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Tuesday started with Jesse improving, me starting the blog, and me sleeping in until 7ish. I did the usual things in my room at Le Richelieu Hotel, including reading my email (mostly deleting and unsubscribing from various Democrat candidates who must have gotten my email from the bleeding-heart liberal list of supporters; I do qualify, but now that I am not working, I am more careful with my spending. I made in-room coffee and missed waking up with Deborah and bringing her coffee in bed. She would wake before me and play word games until I finally woke up; then I would make the coffee and bring it to her. Instead, I make coffee for one here in New Orleans’ French Quarter, read email (as I said, mostly deleting), update Quicken transactions downloaded from my various accounts, and read the news from the NY Times and Semafor.

Aside: For those who believe what Trump says about the NY Times, I read it not for the political stuff (though I like it), but more for their reviews and stories. The writing is well edited, and stories are delivered in ways that make you want to keep reading. Every day, the NY Times is a study in how to write. I believe in the saying “steel cuts steel”; to be the best, you must experience the best and try to reach its level. Imitate the best, learn it, own it, make it your own.

Linda (my sister) and Jesse (her husband) contact me; they check out, and we walk to Envie for breakfast. Jesse is smiling again, but ready to head home. Jesse was sick from the food yesterday and has made a recovery after a terrible afternoon and evening. He suggests it was the vampires. He did not sparkle or catch fire in the morning light, so he seemed recovered.

I had the traditional breakfast with bacon and grits. Linda and Jesse found their favorites, and we were soon happy to drink coffee and eat again.  An Uber was ordered, and soon Linda and Jesse were off in a black SUV that any mob or ICE person would be proud to use to the airport. They would return home on a direct flight to Detroit, with no recurrence of Vampire-caused illness.

I had a demo class at the New Orleans School of Cooking on the other side of the Quarter at 10:30, and there is a coffee place around the corner (not that I have been here enough to know all this). I got a Londo Fog for too much and drank it slowly while I wrote the blog. I had just about finished when my phone rang. My class was starting early–oops–and I walked around the corner and was the last person. I missed the intros, but not much more.

Chef Dianne was cooking and had a few items started so we could finish and eat before 12:30. I was sitting next to some folks from Wisconsin, but they were none too friendly, and I think I annoyed them more by sharing their table. C’est la vie.

I watched, listened, and asked a question or two. I timed the rice for the chef for the jambalaya, and like every time I’ve made it, it took twice as long to cook as the recipe said. I felt better about that! Once again, I envied the induction stove for keeping the heat steady while I made the roux. My electric stove is old-school and pulses heat, which can make this exciting–and not in a good way. Sigh.

The gumbo without seafood was excellent. One of the Wisconsin people started to talk to me; she is a retired cook and smiled. Better. The jambalaya was not spicy enough, but the rice was perfect, and there were plenty of spices ready to fix ‘r up. The Banana Foster was too small a portion, but excellent and flamed, of course. The pralines were nothing I liked, but there was too much sugar by that point after the banana stuff.

With that done, I walked the ten blocks to the hotel in increasing heat. I had published the blog, returning to the coffee place for a few minutes to finish up. It was hot, and it was heading into another 91ºF (32ºC) day. I dropped off the laptop, got a bottle of water (another one; I drank one as I got to the hotel), wrote down my plans in a small notebook, and headed out. I ordered an Uber to Metairie Cemetery.

The driver was surprised, I could tell, as he does not get many trips there. This is not one of the tourist stops and not near the Quarter or other well-visited areas. I wrote down the names and locations (but I found that the cemetery, like many, does not have signs for sections) for the driver.

I found Anne Rice, of vampire fame, not far from the entrance in a newest but old-style above-ground mausoleum. My driver said it was a rich person’s cemetery and was not covered with Katrina. He was here for that and lives not far from there. He remembers the lesser cemetary nearby was flooded and the caskets poping out of the ground and floated. He said it was unreal to see caskets all over the area.

