Blog

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.

In New Orleans (NOLA), you are, as a tourist, never ready for a parade with trows, Krewe lead music and floats, dancing scantly clad folks, and all the Mardi Gras features during your visit so far from Mardi Gras (Krewe parades start again in January with my favorite, Krewe de Vieux on Feburary 15th. Because Taylor Swift is coming next week, Krewe Boo was moved to this Saturday! There was some grumbling from locals that the parade was too soon and the Swifties would have been okay with it, but still, it was a delightful event for me.

Reformating my usual boilerplates and starting in the middle, NOLA calls for flexibility; I was searching for a late lunch. I returned from the Oak Alley Plantation Tour via Greyline and had no lunch other than a no-booze mint julep (they have bourbon for the drink, but I had no lunch, and that would be unadvisable with a long bus ride back). I sent a note to the gals I met last night, but they did not respond, and their phone was set in quiet mode.  Coop’s Place is a favorite for food with a gruff service. I was surprised that there was a line.

NOLA streets were lined with parade watchers, kids, and adults in costumes with many pirates, some recognizable Krewe members, and witches who went from Harry Potter conservative robes to nearly undressed goddess liberal. Beetlejuice was everywhere, and Santa was driving a Krewe car. I watched all this go by as I waited for a seat at Coop’s Place.

A challenged man was in the line and was obviously unhappy to be standing so long. I was worried he would be violent, but that did not happen. After thirty minutes, I was seated at the bar, and the man was next to me and his female friend, who fed him and ate from the same plate (I assume they are a couple). He did touch me lightly a few times, but not in a mean way. I was polite. I ordered two chicken pieces with jambalaya (with smoked rabbit) on the side and coleslaw. It is the best food I find here in the French Quarter to buy (my gumbo and shrimp were excellent), and this is the first dinner I did not make myself at NOLA! The jambalaya is heavy and smoky and with just a hint of spiciness. I learned in the cooking class that tomatoes do not go in jambalaya (oops), and a roux is the starting place. The roux is cooked to a peanut butter color and thickness using lard or a tasteless oil, and it is fine to keep adding oil to a roux if it threatens to burn. The coleslaw was creamy and did not taste like vinegar.

Beer comes in a bottle there, something I forgot. Soon, I finished dinner while others finally got their seafood. One of the folks at the bar told me that the famous blackened fish recipes from Paul Prudhomme are actually reworks of what is found at Coop’s Place. I saw on the rough and ready bartop food delivered that would be praised at more cultured locations. I spoke a few kind words to the gal and challenged the gentleman, as I know it is hard on both. I got a smile and a friendly nod. While gruff, busy, and working non-stop, the bartender was happy when I said the food was excellent and paid the bill. Fed, I went to find the parade.

My back and feet did not like the endless standing. I found a building wall to lean against and watched the crowds build on Decatur Street and the corner of Madison. I soon joined, and the parade started only ten minutes late. The crowd stood on the road, and only one lane was blocked. Folks with lighted sticks would walk to widen the corridor of kids and adults to let the vehicles, people, and occasional horse troop through. I was standing in a good position, but I was not dressed in a costume, and I waved a few kids to take my place–thinking it was really for kids. Their mother, smoking a vape product, was then charging in, and soon, I was out of the close crowd. I could tell the relatively young mother wanted to be a kid again and could not resist waving her hands up to get a throw. That made me smile and give way to her–she was so excited she was jumping. Beads and candy were soon being launched at the crowd. I was delighted to be a part of it. I only reached for a few throws that came my way, but no love.

