Jour throis...Mercredi gras

            It was only our third day in New Orleans and already we seemed to have misplaced Nick. It was morning when I realized that he had found himself a Mardi Gras boyfriend and a place to stay for the night when he showed up the next morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed, while the rest of us looked like we had just walked out of a crypt. I was up before the rest of the group because, like the geek that I am, nothing gave me more pleasure in the world than when I was taking in a new scene or experience. I think I might have been overdosing on New Orleans a bit. Everything about this city was like a shot in the vain and I was loving every minute of it. Rolling out of bed with a hazy recollection of the night before, I jot down a few of the things I could remember before those things began to slip my mind too and so I would have an accurate time-line of events. Then I woke the rest of the group to get ready for the day ahead of us. Thankfully, we had the good sense to make plans before we went out the day before, because on that gloomy Wednesday morning, we had no sense at all. With reservations made for an afternoon of jazz and lunch cruising down the Mississippi River on the Steamboat Natchez, we decided to skip breakfast for French Market coffee instead. I'm not sure if it was just because of where I was, how I felt or because I was still a bit drunk from the night before, but the coffee I was sipping that morning was one of the most delicious brews I had ever swallowed. With our hands wrapped around the steaming cups we stood by the riverfront waiting for the next streetcar to come rolling down the tracks. After some fifteen minutes of waiting, a beautifully constructed Perley Thomas streetcar, built with the same integrity as the original, overhead electric-powered design from the early 20th century, came crawling along to pick us up. Since we were stationed at the last stop, we had to wait another while for the conductor to readjust for the return to the other end of the tracks. Closing down her instruments of navigation at the front, which was now the back end of the streetcar, she then made her way to the other end to pull down on an apparatus mounted on the roof to collect power, and attached it to the power line hovering above the streetcar. What a process. If we had to wait this long for the trains in New York City, the place would collapse. The locals would go from the speed-walking pace they're all used to, to strait out running everywhere they went and God forbid any tourist get in their way. Climbing into the streetcar, we each slid our one dollar and twenty-five cents into something that looked like an ATM then sat ourselves on the wooden benches by the windows for a full view of the riverfront. Two stops later, about four minutes time, we were at our stop. Are you kidding me? We could have easily walked the distance and been there a half hour ago had I realized the pier was just a few blocks away. What a dope.

            It was quite possible that we were the youngest group to board the Steamboat Natchez. When we walked into the dining room it felt like we on an outing with a group home and for some odd reason, nearly everyone in the room was sitting as far back from the jazz band as they could get. What gives? Were we not aware of something that would happen or were they just being sensitive about loud music? They were definitely in the wrong city at the wrong time if that were the case. I just don't know, but it was odd. With a buffet of the typical New Orleans cusine, we ate our meals while the captain pointed out the landmarks we passed and narrated the history and workings of the ship as we coursed down the Mississippi. From a list of beverages I found sitting on the table in front of me, I happened to notice that the Natchez served a New Orleans favorite called Pimm's cup. Letting myself forget that it was only two in the afternoon, I ordered a cup of this refreshing concoction because I was curious. Originally, this drink was created back in the mid 1800's by a man named James Pimm who offered this gin based drink with other herbs and liquors as an aid to digestion. Today, this tea colored liquor is bottled and often mixed with lemonade, lemon-lime soda and garnished with a cucumber, naming it Pimm's Cup. One sip and I finally found a cocktail that I actually enjoyed the taste of. This could be dangerous.