I wanted to end my American Civil War odyssey with General Hood. His remains were there in an above-ground traditional New Orleans tomb. I walked and walked. I went to the pictures in Find-A-Grave and noticed a tall statue on a base and soon spotted it. Then I spotted the monument to Louisiana Confederate Troops. On the other side was a small, older tomb with a few flags, and someone left a boot with a sock (Gen. Hood lost a leg in the war and was strapped to his saddle when riding). It was a very plain tomb with a vase with ‘HOOD’ carved in stone in front, with a few rebel flags. It was his wife’s family tomb. He died bankrupt when Yellow Fever shut down the local stock market and then died from the same scourge. He lost his wife and a child before succumbing himself. A sad story. His nine remaining orphaned children were then adopted by nine different families.

Still, it felt like I had completed my ACW tour now. The battlefield, and now the grave of the man who defined, though bloody, the last action for the Confederacy. Here, within sight of a monument to the men he expended and failed.

With that done, I had to find my way back, as I had come by a meandering trail. I found a straighter way out when I heard the highway next to the graveyard (and was careful to locate it, since my hearing is only on one side). I passed Anne Rice again and then called an Uber that, for another $30, would get me back. It was slightly cheaper to get here. Hmmm.

Back at the hotel and calling Deborah, I am ready for a nap. All the granite in the graveyard was radiating extra heat. It is not a place to go on a hot, sunny day!

But housekeeping is running late, offers to get the room in shape, and I head out instead. I walk to Frenchman Street without my hat, and I soon was missing it. The Spotted Cat was open and the band had just ended a set. I got a Sazerac in a plastic cup and nursed that through the set. They were lead by a trumpet player and he was loud and fun. The music was wonderful and I was feeling better.

Aside: The streets in the Quarter are lined with stone or newer concrete. But Frenchman Street had a different look; there was even a tiny plaque for the steel-and-cement curbs from more than a century ago.

I was next to some women and we chatted between sets. They knew jazz and was enjoying all the bands. The next set, and a Gin and Tonic, was my next choice. After that set I headed to a local Italian place.

This was the kind of place for high-spending folks and I just wanted good food. I had OK food. I’m sure Olive Garden could have done as well or better. And the price tag there could have been a few meals at OG with friends. But the coffee and dessert was great. Their bread was fantastic too.

Next, I walked back into the Jackson Square area, but the carts were gone. I saw they were now used for Ghost stories, which I would have needed to book in advance. Hmmm. Instead, I walked to Napoleon House and had Primm’s cup. It was excellent, and unlike anything I’d had before there. Refreshing. I remembered Dondrea had one and thought it excellent when we were here together last time.

After that, I walked back to the hotel, enjoying the streets. I stopped to look at a corner building, heard a voice say, “You all come this way,” was startled, and realized I had stumbled into a tour. I smiled and left. “You never know which buildings are haunted here,” he said, smiling.

Back at the hotel, I said good night to Deborah on a call and then read. I packed almost everything amazed it all fit. I double-checked that I had not missed anything. I then tried to sleep. I woke up uncomfortable at 1 but managed to sleep again.

Thanks for reading!

 

While I walk here, I can feel a small caress on my shoulder or a polite poke on the street. It seems the spirits of NOLA remember me and welcome me. I can almost hear the “good morning/evening” from the streets as I walk them this morning alone. I am not alone in my thoughts. It must be why I like it here. Even the spirits smile. Or it is the booze, but I think not.

The morning started with me up early-ish to write the blog and start my day. Today I have only Preservation Hall at 5 for the three of us. Jesse is looking a bit worn after five or more bars and as many places to eat (some overlapping) yesterday. Sadly, Jesse will be taken by the food demon, and Linda will stay with him, missing a good show at Preservation Hall. This is back to the original location, now updated with an expensive bar, but the best Sazerac I have had so far. The day ends with Linda ordering two pizzas (buy-1-get-1-free) and a salad. Though a person ordering from Michigan a salad after their salad crisis was a surprise to me. I took a break from endless booze and music too and read my new book on my Kindle app until I heard that Jesse was improving and then went to bed and slept well.

