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Back to normal days. It is now 46 days since being diagnosed with a brain tumor, another Monday.

I rise with only five hours of sleep but still wake before my alarm and feel rested. I have changed my order of doing things and now just dress in the morning. I make a NYC bagel (thanks, Joyce) with cream cheese and liberal fair trade coffee in my French Press. I did not have time to finish the blog and headed to work. I had started it on Sunday, but as it was a travel day, I could not find a moment to complete it.

I boarded Air Volvo and headed to the Swift at Nike, Inc. WHQ in light traffic. I arrived at work and did the usual meetings. Folks were happy to see me back, and I felt a bit lighter after the week away.

I had to leave early and head to my Ears, Nose, and Throat (E.N.T.) surgeon, and he went over what needed to be done to remove the tumor. My hearing will be lost, and my balance center on the left side will also be lost by the surgery. The tumor is too large to allow for my hearing and balance on the left side to be saved. I was disappointed. The surgery is quite intense. I was given a paper on everything that could go wrong; it was pretty frightening.

Sometime this week, I will finish the process of being qualified for the surgery. I learned that the surgery date will likely be in April or later. The recovery is long, being six weeks on average, and two months not unusual. The doctor believes my balance and hearing are already lost on the left side and that my right side has already taken over. He thinks I will not have a balance or dizziness after the surgery. I have all the risks of brain surgery, and waiting is likely to not delay the need for surgery and may make my symptoms worse. It is essential to get this over.

I was depressed and unhappy and still had to accept this new voyage I had to make. It is hard. I cried.

I will do it, and my friends will help me. But it is difficult to accept.

I read the papers while eating Chinese-style food at Happy Panda- comfort food. I had the orange chicken, soup, and hot tea. I felt a bit better.

I told my boss, Brad, the story and what it meant–he tried to be supportive, but I could tell he was disturbed by the losses and risks. It is a harsh reality to face. We are both looking for dates to begin the paperwork and planning.

I did one more meeting and then headed home. The accumulated mail was to be delivered today. I needed some prescriptions, and I had some packages coming. I was also shell-shocked.

The mail had just been delivered, and I went through it. I found many 2023 tax papers, my prescriptions, and some packages. Everything was there that I expected. The Kramer’s gift coffee had arrived (thanks, Natasha and Jason), rules for WW1 naval battles with miniatures, 1/6000 WW1 miniatures, and the chrome pen I need to work on some Scythe figures.

I rested briefly and then made dinner: angel hair pasta with sauce from a jar and ground beef. It was a bit plain, but it still helped. Cooking dinner makes you feel like you have some control back. I then finished the Sunday blog.

And that takes me to writing this Monday’s story.

I am feeling better and feel like I have been pushed off again into a river on a raft. Again, it is not a trip I would be willing to take, but one I must. I can hear Susie’s voice saying, “Are you OK?” I think I am. I am far from my comfort zone, but I have traveled before, and I will adapt.

Thanks for reading.

I finished this on Monday evening. I am home safe and back to work today. This is Sunday’s blog.

I rose at 7ish, trying to decide if I should get up or just sleep. But there are just too many things to do in NOLA to rest. I rose and wrote for two hours, and then I still was not finished with the editing when I passed 9AM and just published. You can edit forever (Dondrea later said the typos were not bad).

I dressed, packed my suit bag, and then carried it to the car. I put on my sweater, as it was still cold, and headed to the French Quarter for a half-day visit. I found Toast, got a seat at the counter, and was welcomed back- I am almost a regular this week. I had the traditional breakfast. Another couple sat next to me, and they saw what I had and ordered one traditional and one catfish. That looked good, too!

Time, as often happens when it is the last day, vanished, and soon I was rushing off to the General Store. They had Cafe Du Monde gift sets that they shipped. So, I came up with a list of addresses that I emailed to myself to send gifts. The beignets are on their way to many, well, beignet box mixes. I sent out six of those and two small king cakes with coffee. I had to write out every address on a paper form, and then they charged me for shipping and the items. The folks at the store were happy to get a mass order.

