Author: alohawild

I rose early, and I had written the blog the previous night, so I was free to relax for a bit. My first item for the day was the tour of the Ursine Convent, just a block away. The weather threatened to storm, so I put on a sweater and went to enVie for breakfast, a block away. This is a coffee and bar combined with breakfast, a strange mix.

As I was leaving, I told the desk that the shades had fallen and hit me, but I was not bruised. “Could you put it back up?” I asked. I was surprised that three people were at the front desk, including Britanny, whose name I could not remember in yesterday’s blog. I was given a form, typed and printed at that moment, that I was uninjured, and I signed it. No, I don’t need a copy–I know I am uninjured I said with a smile. Also, they will send maintenance to fix the shade or move me to another room. I asked them not to move me.

As I stepped out, I saw the area covered in fire engines, and the building next door had burned. I slept through that, but it explains why I kept waking up–I must have heard the commotion. The building next door is empty and for sale. We had heavy rains, so it could have been an electrical fire, but the locals told me it was more likely the homeless accidentally set the place on fire. The four engines and various other flashing light vehicles were packing up.

I found a place at the counter (or bar) and waited for my breakfast for a long time. Finally, a simple cajun sausage and cheezy grits joined my two fried eggs. I ate slowly as I was feeling off. My colon required some attention in the morning, and I had to prove hydration a surprising number of times last night. While not hungover, I felt that way after breakfast.

I walked the French Quarter to get myself focused and feeling better. The tour was at 9:45 and only offered three times a week in the morning. There were four of us for the tour. The docent was happy to explain that the building was the oldest standing in the USA, and the floating staircase was even older, having been moved from an older building, now gone, and the only example of this time of stairs in the Americas. We stayed on the first floor for the tour.

The docent told us the history of the Ursuline Convent and its associated miracles. It was a Catholic history of the area, and while the lens was through Catholic traditions, it was pretty interesting, and I felt authentic. The Ursuline nuns came from France to the French colony in the early 1720s to found a girl’s school in the wilderness. The nuns found life hard as New Orleans was more swamp than a city filled with Yellow Fever. The nuns brought over a clock and various religious statues on the ship. The clock is still there, and I heard it chime. The clock is all that remains of the Houston group that took it with them to create a girls’ school there. They all perished in the great hurricane, and the clock was found in the ruins and returned to New Orleans. I had heard a terrible story before but was surprised to see the clock here and running.

The church on the convent was rebuilt in the 1800s and, while lovely, did not impress me. It is now unconsecrated, and the nuns have moved to another place–this area is just a museum. The docent lived here when it was still in use, and it was the church used primarily by immigrants. New Orleans was often the second largest port of entry for immigration after NYC.

A bible, looking like any old dusty bible and barely protected by a plastic case, was a Gutenberg Bible! It was just set in the back, and the docent barely mentioned it. I was surprised and went to look at it. It was a plainer version but seemed fully intact and ready to use. An intact one with a clear history would sell for over $5 million.

My colon decided it needed attention, so I rushed to the Men’s Room and cleared my colon. I had waited almost too long, but I managed to get everything done without a deconsecration of my own!

I returned to the tour, and we headed to the relics. The nuns had been here for hundreds of years and collected quite a few items. I did not know the saints; Thomas I knew. I have been to the places of his burial and martyrdom in India.

With that, the tour was done, and I headed in the pouring rain, after getting another look at the bible, to the gift shop where I bought the book on the Ursuline Convent. The clerk at the store told me she lives only a few blocks away and got little sleep with the fire. She also informed me that she yells at her house to kill her as she cannot afford to fix it, and she wishes it would kill her or stop breaking. The house is hundreds of years old and has all the problems you can imagine for its age.

Jesse and Linda (my sister and her husband) arrived from Michigan, and I met them, soaked after walking two blocks in the pouring rain, as they had just arrived at Le Richelieu and waiting for their room. I changed to dry things, and they unpacked a bit. Jesse had a meeting, so Linda and head to Coop’s Place in the rain. We would face thunderstorms all day.

Linda loved the food, and the place was not complete, but more and more wet people entered. One group of 11 sat, learned that there was only one ticket per table (they wanted 11 different bills), and walked out in a huff. They were an all-white older crowd. Actually, the bartender was happy to see them go. Our food was excellent, and we ordered two everything plates, and Linda got my fried chicken. The waiter had suggested we get an extra piece and laughed when he saw I got none. I was fine; I had had some a few nights ago. We got one for Jesse and returned to the hotel stuffed with good Louisiana food.