            After consuming more than was probably necessary, Nick, Renee, Allison and I decided to venture out to explore the ship before the band began to play. While the captain continued his narration, the four of us walked portside along the ship to the hurricane deck located at the front. With dreamy expressions upon our faces we looked beyond the mighty Mississippi to the Seventh and Ninth Wards in the distance where many famous natives and residents such as Fats Domino, John Larroquette and Brian "Baby" Williams lived. We stood there in that state for as long as we could still feel our faces against the whipping cold wind. Having access into the engine room below deck, we got the chance to see the inner workings of how this incredible ship propelled those paddles of white oak through that massive river. It was a little intimidating being so close to these huge beams of steal as they spun around at a pace and strength that could have easily tossed me across the river like a rag doll. So I let the nice machine have its personal space and kept a good distance while I analyzed its naked innards. Stepping out on deck with the steam from the engine room floating into the cool open air, we looked like characters from a Humphrey Bogart movie, just before someone usually gets shot and then thrown overboard. It was one of those moments where man, science and nature came together like a dance, and it could have been a romantic setting for a couple on a getaway, being that we were the only people on that deck. But, we were just silly enough to look like ghostly figures, aimlessly haunting the Natchez instead. Just as the ship was making its equivalent of a three point turn and began its trek back in the other direction, we head upstairs to listen to the Dukes of Dixieland as they played some good ol' jazz until the steamboat cast us back onto dry land.

            After a glass of Pimm's cup in combination with a full stomach and the lull of riding the steamboat, I was beginning to feel like I could've slept the rest of the day away. Although my body wanted one thing, my mind would not have it. There was too much I wanted to do and too much I wanted to see. Sleep was something I would do when I had nothing left to go on. Giving Mississippi mud another try, I grabbed a cup of that chicory-flavored coffee I had the other day and found that the taste was starting to grow on me. It was just the right kick I needed for the trip I wanted to take out to the Garden District before the start of the first Mardi Gras parade since our arrival. My plans were to visit the Lafayette Cemetery, one of the oldest and most famous cemeteries in all of New Orleans and the former home of one of my favorite authors, Anne Rice. Most of Rice's best sellers happened to not only take place in New Orleans, but some of the settings were located and inspired by these two places. I loved the idea of being able step on those grounds and get a full perspective of what it was that inspired her. Since there was time, why waste it? I wasn't expecting anyone to be interested in seeing these things with me, but I extended the invitation to everyone anyway. Andrew couldn't take another minute without at least a nap so he decided to stay behind while the rest of us went ahead with the idea of meeting up later. I could tell that the last thing the rest of the group wanted was another venture out so soon, but they chose to come along anyway. I suppose because they had no idea where anything was or what to even look for in New Orleans, they probably felt they would never have the opportunity to see these things again if they didn't go when I did. It wasn't likely that I would go back once I had already been there, so four of my little ducks came along with me and one stayed home.

            It was a bit of a sketchy walk down St. Charles Avenue around the Lee Circle area and the underpass below the Route 90 expressway. But once we hit the Garden District with those massive plantation size houses, the area began to take on a suburban look and I forgot the state of my nerves and that my feet were beginning to ach after an unexpectedly long walk. Not realizing that the St. Charles streetcar was closed down for the Krewe of Ancient druids and Nyx parades that were about to make their way through town, we resorted to walking there instead. Or rather, I decided to walk instead, and everyone else reluctantly followed. Of course, when we finally reached the cemetery...it was closed. I had the brains to map out the route to get there, but I forgot to take note of the hours of operation. Apparently, the dead need their peace and quiet after two thirty and it was after four when we got there. All that walking for nothing...my bad. Well, for me it wasn't nothing. I would have made the walk even if I didn't quite know what was at the other end of the rainbow, but the rest of the group was expecting a pot of gold and I had not a nugget to give them. Since we were there, however, I figured we could grab a bite to eat at the famed Commander's Palace across the street then check out the former home of Anne Rice, also known as Rosegate, on the way back. This hundred thirty-two year old restaurant has been rated one of the best creole restaurants not only in New Orleans, but also, in the United States. That's a heck of a reputation, and I wanted to experience it at some point on this trip even if it meant I would be sitting at a table by myself.