Next, I went to the tourist shop Jazz Funeral and found some fine Made-in-China NOLA logo items as gifts. Now supplied with gifts and some in flight, I headed out to walk the quarter one more time. It was a warm day. Today was a Mass for the Police, and I saw many of New Orleans’s finest in formal uniforms. The music folks were out, and Jackson Square was full of art, music, and various tarot card readers. I circled the park and enjoyed it. I took a picture of one artist’s website as the art is painted on wood from Katrina. I may order some of that as gifts–I don’t need to carry on painted boards.

I headed to Stanley’s even when I was not that hungry. I was told their gumbo was the best. I got a table after noon passed, the bells sounding wonderful, and I tried it. It was delicious, but no okra, and as good as Coop’s Place. One of the locals was there and said they liked the food. The waiter said it was as good as what you can get in the tourist area, the French Quarter, but it was not spicy and salty like good gumbo. The waiter and I talked about cooking, and she told me how to make gumbo. Start with the trinity (one part white onion, one part green bell pepper, and one part celery), add the meats, and let that good a long while. Add your veggies and spices, authentic version from people who know, and add your seafood (she was not sure oysters should be included, but she knows some folks like it) and then a bit of Old Bay (East Coast) or Crab Boil (Gulf Coast and her choice, but acknowledged it was an item of dispute). We talked about cooking while I enjoyed their just OK food (I liked it).

She wished me well, and I headed back, walking slowly one more time the seven blocks back to Le Richelieu. I packed the rest of my items, splitting my books between my suit bag and roller bag. I loaded them into the purple Honda CR-V, Air Honda, and walked back in to check out. Eve, who checked me out, opened the gate remotely for me and another car to leave.

I found myself braking a few times and dodging some exciting driving in NOLA, including someone running a light in a three-way intersection at angles (?!). There were panhandlers with cups on sticks at one light. They use them to demand money through your window at the stop light. They left me alone, but they hit up the gal behind me, who looked unhappy when I watched in my mirror. But soon, the light changed, and we both got out of there with some enthusiasm to the dislike of the stick-cup folks.

On the highways, there was a warning that there was traffic, a surprise for a Sunday afternoon, 2:30PM local time. Last night’s protesters from the parade were on the main highway, 10, and blocking, shouting, and waving flags from the vehicles. I was stuck and got about twenty minutes of flag-waving and cheers. I waved hello to them. I am unsure if I agree with their politics, but I believe in non-violent and non-threatening protesting. The People (not citizens, The People) have a right to demand redress from the government. While it was inconvenient, I smiled and waved.

I also got to look at the cemeteries on the roadsides. They are spooky and newer than the one I went to. All are built with above-ground graves.

A police car led the protest, and soon, I was going fast again. The exit for the rental cars was before the airport. I drove and finally circled once to spot the tiny sign for rental car return. I pulled into Avis and returned Air Honda. I pointed out the star break in the windshield, and the brakes were not good. I later got a note that the car was damaged, the windshield, and I would be charged if I had not taken the proper coverage–I bought it. I pulled my bags to the shuttle, which seemed to drive us back to New Orleans; it was a long way.

I found American Airlines and soon printed two bag tags. I got in a long line, but an agent pointed us to the correct line. I was not alone, being in the wrong line. I soon saw my bags coming in at 35 pounds. Yes, it was good. I split up the books and mailed some! And now, down to one carry-on, I headed to security.

I was in the wrong line (that direction thing is still not working for me) and soon was in General, which was moving well. Like many, I had a sweater and coat, which were a bit warm. Soon, I was passed without incident (my pants remained on when in the scanner with no belt or shoes–I try to use colorful underwear on travel days).

I found Emile’s near my distant gate; I walked forever to the last f**king gate again. I ordered a cheeseburger, and it was excellent. I chatted with a gal beside me about labor relations–she works for a labor board. Others were watching the Ravens vs. Chiefs, and there were many cheers.

I had an economy seat, but First Class was sold out, so I flew to Dallas in 8A. The plane was old and uncomfortable. I was wedged into my seat without issue and read my book on my phone using the Kindle app. I had only 47 minutes to make my connection, and I all but leaped from my seat when we deplaned.

