and on the card we were given were words we needed to say. We read the card’s words aloud (the password), the door unlocked, and we walked up the twisty stairs.
Somewhere here, I lost my hat and suspect it was found and tossed off the balcony like beads. I will likely see a replacement here. I have lost hats all over the world. I added a new story about losing a hat in New Orleans—no reason to mourn. No photos in the speakeasy. Dondrea had her tarot reading there, and we all had interesting drinks. The balcony overlooks the Bourban Street, and it was a lovely night to sit there and drink our drinks.
Hatless and all of us a bit happy, we walked back to our hotel. Dondrean and Donna were surprised by the change in vibe on Bourbon Street and glad we did Wednesday there. We won’t be back for the weekend, yike! I like the street only at the beginning of the week. It seems friendly—maybe hungover from the weekend, starting on Thursday—for Monday-Wednesday, and good for some music.
Back at the hotel, we headed to our rooms, and I was soon asleep.
Thanks for reading.
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