            When we walked into the Commander's Palace, I was not expecting the place to be so lavish. Although the white Victorian building was a beautiful design complete with turrets, columns and gingerbread ornamentation surrounding a white and turquoise awning, still, sitting across the street from an old cemetery and the many mansions surrounding it, it didn't look any grander than the Cafe du Monde back in the French Quarter. Because the guidebook I had suggested this restaurant, I assumed that it would be a place where tourists, like ourselves, could just stroll off the streets, walk into the place and it would be a casual affair. Walking in with shorts, flip-flops and t-shirts, we looked well out of place there. It was a good thing we had to make a reservation ahead of time and there was a business casual dress code we had to abide by, because we would have felt awkward dressed the way we were and it would have diminished the experience. Although the menu wasn't any more expensive than eating in Times Square, unaccustomed to eating in fancy places like this, the rest of the group seemed a little wary of being there. That's silly, we're people too. We might not have fancy things but we can afford a good meal now and then. While the rest of us were still looking over the menu I asked the maitre d' if there was an opening for tomorrow afternoon. I was going to come back even if the rest of them didn't want to. In the end, my little ducks caved and it was a reservation for six of us at two tomorrow. Lovely.

            From the Commander's Palace, the closer we got to Rosegate, the more grand and opulent the houses seemed to become. It was an architects dream come true on every corner. Eerily enough, and it couldn't have been planned any better if we were on the set of one of Anne Rice's book adaptations and someone shoved the black cat into frame, but just before we reached the corner where Rosegate lied, a slinky black cat came crawling toward us with its translucent green and yellow eyes glowing in the twilight. We weren't expecting the cat to get much closer to us let alone allow us come in contact with her, but we came to meet halfway and she rubbed her little head on our legs like we were her long awaited family and purred her little heart out. I could have sat on that sidewalk petting her shiny coat all night had she had the patience for me and I all the time in the world. But it was getting dark and we still had to make our way back.

            With massive Corinthian columns stretching two stories high, separated by a cast iron balcony overlooking a tree lined street, the Greek revival home called Rosegate glowed against a purple twilight sky like a dream. Through the open drapes of the large French style windows on the first floor, we could see the glowing chandeliers in each facing room including a small library filled with books covering every wall of the room. I must have looked like a pervert snapping pictures of the house and peeking through the surrounding gate to get a better look inside, but I didn't care. This was Anne Rice's house. This is where the Mayfair Witches and the beloved vampires Louis and Lestat lived in another dimension. Holy cow. I figured, as long as neighborhood watch didn't call the police, I would stalked the house like a thief in the night, then walked away like a pedestrian on a leisurely stroll through the neighborhood. Mission accomplished.

            Back in the days when I had my Food Channel obsession, one of my favorite shows to watch was Throwdown! With Bobby Flay. I used to love watching culinary competitions between everyday people who started out with nothing more than a hope and a dream then became good enough to be sought after for a challenge with the world renowned Bobby Flay. On our way back to the parade route on St. Charles, Kayla decided she wanted a Philly cheese steak sandwich so we stopped at three different food trucks along the way until we finally found one that made the cheesy sandwiches. Having eaten enough of them in New York and New Jersey, she knew what a good Philly cheesesteak sandwich tasted like so she was a little concerned whether the sandwich would be any good here. But, not only that, she wasn't sure if she wanted to take a chance on a sandwich that was sold out of a truck that also fried alligator balls and sausages on a stick. When a woman in the truck overheard her reservations she poked her head out of the window and challenged Kayla's indecision.

"I've been making Philly's for years. I know how to make the best Philly cheese steaks in town. You want a Philly cheese steak, I can make you one" the woman said in what I thought was a thick Brooklyn accent.

"I don't know. I'm from Philly so I know what a good Philly cheesesteak sandwich is like."

Actually, Kayla was from Oregon, but I suppose her brief visit to Philadelphia might count for something.

"I grew up in Philly! If this isn't the best Philly cheese steak sandwich you ever ate, you don't have to pay for it!" Oh snap, this was a throwdown!

Intent on making the best sandwich she ever made, the woman threw down the best pieces of shaved steak in her stash, tossed large rings of sweet onion and green peppers over the grill, then layered slice after slice of provolone cheese on top and slid it all onto a toasted hoagie roll. With an analytical eye Kayla took the gigantic sandwich from the woman and sunk into the sandwich. I stood there watching the two of them assess the other with impatient expectation. The woman watched and patiently waited while Kayla chomped on the sandwich and nodded her head in approval.

"It's gwood. I l–k it."