I rested for a while and then got going again. Linda was napping, and Jesse was still working. I discovered a bookstore nearby with a search and headed out of the French Quarter to Faubourg Marigny and the famous Frenchman Street.

The sky was grey, and thunder was rolling and rumbling every few minutes. The streets were wet and puddled. I found a lovely and liberal (!) bookstore and purchased a history of New Orleans and a book of plans, drawings, and the history of the French Quarter’s historical buildings and homes.

I also found the Spotted Cat bar and listened to some more jazz. There is no cover, but you must get a drink per set played. I got a cheap canned beer and sat and listened for a while. I sent a note to Linda that I was there. The beer, the food, the walking, and the humid weather sent me back to my room.

There, I read and nodded off a few times. I had plugged my iPhone into charge and forgotten about it. When I looked at it an hour later, I soon learned that Jesse and Linda were at the Spotted Cat looking for me. Oops.

I returned to the Faubourg Marigny and found Jesse and Linda at Bamboula’s, which had food and music. Ms. Sigrid & The Zig Zags were still playing. I had heard them earlier while wandering the area but did not want another drink. These places are No Cover, but you must, at least, buy a drink a set. Linda and Jesse split a burger. I shared a giant pretzel and hot crab dip. The band was good.

We headed back to the hotel. We dressed, and I put on my suit and vest. We met in the lobby.

We head to Arnaud’s for dinner. We walked in the wet for twenty minutes, moving from the sleepy part of the French Quarter to the loud and drunk park and then to the expensive part, our target. Dinner was great, and our waiter, Jeff, was happy to serve. We found an excellent Californian wine for less, a favorite of mine, and Jesse and Linda approved it. Linda had crab cakes and a salad. Jesse had fish and a Caesar salad. I ordered their oysters, baked, in all styles. Jeff named them for me, and I enjoyed it. I never know which one is which, but this allowed me to try all the styles of baked oysters. Excellent. I had the duck and shared a veggie with Linda and Jesse, a local treasure: Stuffed Mirliton. This is a local, and I have only read about them. It was a cross between a melon and a squash. Again, happy to learn and taste new things in New Orleans.

Jeff, our waiter, took us, the place was packed and then cleared out to the museum and then a tour of the banquet room. Before Katrina, Jeff had served in the banquet rooms and was obviously proud of the place. He has just recently returned, having left New Orleans as a refuge from the storm, and only recently returned now that his kids are grown. The late owner was the queen more than twenty times, and her and her husband’s costumes were displayed. It gave you a sense of the 1960s Mardi Gras.

Linda and Jesse took an Uber back to the hotel. It was raining lightly. I walked back and stopped at one place to listen to an accordion band. I did not finish the required drink in the No Cover place, but I thought they were fun.

I returned, and a pretty girl offered to let me take her home. I was demurred, but I was happy. At least it was a girl this time.

Tired, wet, full, and happy, I found Tyler at the hotel desk. We chatted for a bit, and then I headed to 317. I hung my damp clothing on hangers in my huge closet. I went to bed and slept most of the night.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

I rose with some resistance at 7ish, found my laptop, and started writing the second half of Tuesday’s story. I seemed to have tried to see all of New Orleans in one day. I spent two hours completing the additions of vampires and more food to yesterday’s blog. I was tired and grabbed the painkillers.

BTW: Tyler, not Taylor, is the night manager at the hotel. My mistake.

I dressed and was out in the surprisingly warm and foggy air. The storms and rain would wait until I returned to the hotel in the early afternoon, but I was watchful.

I walked through the French Market two blocks down six over to Cafe Du Monde, sat at a table with all the other tourists, and had coffee and a set of beignets drowned in powdered sugar. While I felt I was just another tourist, the beignets and coffee (dangerously hot) were excellent. I can see why beignets are so famous- they are excellent. I did not sing the song, but I thought about it.

Only a few minutes away, I found a cart tour that could use one more person. How could I resist? I climbed in, and we then headed out to explore the French Quarter at a slow speed. The cabbie and tour guide covered some of the exciting places. Explaining various architectural items but avoiding the American Civil War and other embarrassing times. The tour was mainly about the city of the 1700s until the 1840s. Slavery did get mentioned, so it’s not a revisionist history. I enjoyed it. It was about an hour.