Dallas is so big and complex it seems to violate the laws of time and space. I had to take trains to the next terminal. I got off and rushed to find my gate had moved; f**k. Checking, I have to find D4. The last (and I do mean last) gate. I reboard the train and drive for twenty minutes, passing five, yes five, terminal stops to reach D.

D4 is the last gate, and it is a twenty-minute walk. It is the most extended terminal I have walked without gates. Yes, it is like a causeway into the deep reaches of the airport. I see my boarding starting time pass while I rush with my one bag and my coat on. I arrive with many others, out of breath. The flight is delayed; f**k.

An hour late, the plane boards and then sits on the tarmac for another twenty minutes. I am in First Class, and I put my coat in the bin and kept my bag. The plane is an older AirBus, and the seat squeak. It looks worn. It shook and squeaked on take-off–yikes.

I was happy to get a Mexican-style dinner and have coffee to stay awake. The plane engines roar. The AC pumps out heat and then cold, making it very uncomfortable. It is only a three-hour trip, but it is one of the least comfortable planes I have flown. I remove my shoes as the strange air pressure and heat swell my feet.

Finally, I arrive in Portland, and it is 11PM again. I walk about 1/2 a Dallas terminal, the whole length of PDX from C to baggage claim. My bags are tagged to be delivered early, First Class, and I find them and arrange them to wheel out, and I call the shuttle.

The shuttle arrives, and another family has a mountain of bags and kid equipment. We drive a moment, compared to New Orleans and Dallas, to the lot, and soon Air Volvo responds, and my bags are loaded. I drove across Portland, driving Texas and Louisiana fast, and soon reached the Volvo Cave. I park next to Corwin’s truck.

I unpacked and put all my clothing in the washer and ran it. I gave Corwin his t-shirt, and we picked a spoon holder for the house. I bought a lot for friends. I finally slept at about 1:30AM local time. I slept well and woke before my alarm–the time change worked for me this time.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

I rose a little later, 7AM, and soon wrote for two hours. The discipline of writing the blog has survived the Big Easy, and I invest a few hours every morning in writing. I planned to write more here, but the French Quarter calls, and I could use the walking. My legs are stiff every morning from the multi-miles of walking I do every day here. My back hurts less, and the pain starts after more than three hours of standing and walking. Better.

Don’t blink!

Also, colon issues are not reoccurring. Apparently, NOLA food and drink work for me; it is almost a cure. I will have to return to NOLA for more cures! My breathing has also been fine, with just some coughing in the morning. I have used my inhaler only twice a week! Again, I may need more NOLA.

While I wrote, Linda and Jesse (my sister and her husband) rose and headed to Toast for breakfast. I saw their text after I finished editing and publishing. I dressed and headed to them. They were about finished when I arrived but stayed while I had a light breakfast of coffee and some round Swedish pancakes.

Linda and Jesse were headed to the cemetery tour and hop on and off bus. I was walking today. After the repast, we walked to Jackson Square and Linda. After passing on a carriage tour, I found Linda and Jesse in a bike-powered taxi, and they headed off. I did not see them again until they found me at the evening parade.

I planned to just sightsee on foot and see how far I could push myself walking. First, an excellent bookshop. I did head the wrong way once, keeping with my unconscience wish to see everything in the French Quarter. I found Cresent City Books on its corner with Geoff at the counter. I discovered a two-volume publication of selected 1880s and earlier published stories from 1924. I had that and a modern history of the New Orleans red-light district (long gone) shipped to my home.

In a case, it was the famous vampire hunting kit I have seen on the internet for years; wow! I asked and was granted the chance to take a picture. I chatted with Geoff about Portland. He lived there years ago and found he spent his paycheck at Powell’s on books. When he returned to the Big Easy, the folks at Powell’s said they would miss him and his purchases!

I asked for permission to photograph the vampire hunting kit. I have seen it for years on the internet, but I was not expecting it to be in a used book store, even one focusing on fine books and collectible ephemera. I fumbled my Facebook post and suggested I bought the kit; no, just some books. I had to reword the post–embarrassing.

I passed on Absinthe House because every seat at the bar was taken, and the chairs were metal shop chairs. I want some comfort and class. I will go with the fangs, lovely food, comfortable chairs, and excellent service of the vampires who serve Absinthe.