We started with breakfast at Toast of Decatur Street. I had the ratulli omelet, sticking to some cooked veggies and protein, except for the grits. Linda and Jesse split three breakfasts between them. They wanted to try about everything, but did pass on the King Cake stuffed French-style toast with Madi Grasse sprinkles. I saw one delivered. It looks as described, wow!

This lots of breakfast in us (unfortunately for Jesse, as it would return unbidden soon), we walked lots of blocks to the other side of the Quarter to the Vampire Café, and there Linda had a blood bag (juice), and Jesse a soda (he was already pale), and I a wicked O+ (my blood type, A+, is a too-sweet drink; A+ is sweet): Mezcal Tequila margarita with jalapeno. Smoky and burning. We were bitten (given a sticker of bite marks to put on your neck, and given a pass to Potions above Fritzel’s, but we would not make it).

Jesse and I went to the other Vampire place, The Vampire Apothecary, and I had some food, as I was left a bit uneven after crossing blood types. Linda stayed at a pleasant Voodoo place and had her cards read. Linda stayed with me for a short walk in the Quarter; Jesse headed back, and Linda headed back and invested the afternoon in caring for Jesse, who later claimed he was possessed by a lower demon, very low, and was ill until the late evening. He mostly recovered on Tuesday, and they took their plane that morning.

With a few hours free until the show, Fritzel’s European Jazz Club was wonderfully AC’d, and the music was good. I was almost alone on my side, as Monday afternoons are not big days here in the Big Easy. I talked to some young men who were enjoying the show and shared my bench. The band playing was confused as it added various folks to the lineup and seemed to be switching music at the last minute. One comment: “We are working out the keys, so we will suck less.” It was excellent, and the tryouts were good. To me, it was fun to be part of the workings of New Orleans bands, even as just an audience member. I could see they started out slow and careful, then let the music find its groove and rip. Excellent.

Preservation Hall opened, and I switched to their bar and had more food: ham and pimento cheese with toasted bread. That was perfect with the almost sweet Sazerac–again, the best so far on the trip. I found my seat; being almost the last person in the front row, I got the bench on the side, but the band plays into the crowd, and the trombone reached in front of me. A bit close. I liked the bench. I told the staff I had two unused seats in front and asked them to give them away. Two people from the UK, one of whom did not have a seat, got Jesse’s seat, and his wife got the upgrade to Linda’s seat, a perfect ending.

(From earlier in Fritzel’s)

The music was loud and fun, and I did not know any of it. I have nodded off in a more technical concert a few years ago. The singing was fun, and it was all fast-moving or lovely.

And with that, I have made a full circle of the day. I have left out meeting some folks at the hotel, and the tiny Chevy sounding like a huge truck (why?), and police raiding the building across the street from the hotel, but all of this is the spice of New Orleans, and like the gumbo, you have to taste it to get it.

Thanks for reading.

We ended Sunday listening to a woman sing ballads, with too much drum and plenty of keyboard, at the BMC around the corner from our hotel. My watch warned me it was too loud — something that would happen all night — and with her last notes (with a musical kufuffle as the song tried to end a few times, but one of the players just went on), we left, and Linda (my sister), Jesse (her husband), and I returned to the hotel. There, just before Sunday ended, I climbed into bed with music, food, and my room over-AC’d, and it all sent me to sleep.

Before that, we stopped at various places for music and more food on Frenchman’s Street outside the Quarter. While it showed many signs of too many tourists, the giggles of screaming girls (my plural invention) and gangs of guys expensively dressed do not migrate to this street. The music ranged from their own concoction of jazz, like we heard at the only show we bought at Snug Harbor, Kim Prevost & Bill Solley with Amina Figerova, to old rock and hilly-billy rock at another Bamboula’s, to screaming mixes of all at 30°90°.