"What'd I tell you? I told you I knew how to make a good Philly. Do me a favor, the next time you go to Philly, you tell Paul's Steakhouse Sandra Mitchell said 'kiss my ass!'"

"Okay, Pw-l's Stick-ouse, I w–ll."

After paying Sandra her due reward and thanking her for a job well done, we head out to view our first Mardi Gras parade.

            Along St. Charles Avenue people were already decked out on their lawn chairs. Children were strapped tightly into booster seats attached to the top of stepladders so they could see over the crowd. Or really, so they would sit still and not wander from their parents so they too could have their fun with peace of mind. The closer we got to the Business District, back in the direction of where we were staying in the French Quarter, the more crowded it began to look. Deciding to stop at a bar halfway down the avenue called St. Charles Bar, we met back up with Andrew. After a long nap he came trotting up to us still looking like a sleepy child and we went inside for some refreshment.

            I hate ordering drinks at a bar. Waiting for a bartender's attention while people sitting on their stools sip on their drinks and watch you struggle for some acknowledgement is always an awkward moment for me. I think it's more that I don't like to be watched than anything else. If I had a superpower I would want to be able to make myself invisible whenever I pleased. Then I could do whatever I wanted and go where I wanted without an audience. Standing behind a row of drinkers at the bar, I let an older woman get in front of me because she looked as awkward as I did and had less height to help her get the bartenders attention. When she passed me she thanked me and called me a sweetheart. Thank you? AND sweetheart? When do I ever hear this in the Northeast? I don't know why those three little words moved me so much, but I suppose it might have just been the term of endearment at the end that I wasn't used to. People in NOLA were just so darn kind and considerate here. Men were still chivalrous, people actually smiled when you walked by, please and thank you were always being heard. Man I love this place.

            Back outside, with our refreshments all in hand and the parade still in route to reach us, a DJ who lived in an apartment on the second floor beside the bar was providing the crowd with some entertainment while they waited around for the parade. In the street in front of him, I noticed a scrawny teenage boy of about sixteen or so, dancing to the music like he was alone in his bedroom. From what I could see in the fluidity of his moves, he could have very well been classically trained in what my guess would be, ballet. And it didn't seem like something he did, it was more like something he was. This kid lived and breath dance. The way he stretched bent and rotated his arms, legs and feet was more exciting to watch than the lights from the approaching parade, less than half a mile away. His energy and enthusiasm was so contagious that when the DJ (also the boy's father) played the Cupid Shuffle, Renee and I ran out to the middle of the street to join the boy even though I had no clue how to do the steps. Renee, being a dancer herself, taught me the steps, then Allison and Kayla joined in and a small crowd followed. Just as we were in the middle of our dance lesson, a light rain started up and suddenly we looked like we were in the middle of shooting a music video. Some ten or twelve people in the middle of St. Charles Avenue were now splashing around in unison, whipping wet hair and soggy clothes around like they meant it. We were all having so much fun dancing that we forgot we were there to watch a parade, which was just a few hundred yards away.

            Now I've seen plenty of parades in my day. In New York City, there's at least one going on every month. I've been to Disney World three times and Disney Land once and I thought those were the most amazing parades I had ever seen, but when I saw the Krewe of Ancient Druids followed by the Krewe of Nyx, I had never really seen a parade until that Wednesday of Mercredi Gras. These large floats were so beautifully decorated that I often forgot to reach out for beads because I was so busy looking at the explosion of art and color. It felt like something you might see if you happened to fall into Alice's rabbit hole and landed in Wonderland. From every float members of each Krewe threw beads to the frantic crowd below. We all looked like a bunch of cats in heat scratching and clawing to grab those shiny dangling things they teased in front of us. Due to the rain and location we were in, the crowd wasn't as large as the areas further along the route, nearest the Business District and French Quarter, and most of this crowd seemed to be locals who lived or worked in the area so it was likely they were more interested in the scene than any of the beads, so we had free reign of that territory and the beads were plenty. As each float passed, the heavier my neck began to feel and the more hunched I was beginning to look. Allison, being over six feet tall with fiery red locks and a million dollar smile, stood above the crowd like a beacon and easily wooed and swindled the Krewe hiding behind their masks with just a wink of her eye and wave of her hand. Before the first parade ended and the next one began, she had more beads and twinkling necklaces than any three of us combined. This was a competition now. Although, there was no way I could've caught up to her by that point, it was fun trying anyway. Between lags in the parade, where one float was catching up with the other, the DJ would crank up the music for us and we would all return to the street and dance without a care in the world. We didn't know anyone here, we were drinking one cocktail after another from the bar beside the DJ and it was our New Orleans vacation during Mardi Gras in the pouring rain. We didn't have a care in the world here...except how on earth we were going to get all those beads home to New York. This was only Wednesday, the start of the onslaught of parades and we had three more days of this to go. I think we're going to need another suitcase.