I headed away from the river (North) to areas I had not seen before. I saw Desire, a mid-ranged restaurant, and decided I could not pass something named ‘desire.’ I was directed, as a single, to the bar, and the bartender was surprised to have a customer. I had a beer; no absinthe was available here, and the bartender said the fried oysters with fried and fried were fine. I don’t do raw oysters for all the usual reasons, especially when traveling, where a bad raw oyster can be a disaster.

Refreshed and refueled, I thanked the bartender and left Desire. I headed away from the river (North). I found another witchcraft store, Witch’s Cauldron, with a pointed hat and face bejeweled clerk. I found earrings for Linda and a frig magnet version of the hanged man tarot card, one of the major cards in my reading (reversed). I thought I would get it to remind me of the reading. We discussed the parade, and she was excited about Krewe Du Vieux being up tonight. It is a local favorite. It is adult subject material.

The witch-like clerk sent me to an Italian clothing store, Italy Direct, where I could complete a quest: a tie for New Orleans. I planned to dress in my suit with the gold vest and wanted the tie to match. An expensive tie, but a perfect match was acquired. The store turned away most customers looking for tourist goods while I bought my tie, but it was filled with flashy shoes, expensive wear for the carnival, and a selection of suits and dress shirts. I was intrigued, but I was sure my size was not available. Next time, and a few pounds later, I think.

With my small items, I headed further away from the river. I found an old firehouse for sale as a home for $4.35 million. I posted it on my Facebook account with a “You U Going To Call” comment. I also found suites to rent, which had me wondering about spending a few months here. So far, I have seen only a B&B that costs about $800 for three days, cheaper than Le Richelieu. When I tried to do two weeks, the price exploded to $5K. Hmmm.

I arrived at the edge of the French Quarter and the streetcars. I was tempted to travel further but found a bench in Congo Park instead. This was the park where black slaves were allowed to sing and picnic, and it later became just a meeting area.

Homer Plessy, as in the black lawyer who argued against ‘separate but equal,’ was from New Orleans, and his grave is in the cemetery I toured yesterday. It brings it a bit home to be in the park that was made available for black people enslaved or under Jim Crow. I rested there. I saw a tour guide sitting. He was happy to chat but sad that folks “come on a budget and not on expense reports now,” as he had no customers for his tour. I told him I was doing my best to eat and drink New Orleans back to health. That got a smile. He is seventy and still doing walking tours.

Much of what we call jazz was created here, and many point to Congo Park as the birthplace of that music.

Refreshed, I walked the long walk back to my hotel. It was still too early for some bars to open, but the music was everywhere on the weekend. The crowd was younger and full of energy.

I returned to my room and organized things a bit. Sunday is a travel day, but it is a late travel day. I rested, as it was a long walk, and I found some painkillers.

Linda and Jesse had great food in the Garden District, returned to the hotel, and rested briefly. I dressed for the parade and walked out to find a crowd headed to Marigny, out of the French Quarter. I followed and soon was near the same bookstore and the Spotted Cat I visited before. I decided this works and sent Linda and Jesse a pin of my location.

I found a beer at the chicken place. The beer I ordered was out, so I went with Susie’s favorite, Stella. I managed to spill it on myself–the locals laughed, seeing I was obviously a tourist (who spills beer except a tourist). I brushed off the mess and dried out.

I was standing with a self-described amateur photographer, and we chatted while he took photos. He lives a bohemian lifestyle (his words), using cheap housing, working odd jobs, and trying to sell some pictures. He lived previously in Beruit (an anti-genocide and pro-Palestinian pre-parade protest went by); he shared and said he loved the Palestinian refugees he met there. We then put away world politics as Linda and Jesse appeared, and soon, Krewe Du Vieux had our attention.

How many Jesus’s do you need in New Orleans?

The parade is bawdy and political, primarily local, and directed at the Catholic church. I saw three Jesus and various clerical-dressed marchers with the “church” folks throwing fake 100-dollar bills here and there. I was in the front, having been there for an hour, and my dress was deemed correct, and I was handed many throws, especially by the “church” officials. There were giant organs and various genitalia on display, some whole floats pulled all by donkeys. The crowd press was three deep, and I let Linda take my place about halfway. She scored many throws.