The parade slowed, and soon, I was pushed a bit further back. I moved on and found a bench to rest for a while. Next, I found the Vampire Bar, but the entrance was complex (vampires like things both complex and chaotic), and I looked for simpler processes. A block later, a bar seat was open at Pere Antoine Restaurant and Rose and a guy (I never heard his name) was bartending. Rose was a vampire with fangs, blood-red lips, pale makeup, black shoulder-length hair, a leather vest, and a low-cut top. A cross of the Adam’s family, a vampire, and a pirate. I got a beer and then food and chatted with the bartenders. Rose was dissatisfied that the parade was today as she could not participate, and her costume was not ready (considering that she was a knock-out in that outfit, I wonder what she was thinking for a costume). I got food,  bread slices, and dip. It was OK. While Rose ate her dinner away at a table, the other bartender told me stories of NOLA and his family being the first black person to own a Shell Station (after the family sold its bordello and left prostitution and the bar business). I learned that after Storytown, the legal red light district for twenty years, was shut down, the black bars and bordello moved to another part of the town not far from the bar I was sitting in. Most of the buildings of Storytown were demolished, and a project was built in its place. This, too, is gone, and now it is housing. There is little left, maybe one building, I was told. I was soon refreshed with food and a beer and ready for my next adventure.

Rose, telling me she is working on Sunday, invited me back. Rose and the other bartender agreed that Frenchman Street should be my next adventure (Bourbon Street and Fritz’s European Jazz Club are only a block from there). It was a five-block walk with witches, pirates, and Beetlejuice(s) everywhere. I found the jazz here usually easier to access, but the place was packed tonight. There was an evening art show, and soon I was enjoying that. I found an artist’s work that I liked and bought a print. I am tempted to buy the painting Owolabi Ayodele. There were also toilet seat covers with photos laminated to them. David Bowie was included, and I heard some ask if they thought that would work for them. I tried one place for jazz, but the speakers were so loud it hurt, and having only one working ear, I thought it was unwise. I waved off the hostess and left.

Rebecca and Gina texted me, but we decided to call it a night and try again on Sunday to meet. I walked the ten-plus blocks back to my hotel. The crowds were now surrounding bars and were quieter. I had no problem getting back, but my feet and back were painful. I soon showered, dressed for bed, and tried to read Faulkner, but only got as far as the introduction and preface before nodding off. So far, I have yet to read Faulkner.

The night was punctuated with blasting music and car noises until after 4 when it quieted. Even with my good ear buried in a pillow, I was still blasted out of a dream a couple of times. Impressive. With the Krewe parties done, I expect the rest of my nights will be easier. It is still fun.

Turning to the morning, the bus trip to Oak Alley was the usual mishmash of tour-operated waiting, bussing, and having only a few hours to actually see what you paid to see. I was happy that, unlike Morocco, there was no mandatory shopping stop at their store to look at carpets.

The tour first dropped people off at the Witney Plantation, which, our driver said, was a better experience as it focused on slavery without “sugar coating.” She warned that it was a very emotional experience. Our tour at Oak Alley was the more usual story of the plantation, with some focus on slavery.

I thought the tour was excellent. The tour guide constantly pointed out that the house was built by slaves, making even the bricks in the wall. They have a few named people who were slaves, and they try to weave their stories into the tapestry of the story they tell. After asking many questions, I also learned that one of the stories they told was enhanced by the researcher meeting with one of the families of one freed slave and sharing and intermixing their records to have a more complete story. I visited the reconstructed slave quarters and thought their self-guided tour was a bit lame, but still, it was filled with excellent information, and one wall of the houses was painted with the names of all the slaves at Oak Alley. I would recommend the place; I bought the guidebook and had a mint julep, as I mentioned above.

Breakfast was coffee in my room and beignets at Cafe Beignets to-go. I ate them on a bench, watching the steamboat pull out. It was an excellent start. I wrote the blog all morning and was free only at 10:30. I rose to an alarm at 7.

Thanks for reading.

Update: To show more equal time, there were also men stripping on a Bourbon Street bar with butts that were so tight I wished I was gay. Men gods all slick with oil and ready to light. The dancing was everything you imagine. I only lingered a moment….

I rose after sleeping through the night. The noise was reduced in the morning, and I started writing a long blog while listening to New Orleans wake up here in the French Quarter. I made coffee, only getting two pods on the Keurig (more were delivered for Saturday), and soon had been juiced with hotel coffee. The blog was finished with over 2,000 words, and the day will include over 11,000 steps. I was busy!

