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I learned on Friday that one of my oldest friends passed away unexpectedly in Michigan. We have been friends since fifth grade, and he was (so difficult to use the past tense for him) a good man. I will miss him. I saw him at the party the day before Susie’s Concert and Celebration of Life and at the service. I had hoped to see him again in December. It is his family’s story to tell his story, so I will not take that away from them by saying more.

The loss colored my day. I will try to create a clear narrative of a day that was not easy.

I rose too early but felt I had enough sleep at 6. Getting back home on Thursday was busy, and assembling that chaotic day into a narrative took most of the morning. I had to return to the story and add parts I had missed as I remembered something I had missed in the initial writing. I am also confused about the colors of political parties: The color red does not fit right-wing politics to me, having grown up in the Cold War, as it is the color of Communism, but Deborah reminded me to just think of the red hats at Trump crowds. Ah, that works–I fixed the text later.

I saw the note about my friend’s passing when I published the blog.

The New Orleans School of Cooking (not what I used before, “New Orleans Cooking School”) package of two of five class packages arrived. One for me and the others as gifts. More should show up over the next couple of days. They are using “if it fits, it ships” USPS shipping, which will take two or three boxes (explaining the $30 shipping, $10 each) for the mass. Each pack has a roux whisk, a logoed hot pad, a cookbook for class recipes, spices, and grits–perfect.

Dondrea has decided to call together the DMZ (Dondre–“Birdie,” Michael, and Z), AA (Ashley and Andrew), and Mom to cook a meal according to the recipes and what I learned for the second week of November. I am considering menus and whether I should practice before the party. One person is allergic to seafood, but the shrimp dish with grits and cheese grits was lovely when I made it twice in class. I am leaning towards sausage, chicken gumbo, BBQ shrimp, NOLA style, and cheesy grits. Hmmm. Maybe Banana Fosters with a small fire. Dondrea says she has a fire extinguisher. More to follow.

Liberal coffee, finally, in my cup from Equal Exchange, French Roast, in my Moulin Rouge! The Musical coffee cup I got the night Susie, Mariah, and I attended our last event on Broadway together (not knowing at the time it was Susie’s last show) and used while stuck in NYC for my coffee in my temporary apartment in Upper Westside. And while I don’t have a balcony in the French Quarter here in the Volvo Cave, the coffee is better, and my roses are still in bloom. Mister Lincoln is now producing nearly perfect blooms. The coffee reminds me that I am home. I can taste Justice, Compassion, and Community in every sip. I recommend a dose of Equal Exchange or other fair-traded coffees every morning; it brings you focus to what really matters. Go ahead, be liberal with your coffee!

I shared the news of my friend’s passing with friends and family, tears.

I traveled to Hellfire Pizza, which is no longer The Rock Wood-Fired Pizza and has dropped the Rock and Roll theme (to my discomfort). I had a local beer (instead of the restricted selection of their corporate products) and a pizza no longer named for Rock music. The beer was good. The pizza, a large one, so I would have leftovers, was undercooked. I saw a medium pizza delivered near me, and it looked properly prepared. Hmmm. The Hellfire Pizza has cooked onions, shredded hots, and meats. Sadly, it tasted more industrial than good. The waiter, Tiffany, was also the bartender and the host. Wow! Talk about downsizing, but I was there mid-Friday afternoon, a quiet time and usually shift-change.

I used to eat a lot of pizza with my late friend and Susie. I remembered them as I ate.

Tiffany was young, thin, and tightly squeezed in her clothing; her shirt was not low-cut, but suggesting there was more to the tattoo that was just showing. In response to my questions, Tiffany explained that the previous place, The Rock, was failing. The owners of this location decided to go it alone and run it without the corporate chain after not finding any help from the central office. She said business was good now as Hellfire Pizza.

Alas, there were no men to be seen (and to describe here) as Tiffany ran the whole place alone. But I am sure that there could have been a guy with a tight shirt who left no doubt that he taught fitness at a local gym. He would be a wonder of muscle lines and strength, with appropriate tattoos proving his love of the outdoors and a logo on his shirt suggesting he loves to camp in the Pacific Northwest. But, again, no men were available to describe.

Tiffany suggested that the next pizza order include the well-done to get that crunchiness I was missing. I gave the couple next to me a slice as they wanted to try the Hellfire version. They liked it. I got a box, took the rest home, and paid the bill.

I returned home and spent some time chatting and texting. Dondrea will take the sermon if I have to travel to Michigan for the funeral that weekend. I tried the show, The Silo, and it was dark and dystopian–not my favorite. But it is well done, and the story is compelling. I did most of the second episode. With my grief, I could not get through it, but I will return to it.

I read more Vampire Cookbook, which has a story set in the current French Quarter and loose murdering vampires (my experience was the NOLA vampire bites involved money, not blood). The recipes look easy and familiar now that I have had cooking classes, with one at the end of each installment now being chapters. It was initially published in a penny dreadful format, with each edition continuing the story and supplying a recipe. It is now all combined into a book. Definity will try some recipes. I expect no vampires will appear while cooking as they are not here but in NOLA.

I showered and put on my PJs, expecting to read more. But vampires before sleeping were bad for me in the past, and I soon put away the cookbook with stories. I also slept quickly. I’m still tired from travel and time zone confusion, but I have no bad dreams. I did rise to prove hydration once.

Thanks for reading!

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.