The parade was excellent, if NC-rated, and loved by the crowds. As we headed to a place to sit, we found the Krewe members all over the area still dancing and enjoying the night. My feet were tired, and I had some food. Linda and Jesse were not hungry. After walking many blocks back into the French Quarter, the streets, not closed off, were filled with people. We found the French Market restaurant, and there, waiting for slow service, we shared some boiled shrimp, crayfish (for Linda), corn (excellent), sausage, and one potato (?!). We also got Boudin balls to order. I ate most of the shrimp, and Linda showed a skeptical Jesse and me how to enjoy cooked crayfish. We were unsuccessful in enjoying them as I thought it looked like bait still. I did have a few.

Back to the hotel rooms as Linda and Jesse, who made their flights, had early flights back to Michigan by way of Atlanta. I packed and then went to bed before 11 and managed to get some rest from my walking. I did have to wake at 3ish to get some more painkillers; my right leg was complaining.

And that brings us to the end of Saturday; thanks for reading.

 

 

The last thing I did on Friday, besides walking back to the hotel, was to revisit Fretzel’s European Jazz Club and try to listen to some more jazz. I was seated, but Max, whom I had never met before and soon left, waved me to a better seat beside him. I was given a menu and was required to buy a drink, a beer, which I sipped as I had enough drinks for the night. The music was familiar; one tune was from a Disney film and was a favorite: Down in New Orleans.

The Fritz All-Stars Band was good, and the crowd was noisy. Max left, and the very young folks with lots to drink were yelling to talk to each other. I can still only hear on my right side, and they were on my right side. I suspect they were not as annoying as I thought.

More drinks for the young people, and one tries to spit her cherry stem into my drink. Ick lands on my hand instead. I cover my $10 beer, German, and quite good, so not to be a target. The gal who did that now lays her head on the person beside her.

Soon, the same gal is throwing up, and the drinks go everywhere. I try to ignore this, and the band plays on–like on a famous ocean liner. Soon, I could see the manager telling them to get the drunk girl out of there, and I noticed she was very drunk or very sick or both. The crowd makes way, and soon, with the band playing, the EMT arrives. I am in the way, leave my beer, and walk out, hoping it is just a drunk young girl and not a reaction to what was in the drinks.

I walked back, only going the wrong way once, through loud and drunken Bourbon Street. The crowd was full of Krewe members who were in the parade, and lots of young people dressed in tight outfits were holding, drinking, and running to the next club. This is the weekend crowd.

I return to my hotel, walking seven or so more blocks, and Tyler, the night manager, is at the desk. He arranges a late check-out ($75) for me on Sunday. My flight is at 6 p.m., and I won’t get home until nearly midnight on Sunday.

Before this, I was at the Apothecary having an absinthe-based drink. Another vampire, this one with vangs, is making drinks, and I learn that the vampire bartender is the roommate of my tarot reader. NOLA vampires are a small community. I have the Corpse Revigorator #2, a not-sweet drink, and I like it.

Moving backward, I said good night to Linda (my sister) and her husband Jesse as we returned from dinner at Pierre Maspero’s. They went back to the hotel. Dinner was great. I ordered everything plater again. It was excellent. The food was put together differently than at Coop’s Place, so they are both excellent. Linda had the muffuletta sandwich, a local grinder sandwich with olive salad and pressed, and Jesse had the small platter. I had a mixed drink, which was sweet but named for the voodoo queen. Had to have that after visiting her earlier that day!

Moving back to almost the start of the day, it was wet, and thunder was still heard often. I walked to Toast (I called it French Toast before, but I think it is just “Toast”) and tried the ratatouille on toast with a fried egg. It was not presented well, but it was still good. I sat at the counter and listened to the folks. The waiters were excited as one of them had an invitation to dance in a Madri Gras parade. The breakfast crowd was younger and less hangover than the older folks from earlier this week. It is Friday, and it looks like the crowd has changed.

I finished my repast, and Jesse and Linda found me and joined me at the counter (all the tables and booths were filled). I stayed for a while and then headed out to let them eat. It was damp. I decided the Hop On Hop Off bus was fit for the weather. I could also just look at New Orleans from the dry, or mostly dry, bus. It was $40 plus tax–not a cheap alternative, but still accessible. I texted Linda where I was headed; they were buying stuff and soon would be trying a beignet.