            Two parades later, we were soaked to the bone and choking from all the beads around our necks, which we wore like badges of honor. Although the parades were over we stuck around a little while more and danced like fools with our young friend. Then, like a parade all our own, one behind the other, the six of us walked our soggy skins back towards the French Quarter to a hole in the wall for take out. Walking out with anything and everything deep-fried on the menu we could find we then ran into a grocery store along the way where I ducked inside on the look out for something to satisfy my sweet tooth. Behind a smiling security guard, standing about six and a half feet tall, I spotted a large rack of the king cakes I've heard so much about. I stood in front of that rack for a good five minutes contemplated whether or not I should buy one then or save it for another day while the middle aged African American guard stood at his post looking at my soggy state with humor in his eyes.

"Must be some good cake if they have you guarding this rack."

"Have you ever had king cake before?" He asked me.

"No, but I'm thinking about it."

"What flavor do you like?"

"There are different flavors?"

"Oh, yeah. There's cinnamon, praline, apple, cream cheese and strawberry. Cream cheese is the best though."

"You had me at cream cheese."

"You won't be disappointed, that one's my favorite."

"I'll take your advice. You look like a trustworthy man."

"I try."

Grabbing a box of cream cheese filled king cake, I made my purchase at the front and smiled at the guard on my way out.

"Thanks for the advice."

"You won't regret it," he called after me.

            Smelling that fried food while we walked those last few blocks back to the hotel room had us drooling like mad dogs. Hungrier than we were cold and wet, the second that hotel room door was open we crammed ourselves into one room, spread our buffet of food on a bed and without taking off our wet cloths we practically inhaled the food whole.

            Thank God I don't have diabetes, because I have the worst case of sweet tooth than anyone I know...all the time. I could easily skip over a meal and jump right into desert without a second thought about it. Knowing I had a whole cake waiting to be devoured, I could only eat a slice of pizza before I had my hands wrapped around that colorful box of king cake and the top pried open in anticipation. Historically, king cake made its appearance as far back as the mid seventeenth century, during the religious celebration of Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, and before the start of the Lenten season of Mardi Gras. The cake was made to represent the three wise kings who brought gifts to the Christ child when he was born. Typically, they're made of a cinnamon filled dough in the shape of a hollow circle then topped with a sweet glaze and sprinkled with colored sugar. The three colors of the sugar are purple (representing justice), green (representing faith) and gold (representing power). Somewhere buried in the sweet treat is supposed to be a tiny plastic baby Jesus where, traditionally, whoever finds the baby in their piece of cake must either buy the next cake or throw the next party. However, when I opened my own box of king cake, I didn't find the little plastic trinket buried somewhere in the cake or even poking an arm, foot or tiny head out of the baked good. Instead, I found baby Jesus just chillin', full monty in the hollow center of the cake like he was catching some rays. I was so disappointed. I was looking forward to biting into the cake in hopes of "finding Jesus", even choking on the little guy–whatever, but I wanted to play with my cake and eat it too. Oh well, I found Jesus! I WON!!

To be continued...

Jour deux...Tipsy by twilight

            Ouch, why was everything throbbing? My head felt like it rolled off my neck during the night and toppled down a flight of stairs...a few times. Coffee, must have coffee stat!  Everything always feels better after a cup of joe and I knew just the place for that. Cafe Du Monde. Not only have I read great things about this famous hundred and fifty year old cafe, but three different friends who have either visited New Orleans before or used to live here, also recommended it. Historically, Cafe Du Monde had become known for its chicory-flavored coffee, beginning in the days of the Civil War when coffee was scarce in New Orleans. To make up for the lack of coffee, chicory, a root from the endive plant, was dried, roasted and ground, then added to the coffee as a substitute and a way of adding body and flavor to the brew. Later, it became the cafe's staple ingredient and nicknamed Mississippi mud because of its rich brown color. Not only was the coffee famous there, but so were their French beignets and I've been dying to sink my teeth into these fried pastries the moment I heard of them.

            With the first ray of sunlight peeking through a paper-thin slit in the curtains of our hotel room, I was up and couldn't force another minute of sleep out of the day if I tried. Even with a hangover, I was too excited to start a new day here. My plan, on this lovely Tuesday morning, was to get up early and spend a little time on my own to explore at my own pace. However, just as I managed to finish dressing and walked out of the bathroom, everyone was up and it was too late to take off at that point. I didn't want to give anyone the wrong impression and seem anti-social by leaving now that they were awake. So, as patiently as I could muster myself to look, I waited for everyone to get ready, take their showers and put on their faces. With the sun now blazing through the window, everyone was ready to go and Cafe Du Monde was on everyone's minds and drooling lips.

            Located just a few short blocks from our hotel stood the famed cafe with its long green and white awning and little round tables underneath. It was such a heady experience sitting there with my friends, far from home, knowing that this place was nearly as old as the United States itself. Just eighty-six years shy of the year that the Declaration of Independence was signed. That's old. Starbucks...eat your heart out. The moment we sat down, a waitress approached us in a fifties style uniform including a boat shaped pointed paper hat, like the ones you would see at car hops in the old movies. We each ordered our cafe au laits and four plates of beignets to share and watched as she went inside for our order. In a line very similar to the ones you would see in a school cafeteria, our waitress grabbed a tray, placed six mugs on saucers, poured coffee into each mug with warm half and half, then picking up the tray and appeared at the table with the beignets following behind. Piled high and covered in powdered sugar to the point where you were not sure how many were actually underneath, we dug in like we were clearing snow after a blizzard and each of us picked out a puffy square pastry and took our first bites. The warm fried goodness just melted in your mouth like a dream and reminded me of the fried malasadas I grew up eating on special occasions. Made in a very similar fashion, but instead of it being puffy squares, malasadas were stretched out to the shape of round disks where the center was crispy and thin while the outside edges were soft and puffy then dusted with granulated sugar. These were better, but it still made me think of home. Sipping my cafe au lait for the first time, I wasn't sure how I felt about it. Back in the city, I was used to the strong dark roasts of plain old coffee, the chicory flavor was something foreign to my taste buds so it took a few more sips for me to acquire the taste. Allison was in love with the coffee. After drinking her mug full, she ordered another to go. Poor girl was probably feeling the mac truck that hit her last night too.

            After our sugar high breakfast, we all walked next door to the famed French Market and flea market with powdered sugar still clinging to our hands and face. This institution, over seventy years older than Cafe du Monde, was once considered a notorious neighborhood because so many men who visited the local bars and brothels were shanghaied or killed in this area, naming it "The port of missing men." Creepy. I was interested in the art so my eyes were on the lookout for anything in that realm. While my friends were on the hunt for souvenirs, I could care less about them anymore. They've just become clutter in my life so I stick to buying a post card or two and take as many pictures as I can. Years ago, I was in the habit of buying a snow glob for every city that I visited. I had so many snow globes by the end, my bedroom was beginning to look like the bottom of the ocean. I ended up throwing half of them away and kept the ones that were special to me. Nearly an hour into our shopping and browsing, I found Renee and Allison chatting up an artist who did pen drawings and water color paintings related to his other love...music. The artist was a thin young man with light blue eyes and a shy smile by the name of Tony Hollums. When I approached their little circle, he was working on a drawing, still wet with ink on his lap. While Renee and Allison were talking to him, I perused his work with a cautionary eye and an open ear. Picking up one of his prints, I noticed at first...the obvious. It was a pen drawing of a tree with some watercolor splashed against the leaves, trunk and grass below. However, when I took a closer look, I was seeing something very intricate in the detail, drawn with the slightest hand. What I thought was just some random strokes and swirls of the pen, were actually musicians playing instruments and notes floating up to meet one another, as if they too were part of the tree and connected to one another, like the elements that make jazz what it was. Every stroke had its purpose and nothing of the art was in vain. I stood there looking at the picture bugging out like I was on a drug trip. Still holding the picture, I tapped Renee on the arm, interrupting their conversation.