At about 11, I was dressed, stood on my balcony, and saw that NOLA was waking up. I headed out to find breakfast/lunch. I stopped by Café Conti, which I noticed before. They were closing at noon. I got my breakfast to-go and took it back to my room. I ate my grits with overeasy but still running eggs; perfect. I got more coffee there, too. All this I ate on my balcony. It was windy from the river, and my paper napkins blew into traffic. I managed to catch my coffee before it went over the ledge. Oops.

The cleaners showed up, and I took the laptop to the lobby to check on my plans. I soon returned, dropped off the computer, hid it, and left. While a thief would find it, this prevents anyone from being tempted. I was dressed in a dress shirt and green sweater vest, and though it would be a warm day, I thought this would work, and it did.

I walked through New Orleans and headed for the Mississippi River. I enjoyed looking at the river and walking with the other tourists. This required crossing the tracks, and the trolley cars ran these tracks. I have not done public transit in NOLA, but maybe I will try it this time. More to come.

I found the New Orleans Cooking School and retrieved my hat. Chef Maria texted me to come and get it. I made another circle of NOLA and found a beer place where I had eaten on my first day here in January. I got a seat at the nearly full bar. I tried to order cracklins and cheese, but that was off the menu. It appeared to me that only expensive options remained, and what I would call tourist options. I was only getting a beer. A gal sat next to me, Lisa, and she was on her last day on NOLA and, like me, traveled alone. She was friendly and ordered food. I gave her my blog location, and later, I got an email from her, and I offered to meet her after my class. I did not get a reply. I left as I was not looking for food other than appetizers they no longer have, and I found Jackson Square full of music and art. The band was good, and I saw one artist’s work I could buy and put on a wall. More later if I decide to purchase something.

Faulkner is a famous writer I have never read; he lived here. I stopped by his former house, now a bookstore, and got a copy of his New Orleans sketches. I missed this on my previous trip and wanted to include it in today’s visit. I stopped in some shops here and there looking for gifts that are better than the usual tourist crap. I completed what my fourth circle was and headed to the hotel.

I rested for a while in my room. The street noise is louder now. I set an alarm, and it did wake me. I headed out still in a green vest and long-sleeve button-down shirt (no tie). Foot traffic has doubled, and every sign of growth has been noted. The young, long, long-legged gals are out. I spot a group of women in powdered wigs and Founding Father outfits pouring out of a bar, an unusual choice for group outfits. It is so out-of-character for Bourbon Street that I almost asked to take a picture and think better of it. Instead, I make a beeline to New Orleans Cooking School, not wanting to get mixed up in any parties on Bourbon Street and miss my class.

Chef Maria is happy to see that I have my hat and has informed me that I will be with Chef Terry tonight. I am the only single and will have my own cooking space again. The other is twelve young folks traveling from Pittsburgh as a group. They are a happy bunch, energetic, and excited to try this. This time, we climb the stairs to the third floor (they are young, and I follow their lead. I am happy to report that I climbed the stairs and was not winded or dizzy. Excellent.

One induction burner is plugged in for each cooking area, and we can work only one pan at a time. We will put our grits on a second stove and stir them often from there. I know what to expect, but Chef Terry and her assistant Mo, who I had last night, changed the recipes to match what is on the cards. Chef Terry is more about finding your way and less about following the practice. We also do not peel and clean the shrimp this time. We just leave them and peel them when we eat them.

My gumbo is butter-based this time, and I manage to cook it without surprises. Everyone is doing well. We take the pan off the burner and place it on a pad that protects the counter but also reflects the heat back, so we have to keep stirring. We add some of the trinity (onion, celery, green peppers chopped and in equal amounts) and the pope (garlic) to the pan on the pad. We start the aforementioned grits. These are with milk, butter, and chicken stock to make the frits more creamy and flavorful. Chef Terry discovers one of the younger teams added white wine to their grits, and it is good and nothing the Chef had seen before. The chef said it is these new things that Terry finds a treasure in doing this teaching.

When I finished the gumbo assembly, Mo tasted it and suggested more spices. I followed her lead and that of Chef Terry. I made a complex gumbo that was not hot and spicy. I should have heated it up and reduced it more, as it was thinner than last night’s version. This taste was fantastic. We all tried each other and found them all different and wonderful.

As I said, the shrimp was spiced while uncooked and not peeled. I cooked butter and spices, including rosemary, again, letting the spices cook for a while. Chef Terry poured beer to add flavor and cool the mix. Next, I added more both—some spices. And then, the shrimp floated in the hot mix, more at a boil this time.

We plated some grits and then shrimp and sauce. Gumbo was put in a bowl. I gave away my extra shrimp. Chef Terry and Mo helped me here and there as I was alone, but mostly, I cooked it myself. It was great, and I peeled and ate the shrimp. It was a different experience than yesterday’s version. They were both excellent; this was better as the rosemary was less apparent.

The flames were larger than those in Thursday’s class, and one of the folks recorded the lighting of my banana-filled pan. It was an excellent experience and easier than my first time, as I had less to learn and felt more comfortable. I had three glasses of wine.

I said goodbye, sharing my website with them. I walked to my hotel, dropped off my papers and apron, and then headed to Fritz’s European Jazz Club on Bourbon Street. This is my favorite and only place I usually visit on Bourbon Street. I stood in line for about thirty minutes. Behind me, a pair of gals, Rebecca and Gina, from NYC and Arizona, were waiting, too. After the set ended, there was room for us, and I was delighted that Rebecca and Gina sat next to me. I bought the first round. They purchased the next two. As usual, on a Friday night, the show was fantastic, and the talent was beyond anything you are ready for. Pure joy to sit a few feet away.

We stayed until the band was done after 1. I was happy I could find my way back and got a note that Rebecca and Gina were safe, too. We may meet on Saturday evening.

Shower and then sleep.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

Continuing with the early flight on Thursday, the plane arrived in Dallas, and soon, I discovered iconography and walked through the airport, which was waking around us fully awake, slightly fearful, busy passengers and flight crews. The plumbing was not on display (as Douglas Adams’ description of airports), there was no heat, and excessive air conditioning had me looking for frost. I put back on my sweater. A train ride had me locate my gate and discover all the food places were still closed, which was unsurprising as the local time was just after 6.

It was still dark, and the pre-morning black outside made it seem like it was still the middle of the night in Texas. The hall was cold, and folks were putting on their outerwear that had been removed when on the steamy plane rides. Food joints are opening. I ignored the chicken sandwich place. First, I don’t like their politics, and second, I wanted something not quite so corporate for breakfast (but I will admit they treat their employees well and make excellent food at a reasonable price).

The stirfry and Asian-style place was still assembling and putting away their deliveries. A gal with a golden front tooth offered me pad thai for breakfast and suggested chicken. I agreed. While expensive (everything is at an airport), she made it for me while I watched, and it was fresh and made with feeling. Even Texas is a melting pot in the USA, and it was a joy to have excellent Asian food by 7ish in the Heart of Texas. The family sitting beside me at the next table got the breakfast bowls of rice and stir-fried veggies with a fried egg, which looked amazing and were freshly made.

I got to my gate and soon sat in a cheap middle seat on another full flight. We were a chatty bunch. Amanda was in the aisle seat, working and flying to NOLA and taking an Uber to a site out of town to evaluate it for environmental costs/risks. The other person’s accent and being on my unhearing side was friendly, but I missed his name, and he was connecting a set of flights to get to a work gig. I chatted about travel places we have been and work (theirs). The time disappeared, and soon we landed at NOLA, and like most travel meetings, we disappeared from each other and headed out.

After a long walk, I found the baggage claim, and nothing had been delivered, even with my 33rd seat and not that hurried walking and stopping to supply NOLA with slightly used Texas water (having supplied Texas with Oregon water as payment, again used somewhat).  Soon, my bag appeared on the track (undamaged), and I found the taxi line and took a $36 ride back to NOLA.

I drove this last time and enjoyed the ride. The memories started to flood back as I looked at the familiar greens and trees; I love it here. The raised cemeteries let you know this was NOLA and not just any place in the southern USA. There was traffic last time as the Palestinians had decided to block traffic as a protest, and thus, I did get time to look at the area. No protestors, and traffic was moderate. I soon paid my cabbie with cash, a $100 bill from Corwin as payment (change was received) for the truck I bought for him. My usual deal: I will forgive half if he pays it on time (and he sort of does). I keep the cash and use it for trips and expenses. My hotel, this time, is a block from the action and loud at night, with cars blasting music and blowing horns. I tried to sleep with the door open to hear the city noise, but this time, I closed it so I would not be blasted out of my bed. I did roll over, and my unhearing ear let me sleep. My only advantage so far from brain surgery.

My hotel checked me in, but my room was not ready, and I would likely be late. The place was overrun by football folks. Tonight, the big game of Denver Colts vs. the Saints was at the stadium (infamous as a last resort sanctuary with Hurricane Katrina). NOLA was awash in Saints and Colts wear, and folks were happy. I could not have been prouder as I designed the computer interface and processes to allow those jerseys to be produced when Nike got the NFL.

With no room, I changed shirts and washed up in the men’s room and then stored my bags (my usual practice, which I did in Chicago). Then, I headed into the city and tried to remember my way. I was quickly lost; like any tourist, I was looking at my phone all the time. I managed to change a two-block walk into four, but I started to remember the places and purchases from last time. I located the New Orleans Cooking School and soon chatted with the gal running their store, Kathern. She wrote all my cooking school reservations on a legal pad and gave them to me. I was asked to return before the class time.

I walked through the area and took Kathern’s suggestion to try Napoleon’s for a light meal. I met Chris who was in line before me. We chatted, and he said he daydreamed about the gumbo here when not in NOLA. Like me, he is a single traveler and picks hotels with balconies. I got a bar seat between people and soon had a ginger ale (booze was out as I was sleepless in NOLA) and a nice bowl of gumbo. There was no spice, and I thought the flavor was flat. I am still fighting to get my tastes to work after the surgery and side effects; it might have been great, but it did taste complex. I saw Chris and the gentleman in a Saints Jersey (he told me they were headed to the game), both with gumbo and using a lot of hot sauce, but a gal had an excellent muffuletta salad. Something for another lunch, I think. This is a deconstruction of the sandwich with the same name. With food and something bubbly inside of me, I was feeling better.

The foot traffic was higher, and Bourbon Street was starting to swing already; it was just past noon, with the orange of the Colts and the whitish gold of the Saints starting to fill the sidewalks and streets (you may walk on Bourbon Street with only an occasional car driving through). I walked back to my hotel, mainly to figure out where it was relative to the other places. I did not walk an efficient route and had to look at my phone a few times. I am back and sit in a chair in the lobby. It is a mess of late check-outs. I nod off a few times. I call and text some folks and step outside by the pool. It is warm outside with the sun and no wind.

With the likelihood of early access to a room and a nap vanishing, I walk some more and will reach over 14,000 steps for Thursday. I found the mask shop and the used bookstore (with expensive options available), which I enjoyed on my last trip. I discovered I missed the shop where they make the gas lights, and Jeb is there making lamps by folding and riveting pure Michigan copper sheets. There are pews to sit on and watch, and Jeb likes to talk while he works. Excellent, and I ask him many questions as this fits my writing for Holmes and Watson and role-playing games (some set in the late 1800s). Jeb could not answer who supplies the copper, and I wondered what copper place was still open in Micigan’s upper peninsula. This suggests there is one reason to head north on one of my trips to see family. I have not been to the Whitefish area. Hmmm.

I find more coffee and a croissant. I wander more.

Now, at 3:45, I am back at the hotel, Cheatu Le Moyne, hoping the usual 4-ish release for my room will happen. Nope. Another walk. Bourbon Street is now starting to be loud, and there is music. The typical cover is a drink; my sleep-deprived self cannot afford that indulgence, and walking feels good. I found the European Jazz Club, a favorite and the secret home of the vampire bar Potions, and returned to my reportedly haunted hotel. On the way, I saw Chris again. He had just learned his room at another hotel was now ready (they call you), and thus, I realized I was not the only person facing this challenge. Chris is excited as it appears he was upgraded to a balcony and hurries off.

But my room was not ready, which consternated the staff. Soon, though not reported to me, it was revealed that the room was ready and maybe the computer was wrong. I was supplied with a keycard, and my bags were retrieved and handed to me. I took the elevator to the second floor. I have a lovely room; all is forgiven, and the balcony is on the street and wraps around the room. Excellent. It is loud. I love it.

By the way, my room is NOT in the haunted section. I have read about some seriously unpleasant stuff in the other section. Happy here!

I chatted on the phone with Deborah as I unpacked. My suit is folded into my amazing (and expensive) bag, and it is best to hang everything up and put it in drawers. I will be here for a week. I finally have my shoes off and lie down for twenty minutes.

Off with a sweater over a T-shirt for the cooking class (it is cooling off). Jambalaya is dropped in error from the menu (f**k), and I now have two gumbo classes; c’est la vie. Our chef, Maria, tells us her Katrina’s story and how she got into teaching cooking as a Katrina refugee in California. After living on the West Coast for years, she went to homes and taught cooking. She returned to NOLA, missing it and feeling the call to return to her hometown, and started teaching and cooking in NOLA.

There were a few f**k-ups, and as I said, Jambalaya (my reason for booking on Thursday) was dropped for gumbo. I have a cooking surface for myself (explaining the high price), and most share three on a surface. We used induction surfaces, and the surface stops working if you lift a pan or move one off the burner. I managed to crash mine three times due to Maria’s frustration (not so much with me, as this just throws off her game as she has to help me often–their surfaces are not the best for a cooking class, and others are also challenged). I also grab the wrong spices and end up with a more Italian-styled gumbo, which, to our surprise, is quite good. I tried someone else’s version and could barely taste it after the burning hot spices. They liked it. I am feeling quite stressed and not enjoying this, but I am tired. We eat the food we cook, and I feel better. I have a second bowl. Still good. The wine helps (as I am not driving, I have three glasses).

Maria is visibly stressed as the f**k ups, not us, but the setup and menu was changed. We cook shrimp and de-head, peel, and devein our shrimp. We cook the heads in butter and squish them to exact the shrimpy goodness. Heads, peels, and so on are discarded. I add seasoning and cook the shrimp. Grits were started before, and now we add butter and cheese; don’t stir much (Maria warns us that stirring grits makes them glue).

I arrange the shrimp over the cheesy grits and pour some sauce on top. The rosemary seems more like pine needles, but the flavor is good. Maria’s assistant suggested I cook the sauce longer next time. I am unsure, but it was still excellent, and the shrimp were not overcooked. The grits were terrific.

Banana Foster is next. I am getting my cooking mojo back and enjoying this, and Maria helps others more. My surface crashed without help this time, and Maria got it back online, and we lit off my dessert. I enjoyed it at the table with the crepes I made (I have the pan for this and will have to make them again).

We exchange information, and I head back to find the hotel. The Saints did not win, but Bourbon Street swings and is filled with orange and white gold. Young women folks look great with long legs and low-cut outfits (I am sure the guys are good, too), but I know most will be tossing their cookies soon from too much sugar in their booze. Been here before. While the jazz tempts me, I have had three glasses of wine and no sleep for 40+ hours. I would likely walk into the kitchen and start cooking anyway after a few more drinks! Best to rest!

I shower and find my bed. The noise is horrific, and sleep comes and goes with various sounds. As I wrote above, I close the door and sleep until about 4, then roll over and rest until after 7.

Thanks for reading.