Next, still having time before lunch, I headed to the cathedral. I asked some questions, but the answer about what was in case was unavailable. After I told the docent I was from the Portland Area, the docent said they were praying for Portland. I thanked him for that, but I could tell that this was not about supporting liberal ideals espoused during the protests but a right-wing American Catholic agenda. This is a red state. But at least they were praying for us–an impact of a sort.

I found a credit card slot beside the candles, used it to pay $6 for a candle, and lit it for Susie. I did cry then; grief finds you when you notice that someone is missing. I was alone in the church, remembering.

Aside: The side of Andrew Jackson’s monument in the park has a quote that was ironic during the American Civil War (ACW), and the military occupation leader, General “Spoons” Butler, pointed out to the city leaders after the city was captured by the Union: The Union Must Be Preserved, in short. I knew this from Shelby Foote’s account of the history of the ACW.

Next, once my eyes cleared, I headed to the Louisiana State Museum and self-toured the Cabildo building. The displays were robust, with messages about music, the 1812 War, and segregation. The swords and cannons from the Battle of New Orleans were impressive. The sign “Colored Only” was also a powerful message of the past failures. While not a great museum, the authenticity was impressive and strange, with the death mask of Napolean on display for no more reason than I could divine other than it was here.

 

The cabbie suggested Red Fish for lunch, but my app said it opened at 3PM, nope. I wandered for a while and found myself again at the Vampires, but then discovered that the Gumbo Shop was nearby. I found a seat at the shop; it was muggy and sprinkling. I sat inside. I cannot (sorry, Dale) recommend the chicken-based gumbo, and the gal beside me agreed that their food was not great today. She was there for the food and was disappointed. She also said she is heading to Portland tonight, so I suggest Olympic Provisions if she can fit it in.

I will return and try the regular gumbo and see if it reaches the promised level. I am hopeful it was an off day.

So far, Coop’s Place, not The Coop that I reported yesterday, has the best food, with The Italian Barrel coming in second (more on that dinner follows). The recommended dinner at Coop’s Place is the sample dinner or fried chicken–receiving that instruction from more than one local.

I walked back while window shopping as the weather threatened to soak me. I was also dead tired, so I found my way back to the hotel, Le Richelieu. I rested for a few hours and even got some writing done. The gal at the front desk, whose name escapes me, suggested a local southern food place, Li’l Dizzy’s Cafe. Maybe I can fit that in.

I rested some more and called Leta, Susie’s mother. She was not feeling well and was following along on Facebook. She saw that I lit a candle for Susie and thanked me. I sat on my balcony when I called; it was still dry.

Next, I worked some more on my Holmes and Watson story. The detectives in this story are self-aware artificial intelligence chatbots. I cannot quite reach the correct wordings for them. I will check some stories and see if I can get a more original cadence into my story. It was fun to edit and add a few more words.

Tyler was back at the desk again this evening, and we discovered a Mardi Gras parade on Friday. It will travel only a block from the hotel starting at 7 p.m., which is excellent and unexpected.

I walked to a place I wanted to try. The hotel staff had not been there since the pandemic, but they were closed on Wednesday. I missed that yesterday. I reversed course; I am so used to going to the wrong place that I enjoy the ride now.

The Italian Barrel is the same Italian-styled place I have found in every city. It is higher-end and a bit of a stuffed shirt. I checked the others in the place before I tried it; not everyone was in shirts with collars. I was allowed a seat at the bar, and the bartender, Linsey, was happy to see me. Linsey recommended the veal. I agreed. It was an excellent Italian red wine.

The flavor was good and not too salty–a fear after being in Texas, the land of the proud salty people. The wine, veggies, and veal all matched. Susie requires veal to be pounded until you cut it with a fork. This was close, with only a few bits that needed my knife. I loved it. But it is not New Orleans flavors, and I have had just as good at various places. It is an excellent meal, but at a very high table price–beware. I had dessert: gelato filled with chocolate sauce. It and coffee were perfect.

Next, I returned to the BMC and got a single beer. I met the band, and they finally started at 7PM. While talented, I could not handle the high cords blasted at me. The blues player was excellent, and his BB King tribute was fantastic. When I saw the bartender put in earplugs, I knew it was not just me.

My sister called, and I used that as an excuse to leave. Walking around the block, I could hear the high notes! I returned to the hotel and wrote, avoiding blasting my ears.