While waiting for the bus, I walked through a fudge shop, found a little mall of shops, and found the public restroom in good repair and clean. I was soon ready for the next adventure. NOLA has the same problem as NYC, with few, if any, public bathrooms in well-traveled areas.

I stayed in the dry part of the bus. The tour leader was on the roof in the wet, and with the wind off the river, the speed of the bus, and the limited cover, it was more a water ride than a bus trip, from what I heard. The tour leader was excellent and explained the history and essential points of interest as we traveled. Much better than I expected. It was warm, too.

I disembarked at stop five and headed to St. Louis Cemetery #1. I had to pay for a tour, $25 plus tax, as all visitors must be escorted to prevent any damage or inappropriate actions in the still-in-use cemetery. A scene filmed in 1968 for Easy Rider had drunken and high people running around and mistreating the place, the oldest in New Orleans of its type. That ended, I was told, open access. This is the classic New Orleans-raised graves city of the dead. It was fascinating and recommended.

I won’t repeat the details here as they are available on a simple Google search, but I did take pictures of Marie Laveau’s grave. She was a famous and powerful voodoo priestess–yes, more voodoo! She was buried as a faithful, practicing Catholic. Nobody saw this as a contradiction in the 1800s. There is a tradition of chalking three Xs on the grave, knocking, and twirling (all three times) to contact her and ask for a boon. I resisted, and touching the grave is forbidden. Our docent also showed us the wrong grave that, for years, was used in error. It has Xs all over it.

The correct grave.

Next, I reboarded the bus and took a tour of the business center and then into the Garden District. No longer in the French Quarter, the houses were nicer on larger lots, and the area was less crowded. Houses sell here in the millions.

I got off at stop 11, while 12 was recommended. I walked three blocks to a place that looked like it served excellent Southern food. “Sorry, we are closed” was not the response I expected. But I was directed to their other place and warned it was a walk. I headed back the way I came, no surprise there, and soon was in the Irish Channel, I think, and found a huge line to a tiny place after walking ten blocks, Turkey and the Wolf. Apparently, it’s a famous place and known to foodie who filled the line. It took nearly an hour to get my food: an excellent ham sandwich, a side of cabbage salad, and fries. All was good, and I ordered extra.

Linda and Jesse were following me now on the bus and soon appeared. The line was gone, and the service was back to normal. The crew looked shell-shocked from the crowd and then the sudden quiet. Also, a car parked near the joint was smashed by a hit-and-run driver while they were buried. This upset the crew and explained the long waits as they had to deal with that too.

I shared my lunch with Linda and Jesse. They thought it, as I did, fantastic. Yes, the foodies were right to search and find this place stashed in a neighborhood in New Orleans. I was there just by luck. I bought the signed copy of the cookbook.

We took the bus back- only five blocks away- instead of my suggestion to walk, which was likely a bad idea, yet another ten blocks to the St. Charles Streetcars. Our bus tour guide, we were riding on the top now that the rain had stopped, was a native and a Krewe member and told us about throwing beads and why the trees and power lines and cables have beads on them. Apparently, the folks on the floats get lots to drink while riding and throwing stuff, and their aim is soon less than perfect. She told us that the trees on the main routes would soon be covered in beads and other throws. It was fascinating. We rode the last bus to near our hotel, which we did not know was the last one (they stopped running around 5ish).

We rested at Le Richelieu until about 7:15 as the Mardi Gras parade tonight started in Marigny at 7. We found the crowds at Royal Street, and the parade arrived at about 7:45, going very slowly. This was the smaller local parade dedicated to the Green Fairy, absinthe. The small floats were about drinking the green liquor and the side effects of the same. Linda managed to snag a few small throws. I was happy to enjoy the parade. I did feel underdressed in my hat and sweater. Most folks were in shiny apparel, often with very little coverage.

We walked through the crowd and watched the parade in reverse. Only once did it become a press.

And that takes me to the start. We found the food place, nearly empty, as the parade was yet to reach the area, and got a table and ordered.

Thanks for reading.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading.