Author: alohawild

It has been years since my travel has been broken and chaotic. One of the reasons that I pay the least for flights that I can, ignoring buying seats, places in line, and worst, paying an extra $500 for First Class, is that these investments in comfort are only marginal improvements (as far as I am concerned but you do you) and the planes are still late and miss connections. Direct flights are better, and I would spend more there, not paying $75, as one person described it, “to be able to cross your legs for a few hours.” But I won’t spend too much more for direct as they cancel, and soon you will be rebooked on some four airport odyssey.

Thus, I woke at 2:45 for my 3:15 taxi appointment, known as too-f**king-early, for my flight boarding at 4:45. I wanted extra time in case this flight was late and I had to be rebooked again. I dressed, packed a few items, got out, and checked multiple times to ensure everything was back in its place for travel. I changed into a clean T-shirt and a sweater as the planes are sometimes cold. Since the chemo, Oxaliplatin (not recommended by me as a party drug, “let’s do some chemo and get cold!”), I feel frozen, but this is more unusual; I am not cold, but instead, I just feel it.

There is no f**king coffee. There is no coffee maker in the room. There is no coffee at 3 at the desk, “The restaurant opens at 7.” F**K!!!!!!!! Unprepared with caffeine, I must face the Louis Armstrong Airport. No dose of coffee and certainly nothing liberal here in the red of red state (and oddly highly taxed with sales tax–9.4%, income tax–three percent to four, and property taxes–3/4 percent). Yikes.

Aside: Housing values in New Orleans (NOLA), from Zillo, lost about 7% last year, with some housing costs about 50% of Beaverton (French Quarter can still be millions). According to other sources, rent is about 8.5% lower in NOLA than here, but food costs may be higher (hard to imagine and likely a lack of comparison data, I think). A big real estate rush in 2022 seems to have passed now. A shotgun house in a poor neighborhood just out of the French Quarter and towards the lake near the Marigny section (the up-and-coming alternative to the French Quarter) and slightly worn is about $90,000 and is a tempting buy (arranged into four small bedrooms for that B&B experience). I picked the house as I may have walked by it. However, the fully remodeled firehouse in the French Quarter is only $4.2M (for those well-off would-be ghostbusters). I remember checking last year, and it is still unsold. I suspect the lack of parking is the issue; the entire building is now modern living without a garage.

Returning to the narrative, I found a kiosk, produced my boarding passes, printed my bag tag, applied it, and delivered my bag—all without coffee. Next, I joined a long line of would-be travelers, all waiting for the TSA to wake up and let us in. Shocking, this is not a 7/24 airport. After ten minutes, two agents started the process. Soon, I was beltless, shoeless, and happy that when I raised my arms to be scanned, there was no extra exposure. I passed and recovered all my stuff without issue or loss of pants. I suspect yesterday’s high-calorie meal helped the pants stay on. I gained back four pounds and am now at 232, which is not terrible considering all the food and booze.

Various types of coffee, the dark corporate brew, Starbucks, which tasted like the Pacific Northwest, and also of billionaire ego rocket projects, were available. I walked by a line of folks waiting for another one to open; I continued to walk and found one by my gate open that was friendly and without a line. They poured the cream into my coffee for me (as the cream was not out yet). Smiles and friendly words work here.

With caffeine, I tried to find my gate. The gate numbers are not in order for reasons that are only clear to the airport’s architects, and I found my gate, B11, between B8 and B14. I drank more coffee and thought Douglas Adams was laughing somewhere in infinity. I opened my American Airlines-purchased snacks. I had fruit and cheese for a too-fucking-early breakfast (food places are still cleaning and trying to find their way).

I wrote in yesterday’s blog while waiting for my flight. I looked up, and the board said I was headed to Philadelphia. I blinked, turned away from B8’s board, and saw that B11’s board was still headed to my connection in Dallas. Again, the unique arrangement had no chairs actually pointed at B11, f**k. As Douglas Adams would suggest, the universe has noticed me.

I boarded in the last group, turning down the $33 cost to board earlier when I got my boarding pass. At that time, I was relieved that American Airlines remembered I had already paid for my bag, $35. On the plane, I had the window and was alone in my three seats—thank you, kind agent, for booking me a more comfortable seat.

The Airbus was warm, and the less-than-two-hour flight was tolerable. I was nodding off during the landing when suddenly, the engines roared as the pilot aborted the landing. I was now awake and looking out the window. We did a scary flight around the airport and were told that a plane was too close for us to land on the first try. We landed on the next pass without issue for a still-on-time landing. I did not need any more coffee to be awake.

I arrived in Texas and immediately paid back the water I had received last time with something for Louisiana. I found the train and road it for twenty minutes as the sun started to rise, my second sunrise in Dallas, and found my gate. I tossed my last set of snacks as it faired poorly on the warm plane. I also needed no food as my gumbo blood level was still relatively high. I suspect you could detect New Orleans Cooking School spices in my blood! I had a ginger ale with ice on the first flight and managed not to spill it this time. The bubbles and sugar help me be ready for Texas. Yet-another-full-flight-to-PDX (seldom have I flown a non-full flight into PDX) was my lot, and an aisle seat (again, thank you, kind agent). It was cold on the Airbus, and I was comfortable in my sweater.

And the universe messed with us again. Someone had a medical emergency in the back of the plane, and a doctor volunteered to help. I will not describe that, and I tried to be unaware, as it is not my place to take advantage of someone else’s distress for a good story. I my last EMT training was in the 1980s–best to stay out of the way. We landed in Portland, and the passengers did not jump up and start getting their stuff until told, as we were all unsure if the paramedics were coming. We were told to go, and everyone, slightly subdued, knowing that events were unfolding, got their stuff and left. We all sent good thoughts to the impacted passenger(s).

I walked and walked, then turned around and walked again to baggage claim. The exercise was welcome, but it was a long walk and hard on some. The construction is still ongoing at PDX, but we will soon not have to use the bypass, and we can walk directly out. I took a picture of my shoe, not on the usual unique PDX carpet but on the new wood floor on the way to baggage claim. Maybe this is a new tradition.

My bag was slowly appearing, but soon, I rolled onto the streets and found the red economy lot-headed bus. I mistakenly mentioned that I had avoided the Taylor Swift crowd. For my benefit, I received a white-spaining of how bad Ms. Swift is. “Devil’s music” and “I fear for her soul.” And other less-than-pleasant comments about Swifties and their focus on worldly goods. I smiled politely; there was no reason to argue on the bus to the red economy parking. Yikes, again. The universe was still baiting me.

Air Volvo was still at F1 and ready to fly home. I checked the tires and the sides for damage—all good. I was able to pay $105 (yes, for the economy and often free parking if you spend the night before you’re at PDX for $200+) using my credit card for my ticket (that way, I don’t have to find the paper card).

I enjoy the trip home in Air Volvo. I like flying Air Volvo across Portland and Beaverton. I do witness proof that I am back in Oregon. The merging, lane changes, and simple stupidity of inexplicable braking in full, fast-moving traffic remind me why there are so many car body repair shops in Beaverton! I avoid contact and paint loss and arrive home at the Volvo Cave.

I began unpacking and was happy to see my suit unwrinkled and ready for use (I did not wear it on the trip). I was less thrilled to find a TSA note that they searched my bag. One last twist from the universe. I had lined the bottom of the bag with books, and my pocket watch for my suit was mixed with some wired earphones I carry as a backup set. Yes, I imagine that the image of a timer, wires, and books might have upset someone. F**k. Everything was there, but slightly in a different order than I last saw it.

I finished the blog about Wednesday and published it.

I arranged laundry into piles and loaded The Machine, and soon, my mail arrived. I put my mail on hold and arranged for delivery on the return day. I write a memo to the mail carriers as it seems to work better. I arrived only twelve hours later than planned and soon was reading my mail.

The folks at NW Parking sent me another complaint about my parking ticket, which I had already paid for, and the check had cleared. Frustrated at their attempt to get me to pay twice for the ticket, I printed copies of the check with their deposit marks on the back and sent all of it back to them, making a copy of their letter so I have a record. I will have to pay my lawyer for help if this goes on. F**k.

Dear readers, their Parking NW app failed to charge me when parking for the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival across the street, and I missed that I did not get a confirming email that I had paid for the parking. This is how I got into this mess. I am frustrated.

Corwin and I meet for Corwin to get his T-shirt and a bandana from Preservation Hall and again later for an early dinner (I am pretty messed up by time changes) and pick Nonna’s for Italian food. Corwin was delayed as he was being paid for plasma donation, but a fault in the machine had left him not getting his blood cells back. F**k!

Corwin was unusually quiet, but soon, some food and drinks returned him from his blood deficit (!). We talked about how I cooked gumbo and learned to make jambalaya and other foods at the New Orleans Cooking School. He is making what I would call techno music, and he took some online classes. Now, Corwin was using new tools with better results. We talked about cooking, music, and plans. Corwin will have the house available for the holidays as I plan to be in Michigan during those days and have OK’d parties and so on at the Volvo Cave, with the requirement that everything is laundered and cleaned before my return. And while some of you, dear readers, may be wincing, since the house would be here and he might decide to use it, it is best to set parameters instead of being surprised. The house rule, now revised, is don’t do anything that will piss off Michael (previously Susie) and make him talk to you in his corporate voice (a terrible experience, according to Corwin).

I had spaghetti with two meatballs, which I completed except for a few bites of pasta (slightly overcooked). Corwin had veal piccata (remembering Susie’s love of veal). It was all good. The bread coming with the meal was thin slices of toasted bread now, not huge bits like before. I think it is an improvement.

Air Volvo returned us to the Volvo Cave, and soon Corwin left to rest from his food intake and blood cell reduction. Having started at 2:45 in another time zone, I was fading (zoning out?!). I continued with laundry and set an alarm. I shower and find my PJs (I have two sets after enjoying brain surgery with so many people at the house). I read the NOLA Vampire cookbook and nodded off. Waking to the alarm and the house feeling spooky after reading about vampires and food (when I am tired, I get scared of the dark; it is best for me to sleep through!), I rise and get in the next load. I return to reading. I wake at midnight and stumble and finish the laundry.

I crawl into bed, satisfied that my trip is not over (it is not over until the laundry is washed), and I sleep without issues and a few ignored shadows that could be vampires. I wake at 6 thinking it is still yesterday evening and I have laundry to do, but then remember when it is and that I done with that. I roll over, but soon rise.

And I can end the story of Thursday there. Thanks for reading!

I was happy to start early and make industrial coffee in my room. The room cleaners left me no coffee except decaf, but I had put a spare one away and popped it in the machine this morning. I’m glad I had thought ahead, but I only had one. So, only partially fueled, I took on writing the blog. I also had to pack, shop, ship, and get to the airport. Deborah sent me an Energizer Bunny meme. My insanely expensive but extra-dimensional roller bag and suit holder somehow held all of the stuff, including the new acquisitions, but it was wise of me to ship most of the latest books! I was done with the blog before ten and packed!

I went outside and sat on the balcony one last time. One has to have a balcony in The Big Easy, and the Holiday Inn French Quarter-Chateau Lemoyne, a bit loud at night, provided an excellent street view. They also charged me $200 in valet parking, but Air Volvo was in the economy lot in Portland. I had no rental. This required a visit to the front desk, and after some effort, I was assured they would fix it. My bags went into storage, and I began walking to the shopping.

I found the General Store across from Cafe de Monde and sent out a smaller group of items, primarily to new folks. I sent out beignet mixes and other memories of New Orleans (NOLA) for friends I missed sending something to last trip. There were two birthdays to cover, too. The New Orleans Cooking School had its set of school kits sent to my house to share with locals in Oregon. I did this six months ago, and they were happy to help and remembered me. While this is an expense, it is not more than a few dinners and drinks at the vampire places!

(So many jokes for this picture)

I have never done brunch on NOLA, and the folks at the General Store thought The Court of the Two Sisters would not be busy on a Wednesday morning (before the Swifties arrive) and decided I should try it. Yesterday, I was there for a drink on my tour/pub crawl and thought returning was a good idea.

I touched the charming gate; the legend is that it makes you charming. I soon had a table and access to a vast buffet. My magic dress shirt and sweater vest with hat worked (or maybe it was touching the gate), and I was treated well and got lots of smiles and offers for help. The food was good but not great, like most buffets, but endless. Jazz music started with a banjo, clarinet, and bass. The jambalaya rice was chewy but still good. I skipped the egg bar and later saw that Eggs Benedict was offered, but I stayed to local items. The lemon cake for dessert with white chocolate shavings was heavenly and light. The staff laughed and smiled with me. All good.

The area was starting to get busy as noon approached. Time for me to go. Next, I stopped by the Dirty Coast store, closed or “back in five” every time I walked by. Open! They sell a shirt with a non-canonical version of the Last Supper hinting at De Vinci’s version, but with someone dumping a pile of cooked crawfish before the Lord but everyone looking happy and hungry. Definitely had to have one. I texted Dondrea, and she said she did not need one, but I checked. I talked to the folks there, and they try to deliver a quality product that is edgy and fun but no offense–in the usual ways, but still NOLA. They started with a sticker after Katrina, “Be a New Orleanian. wherever you are,” and built it into multiple edgy stores now. The guy at the store was a refugee from Katrina who had now returned and gave me one of their stickers. A treasure.

Jackson Square was nearby, so I sat on a bench for a while, texted, and chatted on my phone. Finally, the Glory Band started, and a man sat down and talked with me; he suggested he was homeless and searching for work. He claimed his necklace contained the ashes of his wife and tried to connect to me when he learned I was widowed. I did give him the $5 bill, but his sparkling white new Air Jordans suggested he was not what he said he was.

The band was excellent, and a woman singer was even present today. They started about 1 and were still playing when I headed back. It was time to exit the Big Easy. The Swifties were coming, and they were coming for three shows with 30,000 folks for each—all sold out. Already, there were notes for bright and young drinks and food. The “Someone has to suck it” T-shirts were replaced in the shops with white and pink colored NOLA positive words and images, and even Taylor Swift herself on some! The Big Easy was staggering into a new experience of bright colors with a bad hangover from the football games and the masses of drunken folks from Krewe of Boo. The locals are happy for the business but unsure what to do with so many Swifties, who are not their usual jazz party group.

My taxi to the airport is $40 with a tip, better than an Uber. My phone shows a 4AM boarding time, which I figure is me connecting to an old flight. I head to the kiosks to print my stuff and check my bag; nope. After a short wait, I talked to an agent, and all my connections failed due to late flights to my connecting flights to Portland. I am not getting home today. I do whine that I would have preferred to have known this before I left NOLA, but now I am here, and they have gotten me a $12 dinner coupon, taxi vouchers, and a hotel room.

The Clarion is happy to see me after I ride their bus to the hotel. Soon, I was in my room watching “Murder’s Only in the Building” with a remote friend. We start and stop it and have the phone open the whole time. I spend some time relaxing and then head to dinner. The nearby family-style Brick Oven Cafe is strongly recommended. The chicken parmigiana is excellent, with the breaded chicken crunchy and covered with sauce and then with baked cheese. The salad, their salad dressing, was perfect. A glass of wine matches the house Chianti well.

I manage a shower. A poorly maintained shower is not a welcome sight, but despite the low pressure and cold water starting, it works and is welcomely hot. Cleaned and finding things in various bags, I managed to get to bed and fell immediately into a dark Italian-style food sleep. I wake at 1AM with a start check that I did not miss my alarm. It is set to too-f**king-early time. I returned to sleep and woke up on time for the following day. Well, it’s more like the middle of the night.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

I planned a busy Wednesday afternoon in New Orleans (NOLA) and soon realized I did not have time to change into my suit for the steamboat ride. I wore a white dress shirt and my blue sweater vest. Now that I did not look like a tourist, the locals waved and smiled at my hat-tipping. It would do.

I finished the day at Chartres House in the French Quarter. I had walked by the place all day, and they politely asked me in each time. I finally agreed. I ordered a Sazerac and drank it at the bar. The drink was made by their bartender, Shawn, who made it slowly, explained each step, and commented that it was an old-school drink that needed to be made in two containers, unlike the more modern cocktail and strangely named Old Fashion. One of the special ingredients is Peychaud’s Bitters, which was invented in NOLA. I stopped by Peychaud’s former home today during my walking tour of bars and drinks, which is now unsurprisingly a bar, and had my first Sazerac there, which, according to our guide, was made in the classic manor.

Shawn used to work at 801 Royal, an excellent dive bar, according to him. “Lots of locals came, and it has a pleasant feel,” he said. The bar owners tried to get it going after the pandemic but failed and sold it. It is now the first Vampire Bar. He was not bitter, “things change,” but I could tell he missed 801 Royal.

After that, and turning down Shawn’s belief I could use an Uber to find my hotel for me and have another one, I walked to my hotel one last time, showered, put on my PJs, and read the same Vampire Bar cookbook. I thought it was just a spooky novel, but no, it was a Penny Dreadful-style story in each chapter with a recipe, an unusual take on a cookbook! Reading, the book is a collection of weekly stories with a recipe that were initially published one at a time in magazines. I got only a few words in before I started to nod off.

The morning started with me waking a little later, but the sun was still just rising. I made industrial coffee in the machine. The coffee was weak, and I downed two and forgot one left in the coffee maker. I wrote more than 2000 words and enjoyed the process. I was surprised to see that my neighbors were on what I thought was my balcony. One room has a door to it. I have three. But I am glad they are enjoying it.

I ate the sandwich I put in the frig yesterday, a muffuletta, for breakfast yesterday. I dressed and headed out. Today, I wanted lunch out of the French Quarter and to visit the Frenchman Bookstore on, well, Frenchman Street. It was a long walk, and for fun, my walk covered streets I did not know. It was a warm and sunny day with light humidity.

The bookstore opens at noon. I like that they are open every day but late. Again, not just drinks are consumed in the evenings here in NOLA. I was too early and headed to Frenchman Anytime for lunch. I long waited for excellent rice, beans, and sausage for lunch. I smiled and waited politely, and they soon told me stories about the area and treated me like an old friend. Not looking like a tourist, a smile, and the hat seemed more like a magic spell.

I could not finish that much food and effectively second breakfast/lunch, but I paid with a good tip and waved, and they wished me well and told me to be back soon. The Frenchman Books was relaxed and happy. I walked around, and the two folks smiled and offered me help. They recommended the Vampire Cookbook after I picked it up, their copies signed by the author, “she brings them by when we need more,” they said of the local author. I got a bag and a book. They look forward to my next trip and to see them again.

I walked all the way back, enjoying the familiar sights and the lovely weather—not too hot for me. I stopped at another bookstore. The owner, Steve, found me a signed copy of the local expert’s book on ghost stories. He will ship it for me for four dollars. Excellent.

I reached the New Orleans Cooking School, and they were happy to see me. Chef Terry again greeted me. Today’s demo with Chef Tom was interesting, but the gals I shared my table with, all young enough to be my kids, were less friendly (hungover) and followed along with little emotion. I learned how to make bisque with corn and crab. Interestingly, the first half of the corn is cooked to nothing; it just flavors the soup, and you add some at the end to make the corn visible and chewy in the soup. I also learned not to taste the dish until after it boils as the flavors stabilize and melt into the fat in the food at a boil.

The Etouffee reminded me of others things I made, but Chef Tom cooked 1/3 of The Trinity (onion, celery, green peppers) for an hour, added to join the roux, cooked to a brown color, and then the last 1/3 to be the crunchy version. Layers are important. He also added some Rex’s Crab Boil, just a teaspoon or so, which is not on the recipe. Also, a bit of cane sugar syrup was added. It was good, but both were underspiced. just add a sprinkle, and it was perfect. Excellent.

Soon, the class ended, and Clark from Greyline Tours found me, gave me a punch-boozing drink, and introduced me to an Israeli newlywed couple. I had the cocktail tour also. I could not guess what was in the drink, having just eaten, and I would not know anyway. Clark walked us through the French Quarter and explained the different beverages and which bars, now a blur, serve original versions. The Two Sisters, a restaurant, and a courtyard were lovely. He got us a punch with rum, a Sazerac, and a Moscow Mule as we walked the same few blocks.

I gave the Israeli couple, whose names were lost in the mist of three drinks, my blog URL with its contract option. I may hear from them again. They are next headed to NYC.

I left them at Fritzel’s European Jazz Club, my favorite spot on Bourbon Street, with them trying to decide to risk the vampires and Potions, the secret club that only vampires can get you access to. I did it last trip.

I walked to the steamboat and then right on to the Natchez. It was chaotic, and the crowding activated my situational awareness. I found less of a crowd by the reclaimed engines. The ship was built in 1972 from the parts of an older 1920s ship. I took pictures and videos of the engines. The trip at night means all you see is dark water. Next time, I will skip the dinner cruise and catch it in the daylight!

Dinner was even more chaotic. I was squeezed into a line that made it difficult to stay calm. I was not scared, but situation awareness has you looking for safe exits, and that was over the side at that point! Without incident, I was given a table with one setting and crammed in between others, but it was still lovely, and there was plenty of space to move; I felt safe again. Dinner included the steamboat round of beef (this time, literally true), some crawfish Etouffee, and excellent local veggie options. I ordered a beer, and that seemed to create more complexity. The photo people, who again seemed charmed by my smile, hat, and non-tourist look, chatted with me while I ate. I bought my photo (I took it before I boarded the Natchez), which made them happy, too.

Again, the food was good, and the music was OK when you could hear it over the loud talking. The noise was challenging today, but I don’t think it was me. There were lots of folks talking today.

And that took me full circle as I walked to the bar for a last drink.

Thanks for reading!

 

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.

 

 

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.