I got into my room, and the window blinds fell on me. The door hitting the blinds must have knocked them off. I will ask them to be fixed in the morning.

I started to write the blog and can hear the parties in New Orleans tonight. There are flood watches and dense fog. I will stay in tonight!

Thanks for reading. My sister and her husband Jesse will be here at about noon on Thursday.

 

I was up at 7 and writing the blog until almost 9. I had to wave off the room crew until I was ready and dressed. I did skip over the Texas road styles with a twenty-foot on-ramp on a hill to a curve. I am lucky to have survived getting back on Highway 10 from Stuckey’s. But writing the blog is constantly having to choose what comes to memory at that time.

I put on my long sweater and felt hat and decided to explore the New Orleans French Quarter and find breakfast. I was thinking of Cafe Monde, but I would see what I found. As has happened repeatedly, I went the wrong way. I have the Maps app on my iPhone, which helped me get turned around. I headed to the trains and the river. I soon found the French Market, but it was just starting to wake up. I headed towards Cafe Monde but found French Toast and decided on that. I got a seat at the bar, and soon, a bright thirty-something waiter poured me coffee. She asked how I was, and I said, “I am waiting to find out.” That got a look and a chuckle. After being not dull like the other customers, I found I had excellent service. I also asked the waiter with her huge hoop earrings with the blue evil eye glass bead set in them for her thoughts and got the “traditional breakfast.”

This was bacon, eggs, a savory biscuit, and grits- yes, double up on those carbs. The music would come on, and the waitress would dance and swing to old but familiar 1960s and 70s tunes. The crowd was one giant hangover, but the crew was moving. Thus, recharged and stuffed, I was ready to do some serious walking. I circled the French Quarter and found myself retracing my steps from last night, but the places were open this time.

I found Jackson Square open today.

I found the dusty and somewhat forlorn Pharmacy Museum and paid the $10 entrance fee. Since I had missed the once-daily tour, I walked through the rooms, one downstairs and a few on the third floor, and read many of the signs. It was a mix of the start of the science of medicine and learning how vital regulations were. They sold poisons and radium as medicine until the rules required the medication to be shown to be beneficial.

I took several pictures, thinking they could be helpful in another 1920s or early setting for a role-playing game. All I had to do was change some to black and white, and they started to look scary and old. While not a tourist trap, I recommend it as a time filler. I did get some locally made books there that are great, so it’s a mixed bag.

I then headed to the Voo Doo Museum. Getting lost buy again walking the wrong way even with my iPhone helping. I found a magick place, Sassy Magick Noir, on the way. They sell pagan crafts and incense like our many stores in Oregon. I asked for a recommendation, which I know, looking at 50+ heavy white guys, left her confused–Not her usual customers. I pointed at the books, and then she got me the owner of the shop’s book, Magic without Tools by Sean Wilde (no relation), which I purchased. Thanked them, I headed back and immediately headed the wrong way again, and finally found unexpectedly that I was at the Voo Doo Museum. The gal invited me in and told me when I heard the music, it was time to leave (which I forgot), and while the place had the trappings of a tourist trap, all the altars and figures had real money stuffed in them. I did not feel welcomed by the place, but more tolerated. I was respectful, and as I read the various stories, the air seemed to lighten a bit. Again, showing respect, but I made no offering other than the tip jar for the gal running the shop.

To enter, I had to pay 8.75, which was eight thousand pennies, seven hundred fifty. I have nine dollars in cash; I figured the spirits expect money and put the quarter in the tip jar. I then added a dollar, and that got a thanks. I was given a piece of blank paper to rub in my hand three times to allow entry. The attendant did not touch my money until that ritual was completed.

When I left, a group was waiting for a tour guide, and the music played. I was asked if I had any questions, and I said, “I had many, but none specific at this time.” That pleased the attendant gal, who looked the part of a VooDoo Priestess on a brake, and she gave me their card in case I needed anything. The spirits were on my side now.

I did manage, even with the Voo Doo spirits looking kindly on me, to go the wrong way. I was at the Vampire Cafe for the third time. I decided it was lunchtime and headed inside. They were not very busy, and I sat at the bar. The vampire bartender and I went over the drinks. A positive, my blood type, we both decided, was too sweet. AB+ became the choice, and a Vampire Salad made from shredded Brussels sprouts instead of lettuce was lunch. The cocktail was not too sweet and not too boozy–excellent. It seemed to actually fit with the salad.

I talked to the denizens there about my 1926 knowledge of the area and how I buy old maps and atlas for not much on the internet. They found this intriguing and might look into it. We also talked about travel. The bartender vampire gave me a pass to the 1920s-style Potions, a speak-easy hidden bar that can only be accessed with a pass. Perfect.

I returned to my hotel mainly in the correct direction, rested, and then prepared by dressing in my black suit, red vast, and other 1920s-appropriate items. My felt hat will have to do, as my Homberg would not travel without a hat box.

I am writing the rest of this on Wednesday morning.

Dressed in a black suit and a red vest, very vampire-friendly, I walked across the French Quarter for the third time today. Bourbon Street was the target and something I have avoided as it is loud and drunken–not my thing. The street at first looks plain and missing the food and shops I see on the other streets. Once I get past Jackson Square and the cathedral, there are more lights, and it starts to get loud, and tourist shops are back with gaudy outfits in green, gold-yellow, and purple.

It is lightly raining outside, more like mist, and my suit coat is damp but not uncomfortable. I have on my felt hat, which does not really match the outfit but keeps my head warm. I get a few friendly comments about the outfit from men drinking outside. Smoking is allowed outside of buildings, unlike in Oregon, and I smell some weed here and there. It is only a hint of weed, unlike in Portland, NYC, and weed-smothered Amsterdam.

I am early, and Fretzel’s European Jazz Club is a tiny room about half full at 4:30 PM. A guy, Richard “Piano” Scott, plays a keyboard and sings familiar jazz songs with a drummer filling in for him. They see me and think, dressed as I am, it must be the next show.

After completing their set, the drummer chats with me and discovers I am dressed for the Vampires upstairs, not the next band. He also makes shocking anti-Semitic remarks and other less-savory comments. I decided it was time to find the vampires.

In the courtyard, now that it is past 5 PM, is a dark character who I ask if they are ready. He says that depends on why I am there. I hand him my pass, and he unlocks a plain door. There is a rundown staircase. I climb it without issue and enter a pair of darkened rooms. A vampire, more goth than classic, is making drinks. I order something with absinthe in a plastic glass. I walk out onto the balcony on Bourbon Street (plastic glasses only on the balcony) and can hear the music and energy of the partying.

The vampires smokes, and the tarot card reader vapes. With my suit, vest, pocket watch change, and hat, I get photographed with the vampire from the street. I am looking more like a staff member than a guest!

I want a tarot reading that explains the process for my writing and role-playing games. I have to wait a few hours and chat with the liberal (!) vampire about living here and her views. The tarot card reader takes forty-five minutes to charge the crystals, and I am second up for a reading. I am on my third drink, mostly sparkling wine and a hint of red absinthe–I usually stick to no more than two. Finally, I paid $70 plus a tip for my reading.

There are three decks, one very worn and an Oracle deck, which did not appear to be the usual major and minor cords of the tarot system. The cards are partially laid on the table, and the reader asks me not to interrupt the process. I try to follow along as cards are explained and used to tell me about my past, present, and this year of my future. The reader constantly is looking at the deck and sometimes adds a card. I asked later, and the reader checks his understanding by looking at a card for a positive or negative reaction to the thought.

The reader gets some minor cards, which are explained, and the major cards really set the message. The minor cards are the duration or process of the story. The major cards in my reading are The Devil, The Hang Man (reversed), The Chariot, and Temperance. The Devil is in the past, suggesting to the reader with the other cards that I had many troubles in the past and could not reach my full potential. The Hand Man (reversed) and the Chariot appear in my present reading and represent a significant change and amazing and unstoppable success. The future shows there will be some setbacks (minor cards), but again, Temperance signals continued success combined with some minor cards.

All very interesting and took more than thirty minutes of me listening. The drinks helped; yes, quiet and listening for thirty minutes seldom happens. When completed, I asked how the card’s meaning was known (the reader memorized all the cards) and how the decks were selected (they just call the reader). The reader asked me what I thought. The reader missed that I was recently widowed, and I did not mention the brain tumor, and it was not, except as a hint, in the future reading. Before the reading, I talked about myself briefly on the balcony, and I could see that the reader had incorporated everything the heard.

I think some of the stones’ charging was assembling a story in the reader’s mind. I thought the reading was well done and authentic, but also the usual contrivances of guesses and hand waving. I can see why people believe in tarot reading, and the reader certainly did. While humans are naturally pattern-matching, we can see patterns that are not there; this appears to be the human struggle to understand the universe and our place within it. I will not return for another reading except for more research into the process for my writing and gaming. An excellent experience.

I managed the stairs, tipped the gate vampire, and headed back onto the streets of the French Quarter. I wanted some food- it was after 8 PM now. I first walked down Bourbon Street’s chaos and saw only one food joint that would fit, but it was nearly empty. Don’t eat in empty places is a rule.

I turned around and left the noise, and I received more compliments on my outfit, all from rough-looking men. Hmmm. I continued into the darker and quieter streets. I could not find a place to eat, but I found my hotel. I was definitely lost again. Taking out my iPhone, I followed it to The Coops and found a bar and good food. I had seafood gumbo there and agreed with Taylor, the night manager at Le Richelieu, that I like the non-seafood version better. But this was good and had okra, making it excellent and authentic.

The bartender has been there since 2005 and recommended the fried chicken. I agreed to two pieces. It came with jambalaya and coleslaw, but I would have loved the sides. The jambalaya was smoky and filled with bits of meat and shrimp, and the coleslaw was creamy. The chicken was fresh, hot, and a bit plain, but perfect as I was hungry. I had a bottle of locally made beer to go with it. There was no music, so I just ate and listened to the tourists chat about NYC to a staff member headed there soon.

Stuffed with chicken, gumbo, jambalaya, and coleslaw, I returned to Le Richelieu without getting lost. Taylor was back as the night manager, and he and I reviewed some New Orleans maps. He suggested the best pizza place (he also works there) and other locations in the Garden District and beyond. This would require the St. Charles Street street cars to reach. I will see how I feel, but it may be time to head out into the rest of New Orleans.

I returned to 317, my room, and carefully put away my outfit. I showered away the hours of drinking and walking and then climbed into bed; I quickly fell asleep. I did wake up a few times, but I did get some sleep.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

 

 

Going backward, as it has been a while since I tried that…I am writing this on Tuesday morning as I had a good time last night.

I was in my room, 317 @ Le Richelieu, around 11PM and showered to clear the road grime. My feet were wet the whole day when the flash flooding at Zorida’s house overflowed my Air Force ones and filled them with cold Texas water. I need some warm water.

The hotel is in the French Quarter but close to the dividing line. It is an older building remodeled into a more modern hotel. My room has a balcony and a bedroom with a huge closet. The bathroom has a hallway, too. It is all hardwood floors with no rugs to trip a guest. It was all more complicated as I had a few beers, and it was all new.

I opened the door to the balcony to hear the sounds of the city, something I often do when visiting an exotic location. The train was close enough to nearly throw me out of bed, but this happened only once. The office or living room (yes, I have a separate entryway, sitting room, and living room from the bedroom and bath) has a balcony, so the sounds were muted, and I slept well.

Before this, I asked Taylor, the night manager of Le Richelieu, for a place to see some music. He directed me to BMC, which is a few blocks away. The streets are lit by lamps and are a bit dark and maybe spooky looking for someone walking alone, but I kept up my situational awareness and managed it. BMC has just had a band finish; I bought a raspberry beer (the rest sounded uninteresting), found a seat on the side with a table, spilled my beer on it, decided this was usual here, and waited. My phone has a Kindle app; when I wait now, I just sit down and read my books. Soon, the sax player was doing mic checks. He was pretty good. The keyboard, drums, and bass soon showed. The keyboardist led and sat in a comfortable chair he brought in front of his two keyboards set up in a folding rack. A nice setup. The music was excellent. Piano Man “G” is the band’s name, and they soon packed the place, which was empty except for me. I even got a fist bump for sitting and enjoying the music from one of the folks dancing.

Before this, I walked seven blocks to Taylor’s, and again, the night manager for the hotel recommended gumbo. The best places and closer places were all closed on Monday. There is a tradition of having just beans and rice for dinner in a pot while you clean and do your laundry here in New Orleans, and many places still practice closing on Monday. Kingfish advertised a duck and sausage gumbo. Taylor is a no-seafood gumbo person (this is a thing), and I agreed to align with his outlook for now.

I walked the blocks, and small groups of tourists were here and there. One mentally disturbed person was having a heated argument with themselves. The person sounded like there were two people, one with a cross of Gollem and a demon procession movie voice and the other an angry woman who just wanted to be left alone. We crossed the streets, and later, I saw the person more recovered.

Jackson Square was closed, but homeless people were setting up for the night in the various entranceways near the park. The air was damp and misty. A guy was singing in the dark. I did not see him again when I returned.

The gumbo at Kingfish was good. I got a window seat in the near-empty place. Taylor told me that New Orleans is dead on weekdays now. They are busy on the weekends. I was hoping for some time to write, and I have chosen well. I am less interested in tourist trappings. Excellent Food, music, and a comfortable chair and table to write are perfect for me. I ordered, not wanting a lot of food or dessert. The chef came by and agreed it was a good day, damp and cold, from gumbo. It is Monday, and somebody forgot to put out the desserts to defrost. My light chocolate mousse cake was more like ice cream. My waiter, Catalina, and I agreed to put it in a box, and I would save it for the morning. I was not in the mood to send it back. I also had a signature cocktail, and while it was excellent, I am not sophisticated enough in my drinking to appreciate it.

I found the Crescent City Brewhouse with live music on my way back and stopped in. I had a giant Red Horse Ale, cracklings, and pinto cheese while listening to a sax, keyboard, and bass perform some soft jazz. It was an excellent follow-up and an excellent distraction.

Returning further into the day, I drove from San Antonio today, about ten hours with stops and lousy traffic in a few places, and enjoyed the drive once I was no longer in flash floods and water pounding the car so that the windshield wipers could barely clear the water. The terrible rains did not stop until I was four hours into the trip and on the other side of Houston. I took Highway 10 in various forms of disrepair or construction in Texas.

Texas was flat and brown with desert plants. Louisiana was green and filled with plants and swamps. Highway 10 is often on a causeway over the Bayous. I will need to learn more about Louisiana and the center area that was a causeway for miles and miles. I was fascinated and enjoyed the western Louisiana drive.

At the end of the ten hours of traveling, I was getting tired, and the traffic jams in Baton Rouge and New Orleans were trying. The traffic and driving were kinder than in Texas and moved better than in Portland. Most waits were just eight minutes.

I used the map app on my phone. It also lets me know when to slow down for “speed checks,” also known as police. I found it quite helpful, and it guided me well through the narrow, obviously not-made-for-cars streets of New Orleans.

I started my day at 6AM, which is hard as the time difference of two hours makes it feel much earlier. I showered and dressed and splashed my way to Air Honda. The streets were full of three inches of water running fast and overflowing my shoes. I could have moved Air Honda, but my shoes were already soaked, so I just splashed on. I thanked Zorida for a wonderful stay at her house, had some coffee, and then took on my eight-hour (no-stops) trip to New Orleans, according to the Maps app.

San Antonio roads were flooded, and I had to be careful. The police were out blocking flooded lanes. I saw an angry officer with a stick punching a drain to work. Once an hour from San Antonio, I could drive the high-speed limits of Texas, 70 mph (112kmh). As it happened, I got used to it again and was often ten or more over just going with the traffic. The car slipped as the water does not always flow off Texas roads. So I spent the first hours watching and driving with care at insane speeds–typical American driving.

I stopped somewhere in Texas at noon and called my doctors in Oregon. I need a cardiac clearance for brain surgery. I spoke to scheduling, and they told me they had the wrong forms from the heart doctor. I suggested that they contact the surgery doctor and have the doctor do what is needed–they implied I should contact a doctor to tell the doctor to call the doctor!? After a moment of reflection, they agreed that they would take care of it–I told them I was calling from the road in Texas.

I found that the old chain Stuckey’s was alive in Texas. Most of the East and Midwest places are gone. I got some pecans. A pleasant surprise on the road trip.

I saw little of Houston as the city was shrouded in mist. Once an hour away, the rains stopped, and the temperatures climbed into the sixties. The land changed to a swamp, and the road signs changed from steaks and Tex-Mex to crawfish, pork, and Cajan. A bridge took me out of Texas, and I stopped at the travel center for Louisiana and enjoyed the little park as a break.

After a break, I returned to my drive across the state. It was a tremendous grey day for a drive, with no sun glare.

I think that is full circle.

The morning started with me being surprised that it was 6AM already, rolling back over, and waiting until 7:45AM to rise. I put on my slippers and robe, sat at the table with my laptop, and started the blog. It was a busy day on Saturday, and it would take a while to write about it. Zorida rose, all dressed and ready. She made breakfast while I continued to tap away. I stopped to eat the fine breakfast and then went on tapping away until almost 11AM.