(BMC still in Quarter but on the line)

(30°90° on Frenchman Street)

(Snug Harbor, a pre-purchased ticket, but grab a seat fast as those are up for grabs)

(Bamboula bouncing non-stop energy)

At Snug Harbor, there is always a mad dash for seats. You line up before the doors open and get what you get. I snagged the last two good seats, and Linda and Jesse found a good view behind me. The tables are in twos, and I gave the spare (Linda and Jesse together) to a local, Rebecca, and we enjoyed the show together.

30°90° starts with the last set of a slow, familiar mix of old rock and rockabilly. I get appetizers, and the bartender tells me, “Best of luck; it is a new menu,” and he has no idea what is good. Bartenders are very honest here when it is about the food (they want that tip). Linda and Jesse find me; I send out my location, and they find me, but walk past, and I and the security welcome them back (Security love to do something besides sit there and nod people in, sometimes checking IDs, but the early people like me have mostly grey hair and are “looking through windows,” as the song says. We then enjoy Frenchman Street.

I also purchased from the bookstore; theme of the day for me. This was my third bookstore, the Frenchman Bookstore. There, you must use hand sanitizer before touching a book. If you take a photo of a book to order elsewhere, they charge $1. Seriously. I found a copy of a book I almost bought earlier, but this one is signed. I missed the signing yesterday here. I also got a book recommended by a local author on above-ground local burial processes here, written, it says, with scholarship by a tour guide who became curious whether the “facts” they were using on the tours were real. This book is to set the record straight and, according to the author, is a manual for those who, excuse this, want to dig deeper into the subject (you do not dig here, of course).

Before our cooler night travels, we were baked on the Quarter’s streets. We took an Uber to Arnaud’s for brunch, with me slipping in for breakfast at Envie, a few blocks away, before sharing that with Linda and Jeese the 1/2 I brought back. Breakfast at Envie was nice: coffee, grits (I ate all of that), too much omelet, and a biscuit I saved (and took to Linda and Jesse). There are better, more local foods, but nothing closer or easier.

Back at Arnaud’s, I wore a tie, sweater, dress shirt, and dress shoes. Jesse wore a collared shirt (the requirement), and Linda dressed up but comfortably. The food and old-school setting were fun. The food was perfect, and we had a server, a waiter, and a ‘D,’ as shown on his name tag. I had veal with Linda, and Jesse tried versions of crab (Arnaud’s locally sourced crab cakes are known as the best). Linda and I got to watch our server burn up some rum for Banana Foster.

We split up after brunch, and I found books at Crescent and Beckham and paid $10 for shipping on some excellent finds. Jeffery at Crescent remembered me, and we chatted for a while, and he was happy to ship for me. Beckham didn’t remember me, but we still enjoyed a chat while I shipped my books. I stopped by the New Orleans School of Cooking for a spice for Dondrea (the black lid version). Linda, Jesse, and I met after they finished their carriage tour. Linda was overheating, and we got back to the hotel via a more direct route. Naps followed.

That covers yesterday.

I talked to Deborah all through the day. It was a quiet day for her, and it was good to share a bit of NOLA with her. I missed her with the music; we danced in Iceland to oldie rock. I also connected with Dondrea a few times, as the church started the Revival today (planned after my plans for this trip, so I missed the start). Pastor Ken was out due to family matters, and Dondrea found herself serving as organizer and preacher for the Revival Kick-off.

I found General Hood’s burial place, the same Confederate General as Franklin. I will try to get out there to complete the circle of this trip. Thanks for reading!

Every time I start here, I imagine renting a room for the winter and just staying here. It is hot, and there are tourists in the summer, even in September, but the town already seems forlorn without the crowds. Weekends are still packed, from what I can tell from trying to get a hotel room for Friday night at the last minute. But I could imagine investing my winter evenings here with overpriced Diet Cokes at Fritzel’s European Jazz Club and other venues every night. I would earn interest from those nights in story writing from the Jazz. Maybe dinner out once a night and other nights simple fare: toast with peanut butter or cheese sandwiches. I would walk the town during the day, find places to write and daydream.

