Every time I start here, I imagine renting a room for the winter and just staying here. It is hot, and there are tourists in the summer, even in September, but the town already seems forlorn without the crowds. Weekends are still packed, from what I can tell from trying to get a hotel room for Friday night at the last minute. But I could imagine investing my winter evenings here with overpriced Diet Cokes at Fritzel’s European Jazz Club and other venues every night. I would earn interest from those nights in story writing from the Jazz. Maybe dinner out once a night and other nights simple fare: toast with peanut butter or cheese sandwiches. I would walk the town during the day, find places to write and daydream.
But that describes anywhere I go, and I find myself in Michigan most often to see my love, Deborah. Deborah and I also spent four weeks together in California this year while she attended work conferences. That was grand too. Always stopping at one point in our trip in California for drinks on the Queen Mary. And we got to share Chicago again with Jeanne this summer. Anywhere it is better, like Mary Poppins, with Deborah.
I woke at 7, not 6 (I did not sleep until after 1, after closing the Jazz club at 12:30). I find waking up in yet another hotel always a surprising experience. I think, “Where am I, and where is everything in this room?” Soon I find my way and write the blog, at first at the little desk, pack more, dress more, and close my excellent bags once again, proving why they were so expensive: abusable luggage. Packed, I roll my bags to the lobby, check out, and eat the supplied breakfast. I complete the blog and all the usual checks, read the email, get depressed with the latest I-must-be-the-news actions from the President, and order an Uber.
Standing in the heat, I wait. An NOLA police officer is there and talks to people who appear to be hanging out, and I let her know I am waiting for an Uber. She smiles and says thank you. She moves on. My Uber arrives and makes the small trip to Le Richelieu Hotel near the edge of the Quarter on the other side. Tyler, who I met on my first visit, is now the General Manager and is running the desk, as he is short-staffed today, and he put my bags in storage until my room is ready.
Linda and Jesse appeared in less than thirty minutes. We had been texting all morning while they traveled to NOLA. They put their bags in storage too, and off we headed. Napoleon House is my target for lunch. The gumbo was a bit flat, I thought, and I regret not getting the sandwich; their Muffuletta is excellent with a quarter-pound of ham. We had some starters, and it was a lot of food.
We walked to a few shops, always walking through the lighting shop to see what has changed–almost everything– since my last visit. Our first visit to Fretzel’s was at 1ish, with the band finally starting at 1:20. We did the full set, and they took my request for St. James Infirmary Blues (I said St. John’s, which confused them, but they figured it out). It was wonderful to hear it again, and the band passed it around and sang the traditional version known as ‘A,’ I later learned. Though they mixed it with Minnie the Moucher instead of the usual “let her go.”
It was hot, and we had walked a lot. We then, leaving Bourbon Street behind, returned to the hotel. Naps happened. At 6ish, I walked after a shower, talked to Deborah for a while, and found the local stores. Now a collection (coven?) of witch and magick stores. I found a gift for Dondrea: magic bay leaves to cast spells to win in court. Linda and Jesse found me; I had given my location.
Coop’s Place is run-down and grumpy. The food is amazing. I had an excellent gumbo with okra and spicy local sausage. Their jambalaya is smoky, and the meat includes rabbit. The fried chicken, not as spicy, is perfect.
Next, we headed to the Séance Room at Muriel’s. I told the hostess we wanted to see the ghost rooms, and I apologized for wearing T-shirts. “No matter, the ghosts do not care,” she said with a smile, and then directed us to the door and bar. I order a Sazerac with Linda and Jesse finding what they want, and then we take the unmarked door to the ghost area.
It is decorated in red and a mix of over-the-top antiques and lighted items to create the mood of a séance. This is my second time here, and I enjoy my boozy drink and tell the story of the suicide of the former owner. A table is set and cleared every day for the ghosts, with a glass of wine set out. This stops, I was told, the plates and glasses from breaking when they unexpectedly fall off the shelves. True or not, it is always interesting to see the table set.
A manager pointed out that the balcony was open and we finished our drinks there, listening to music played in Jackson Square (or about there). The night was cool with a breeze.
Next, we headed to the busy Fritzel, using other streets until we were near their corner to avoid the crowds on Bourbon Street. There is a line with many birthday groups. I politely smiled and waited. I watched the staff physically remind some young people that this is a line and that I was in the front; they cannot just push their way in front of me. I smiled and bought a drink standing. This makes me, an apparently pleasant visitor who follows the rules, the next person to sit.
No choices this time, and lots of their version of Happy Birthday. The music is loud and fun, and we stay for the next set. Linda and Jesse, seated in the back, find seats next to me when the crowd leaves as the set ends. That is the best plan at Fritzel: be there at the end of a set.
With that done, we walk back, and soon I am in bed, asleep in another hotel. I know this one better, but it’s a smaller room, and I miss my separate bedroom and balcony; still, it’s nice and familiar. It was also a lot cheaper this time!
Thanks for reading.
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