"Look at this."

"Yeah, it's really nice isn't it?"

"No, look at it...here. Look at the details, the musicians."

"Wow. I didn't even notice that!"

"How much is this?" I asked the artist.

He named his price, which was far less than I imagined it would have been and bought it on the spot, along with another one of an upright bass player with the same inflections as the tree but in relation to what that instrument meant to Tony, his personal weapon of choice when he plays. In his words: "Every instrument colors a song in its own way, just like every player. This series is about each instrument and each player. Exploring the notions of color and visual notes and the way each instrument creates them." By the end of our long conversation and perusing over his many pieces, Allison, Renee and I each walked away with at least two or three of his signed prints and a new respect for music and art through the eyes of this particular artist. We spent a small fortune in the end, but it was one of the best purchases I've made in a long time.

            Before we went much further, there was just one more thing I had to buy and it had to be here in New Orleans. Even though it was something I could buy at home any time I wanted, this was something special in this time and place because it was about this time and made by a person who came from this place. Harry Connick Jr.'s new CD, "Smokey Mary." An album inspired by and celebrating the 20th anniversary of his Krewe of Orpheus Lundi Gras parade he founded back in 1993. Which, until this year, was the largest parade in all of Mardi Gras and the first to include blacks, whites, men and women. I knew I loved Harry for a reason. The centerpiece of the parade is a train he re-commissioned and renamed Smokey Mary, hence the album's title. Almost every year Harry comes out with a new album and every year I'm there to purchase it. However, last year he only came out with a live album of his most recent hits so I skipped out on that one because I own just about every song he has ever recorded since he was eleven years old. I know, a bit much maybe. But, when I found out this new album was coming out while I was actually in New Orleans, it was a done deal. Leaving the day before Lundi Gras, I would miss out on seeing his iconic parade with its illuminated train chugging six cars across St. Charles Street and Canal and holding as many as 1,200 men and women throwing beads on more than thirty floats, but at least I could listen to the album and imagine the scene. The place where I was going to make this purchase...was the Louisiana Music Factory, the largest music store in all of New Orleans and probably the largest seller of jazz, blues and Zydeco music in all of Louisiana.

            It took us a while to find this place, some eleven or twelve blocks away from where we started at the end of the French Market. We passed another music store along the way, but invested in finding this particular place, we didn't bother to stop. It was the Louisiana Music Factory or bust. Then finally, just up ahead, there it was...the most inconspicuous place for a music store I've come across yet, especially when comparing it to the ones back home with their massive posters, large window displays, celebrity cutouts of a brooding Robert Pattinson or Kristen Stewart, and five-foot neon signs blazing in your eyes. We almost passed the store entirely had we not been on the lookout for it in the first place. I nearly mistook it for a pawnshop until a tiny neon sign that said "jazz" caught my eye. Then looking up, I noticed it's little swaying sign above the door and my breath caught in my throat with a jolt. Running across the street like a woman possessed, I opened the door and burst inside like it was a safe haven from a world on the verge of Armageddon. Wow. Inside the gloomy shop was wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling music of every kind. However, the jazz, blues and zydeco, that you hardly get to see in other stores, usually reserved to the smallest section of the racks in the North, ran rampant here. I could have easily spent my entire vacation ransacking this place, so it was just as well that I had my friends with me so that I didn't overdose on this place. Right in the front of the store, in the new release section, there it was...Harry's new album. It was in my hands as soon as I spotted it. With the five hungry faces looking at me at the door, I made my purchased and walked away, trying hard not to look back in longing and let the door close behind me with a sigh. It'll be all right Marcy, just walk away...but I'll be back my pretty, I'll be back someday.