But that describes anywhere I go, and I find myself in Michigan most often to see my love, Deborah. Deborah and I also spent four weeks together in California this year while she attended work conferences. That was grand too. Always stopping at one point in our trip in California for drinks on the Queen Mary. And we got to share Chicago again with Jeanne this summer. Anywhere it is better, like Mary Poppins, with Deborah.

I woke at 7, not 6 (I did not sleep until after 1, after closing the Jazz club at 12:30). I find waking up in yet another hotel always a surprising experience. I think, “Where am I, and where is everything in this room?” Soon I find my way and write the blog, at first at the little desk, pack more, dress more, and close my excellent bags once again, proving why they were so expensive: abusable luggage. Packed, I roll my bags to the lobby, check out, and eat the supplied breakfast. I complete the blog and all the usual checks, read the email, get depressed with the latest I-must-be-the-news actions from the President, and order an Uber.

Standing in the heat, I wait. An NOLA police officer is there and talks to people who appear to be hanging out, and I let her know I am waiting for an Uber. She smiles and says thank you. She moves on. My Uber arrives and makes the small trip to Le Richelieu Hotel near the edge of the Quarter on the other side. Tyler, who I met on my first visit, is now the General Manager and is running the desk, as he is short-staffed today, and he put my bags in storage until my room is ready.

Linda and Jesse appeared in less than thirty minutes. We had been texting all morning while they traveled to NOLA. They put their bags in storage too, and off we headed. Napoleon House is my target for lunch. The gumbo was a bit flat, I thought, and I regret not getting the sandwich; their Muffuletta is excellent with a quarter-pound of ham. We had some starters, and it was a lot of food.

We walked to a few shops, always walking through the lighting shop to see what has changed–almost everything– since my last visit. Our first visit to Fretzel’s was at 1ish, with the band finally starting at 1:20. We did the full set, and they took my request for St. James Infirmary Blues (I said St. John’s, which confused them, but they figured it out). It was wonderful to hear it again, and the band passed it around and sang the traditional version known as ‘A,’ I later learned. Though they mixed it with Minnie the Moucher instead of the usual “let her go.”

It was hot, and we had walked a lot. We then, leaving Bourbon Street behind, returned to the hotel. Naps happened. At 6ish, I walked after a shower, talked to Deborah for a while, and found the local stores. Now a collection (coven?) of witch and magick stores. I found a gift for Dondrea: magic bay leaves to cast spells to win in court. Linda and Jesse found me; I had given my location.

Coop’s Place is run-down and grumpy. The food is amazing. I had an excellent gumbo with okra and spicy local sausage. Their jambalaya is smoky, and the meat includes rabbit. The fried chicken, not as spicy, is perfect.

Next, we headed to the Séance Room at Muriel’s. I told the hostess we wanted to see the ghost rooms, and I apologized for wearing T-shirts. “No matter, the ghosts do not care,” she said with a smile, and then directed us to the door and bar. I order a Sazerac with Linda and Jesse finding what they want, and then we take the unmarked door to the ghost area.

It is decorated in red and a mix of over-the-top antiques and lighted items to create the mood of a séance. This is my second time here, and I enjoy my boozy drink and tell the story of the suicide of the former owner. A table is set and cleared every day for the ghosts, with a glass of wine set out. This stops, I was told, the plates and glasses from breaking when they unexpectedly fall off the shelves. True or not, it is always interesting to see the table set.

A manager pointed out that the balcony was open and we finished our drinks there, listening to music played in Jackson Square (or about there). The night was cool with a breeze.

Next, we headed to the busy Fritzel, using other streets until we were near their corner to avoid the crowds on Bourbon Street. There is a line with many birthday groups. I politely smiled and waited. I watched the staff physically remind some young people that this is a line and that I was in the front; they cannot just push their way in front of me. I smiled and bought a drink standing. This makes me, an apparently pleasant visitor who follows the rules, the next person to sit.