The pictures are sort of in order. I just put in the ones I liked.

Zorida passed on the Botanical Garden as the storm in Portland had decided I needed more exposure, and it was cold and raining in San Antonio, a cold Oregon mist! I showered and dressed and headed out a bit late in the morning. I used my iPhone to once again travel back to the area near the University of the Incarnate Word to find the San Antonio Garden. There were few cars in the parking lot, mostly staff. My coat, hat, and sweater were usually enough, but gloves were needed as I like to keep my hands out if I slip or trip. My balance has not been improved by the brain tumor!

The place looks like an aging Jurassic Park from the first movie. There is a lot of cement and fogged glass. I headed for the warm conservatory, partially underground in a cement bunker- very Jurassic Park! The first glassed-in area contained my favorite, but nothing I grew: Orchids. I know the tribes and wish I was good at houseplants as I would love to grow them. I have killed every last Orchid I have tried to keep. It was nice to see the tribes and so many different ones. My favorite, the slipper orchids, were not there. There was a Miltonia that I loved. I walked through the area multiple times, trying to find orchids and identify their tribes. This is another hobby that I could get back to, but I think for now, I will look at other’s orchids and be envious.

I walk into two young people making out in the desert plants. He was embarrassed she just smiled. I disarmed them by saying something about being careful not to fall into the cactus. They were happy that I pretended not to see. They were the only people I saw in the garden who did not work there. I mentioned the orchids and that I had already seen them. They headed there and were there for a while. No comment.

The desert plants include a frankincense tree that I had not seen before. I also saw a chocolate tree, which was my first. I recognized the leaves as I had seen a version of them in a video game where chocolate is a product you grow in your colony. Strange to see them myself.

The palm tree area was huge, with massive trees and plenty of vertical space left. I walked up the stairs to the look-out section. All cement and glass, and it still reminds me of a particular movie.

The ferns, not an exciting topic, were a grotto with a waterfall, making up for the less interesting topic.

An outdoor pool in the center court was a few feet deep with a giant goldfish and small ones. I used the stepping stones and managed not to fall in. I should have been more careful, but it was fun.

A Japanese garden is also included. I had more difficult stones to walk on; I had to use the grass. I did sit on the dry bench under an excellent roof.

I spoke to the staff. They were removing the covers for frost from the kitchen garden. They grow lots of herbs and spices. Some indoors and some outside. The gardeners told me they have lost their plants, Rosemary, for example, when it gets to 8F (-13C). I was surprised to hear how cold it gets here.

I was cold. I headed to Jardin, the restaurant associated with the Garden, and soon learned it was run by the same chef who runs Tre, where I had lunch yesterday. This time, I picked the fixed-price lunch for $20 and then added bread and dessert (which I brought back boxed for Zorida, who liked the Olive Oil Cake). My waiter was also the bartender, Selinda, and she was studying computer science and mathematics. I told her I was a practitioner, and we discussed her choices. She is interested in security, so I recommended she look at Violet Blue’s newsletter and consider doing an internship at Nike when she is further in her studies. I also shared the URL for my blog with her.

As for lunch, the starter was wonderful, and the next course, a salad, was one of the best chopped salads I have had in a few years. The red onions and tiny sliced peppers seemed to have been soaked just for the right amount of time in an oil-vinger dressing to balance their flavors. The main was a chicken breast grilled and covered with dry Indian-style rub. The sauce was light and covered some of the rice. It was good but maybe too plain for dinner, but very light and perfect for lunch.

Jardin is not open for dinner, just lunch. I thought it was perfect. I did not eat again on Sunday as I had enough food for these two days. Recommended as is Tre, their other place at the art museum.

I missed my turns twice on my way back to Zorida’s place. No matter. I reached her house without issue. The traffic and the Oregon mist made the drive less fun. There was lots of traffic for a Sunday, I thought. Again, I am driving one-handed with one holding my iPhone with directions. I have still not learned the roads here in Texas.

I just read and hung out with Zorida tonight. I needed to write the blog tonight as I am traveling early on Monday.

I received a message from my hotel and confirmed my reservation while at lunch at Jardin, all online. I called them and told them I would be there after 7PM.

Well, that is about the end of today. I will be up early to leave for New Orleans in Air Honda, the Purple SUV.

Thanks for reading.