No choices this time, and lots of their version of Happy Birthday. The music is loud and fun, and we stay for the next set. Linda and Jesse, seated in the back, find seats next to me when the crowd leaves as the set ends. That is the best plan at Fritzel: be there at the end of a set.

With that done, we walk back, and soon I am in bed, asleep in another hotel. I know this one better, but it’s a smaller room, and I miss my separate bedroom and balcony; still, it’s nice and familiar. It was also a lot cheaper this time!

Thanks for reading.

Yup, Friday sucked and then was amazing.

First, I am not in Alabama as I planned for this Saturday morning; instead, I flew to New Orleans and closed Fritzel’s European Jazz Club last night (12:30, not 2, as some of you think). Yes, I flew, buying tickets hours before my flight. I flew 90 minutes to Atlanta, had a longer layover than the flight, and then flew the other way for 90 minutes to reach New Orleans (NOLA)- Delta logic, but it worked. I ate lunch in one time zone, dinner in another, and back again to the same one in NOLA. But, dear reader, you are thinking, “Why?”

I rose at 6, and it did not feel awful early. I finished packing and rolled my bags down to breakfast at the Hampton Inn (I have given up on IHGs and am sticking with Hilton Hampton Inns when I can; so much better). I had their industrial breakfast and was happy to get a banana. I checked out and wrote the blog. My bus was at 10 and had already been moved from 9 to 10. Ugh!

I got there around 9 by taking a short Uber ride, and decided it was a good call. It was a longer walk than I thought, slightly uphill, and an industrial area slowly being replaced with expensive apartments. The place was as expected: a bit run-down, with most seats taken by people waiting to connect to their bus. I learned most had been there since 5 or so in the morning. I talked to the security guy and learned that my bus would be called. I noticed he was armed. This is not the Pacific Northwest. The crowd was folks with limited means, and some were troubled by the limited complexity of bus passage. The security guy handled it well, along with the limited Greyhound staff.

I learned that they had no terminals, phones, or access to any information on the bus. Our apps were our best chance for information, and the staff and security guard learned from customers that buses were late and why. Hmmm.

I soon learned the truth: there was no help here. This was a storage bin for people until something finally worked or people gave up and left. The only food came from vending machines with small bags of chips for $3, available only by credit card (most of this group didn’t have one). I later ate the chicken salad and crackers I carried during my stay in bus-hell. At 1, I began to believe that the two-hour delay was just a corporate game. Buses are never canceled; they just do not show, was my guess. I finally found a help number by searching their website and finally found a helpdesk number in their agreement of service. I called, and a woman soon strongly suggested I rebook for tomorrow, as the 6:30 time was uncertain. I agreed, did it myself online, and soon regretted it. 2:45AM Saturday, with a 5-ish arrival in Birmingham, just in time to get breakfast, shower, and check back out of my hotel.

A woman, stranded since 5, asked me for help. I tried to help by pulling up her information on my laptop, but she has a ticket with transfers. Nothing I could help with. I gave her a writing pad and pen, and she called the help desk. It went poorly. She can get the 2:45 or wait for the unlikely late bus, but there was no connection for her. She could not get home. Her family would have to drive out and rescue her once she reached Birmingham. I felt terrible for her and gave her $20 in cash for food. She thanked me. I felt terrible to leave these folks to the whims of an uncarry Greyhound.

I then went to Delta; Deborah was on the phone with me and texting me with flight and rental car options. There was no reason to head to Birmingham this late just to hopefully connect with Amtrak. I scheduled an expensive but not stupidly expensive flight to New Orleans (to make up for the really cheap flights I’d taken before). Today or Saturday was the same price, and there were seats left on today’s flights. Done. I had three hours.

I walked out, and a taxi was waiting for bus folks. He was thrilled to get an airport trip. We chatted while I canceled Amtrak ($40 of $45 back), Greyhound ($0, since I had rebooked, but at first they said $32; maybe it will show), and the hotel in Birmingham connected me with the manager, who forgave me the cost. Hilton again; I love those guys.

The taxi guy charged me $40 plus an $8 tip for the trip, the usual. I later noticed that I paid him, not the taxi company. I do not blame him.

I soon found myself at Delta, and for the first time, I had to check in and print my bag tags at the same time. Next, I checked in on the app and selected one bag. I could then do the bag drop, but nothing was working. I went to the desk and learned that all the machines were out of label paper, but the agent soon had everything in hand.

I had two hours and soon enjoyed security and chatting at a bar with BBQ and a pig on their sign. Sticking with the pig signs. The gentleman, his name now forgotten, was an underwater photographer and video guy for a large company. He runs drones and even ROVs to look for wrecks, dead people, and other lost things. He uses an ROV that can go to 1,000 feet, and that works for most things, I learned. He used to be a police diver. He showed me recent pictures of dolphins swimming while he tested some US Navy ROVs. I have his pen (with his information) in my bag (I am writing this in the lobby with breakfast), with his name on it.

After the interesting chat about shipwrecks and more gruesome finds, one I had read about and that he had located, he told me I got to my gate. I misbooked my hotel (they fixed it when I called; always use the Hilton website and have a membership) and waited for them to call my plane.

I had an aisle seat, and it was 90 mins. I watched a cooking show. The plane landed before the baking on the show was done.

In Atlanta, I walked the whole way, forgoing the train, and found a sandwich; I’m not sure if it was lunch, dinner, or extra. But I know it is always good to eat when you see it while traveling, since you never know what will happen. The place is a short walk from my gate. The staff was overwhelmed, but had that usual blank look of folks who have seen crowds come and go. This is Host Company-operated (once part of Marriott), and I knew my best option. When the waiter came to me, I ordered everything and paid early so there was no problem for them. My club sandwich was OK, but the fries were mushy because they were undercooked and rushed out. And I should not eat them anyway.

The 737 had no entertainment system, and I was in the front row of comfort, earning an upgrade for all the $$ I spent. There was endless legroom, but it was only a 90-minute trip, so not much time to enjoy it. No cooking show this time; I quickly downloaded a book on Kindle for $2.99 and loved it. An Accidental Alchemist is set in the Portland of twenty years ago, the one I started with, and it is a fun first-person magic fantasy. I laughed as I read, finally relaxing after this morning’s mess. I had coffee with a cookie.

The rest is the usual unload, find-your-bag, and get-a-taxi process. It was nice to be back and I am famialir with everything. I think this is my fourth trip to NOLA.

My hotel isn’t in the French Quarter unless you have a very liberal view of its size. It is north of Rampart and on Canal Street, the two boundaries of the French Quarter on this side. But still, they were happy to have me, and I soon was in a room and unpacked a tiny bit (it is a one-night stay). I then headed out and went twice the wrong way to the Quarter. But that is what iPhones are for. I soon turned around (twice) and found Bourbon Street. Fritzel’s European Jazz Club is all the way on the other side.

The crowd was young and multicultural, and, as I have noticed in Nashville, sort of lost, wandering the area. I was headed to Jazz, and it was almost forty minutes before I got to my target. It was half empty, and I was there for the last set. I found a seat and became one with NOLA again. I had the required drink for a set, a Stella, as the beer doesn’t get me drunk fast or cause leg cramps later.

The music and some of the players were familiar. I closed the place at 12:30 and will be back.

I walked back; the thugs were not out yet, and I arrived safely. Tired, it was a lot of steps for a hotel “in” the Quarter. It was hard to sleep with all that Jazz and Blues in my head. I had called Dondrea to wish her a happy birthday from Bourbon Street and sent her a short of the band for her to remember. She loved Fritzel’s.

I slept, and 7 came too soon.

Thanks for reading!