            Wandering Bourbon Street for the first time since we got to New Orleans felt very much like walking through a compact version of Times Square during the late afternoon. Flashing neon lights, shops with their open doors tempting tourists to walk in, and restaurants on every corner displaying their menus just outside their doors. By the time we got there we were all starved again and on the lookout for some more local foods. If anyone knew a tourist trap, it would be us so we knew what to steer clear of and the last thing we had in mind to eat was overpriced food at a corporate restaurant. Thankfully, Andrew had the good sense to ask a local working at a hotel nearby where it was they liked to eat. "Oceana Grill," said the kind, African-American who looked just as hungry talking about the place as we were to eat there. Then with the directions he gave us, taking us down a side street just two blocks away, we reached the grill. Looking at the menu, I got the impression that this was a New Orleans version of an Applebee's after-all. Maybe it was not exactly what we wanted, but it had po-boys, alligator tails, jambalaya and loads of local favorites and the prices we not bad. So, we walked inside, giving in to our gurgling stomachs and tired feet.  

            Now, how in the world can a person go to a place like New Orleans and not try alligator? I'm not a meat eater, I stick mostly to seafood when it comes to proteins but I suppose I could categorize alligator in that same category. We were all curious to know what this tasted like so we went with the alligator tails for an appetizer. I'm not going to lie, it was a little strange biting into something that, if alive, could have eaten us whole, and so it felt a bit poetic that we were eating the thing's deep fried tail for lunch. It was actually very chewy but tasty. Then again, anything deep-fried is pretty tasty. I could probably deep fry my left thumb and think it was tasty. Then I couldn't decide what on earth to eat after that. With so many different things to try and so few meals to take advantage of, I went with a dish called "The taste of New Orleans" consisting of a lil' Creole jambalaya, Louisiana fried oysters, crawfish étouffée and red beans & rice. The dish was massive, but I ate nearly every bite of it for two reasons...one, I hate to waste food and two, we're on a budget and it looks like two meals a day are all we're going to be able to do if we want to entertain ourselves here too. It's a small price to pay but it will keep us afloat and wary of not wasting a thing.

            With full stomachs, the six of us wobbled out of the Oceana Grill holding our bellies before us and started our walk to the Mississippi boardwalk, also known as The "Moon" Walk. Named after a former mayor who approved the construction back in the 1970's. There, we would catch a ferry to Algiers, known as the second oldest part of the city. For over a century it was used as a depot for importing slaves who were held before being sold on. It could, quite possibly, be the site of the origins of jazz, as single-line melodies were likely used by the slaves to communicate and comfort themselves and their family members in the midst of such traumatizing circumstances. On the way there, not far from the restaurant, while too busy snapping pictures of the fantastic buildings and their cast iron balconies along Bourbon Street, I just so happened to unglue my eyes from my camera long enough to come face to face with a runaway horse, dragging a terrified handler pulling it's reigns to slow the frightened horse to a stop. On the horse’s carriage, music exploded from a stereo that was much too loud while a large mussel bike was going by, likely, the source of the horse's trauma. When I heard the loud rattling of the horse's chains, the boom of the stereo and the rumble of a motorcycle sounding in my direction at the same moment, I looked up just in time. But like a deer in headlights, I didn't know which way to turn so I just froze. The poor horse ran towards me like I was either his worst enemy or I was someone who could actually offer him some solace from the thing that was scaring him. Waiting for the right moment to run in one direction or another, I tried to figure out the horse’s next move. Kayla, however, who was standing right beside me, grabbed my arm just in time and ran us towards the inner wall of the closest building, having the good sense to react faster than I could think. My hero. After that brush with life and death, neither one of us could look a horse in the face without breaking into a sweat.  

            Apparently, some of us can't handle Louisiana's spicy concoctions so well. After every meal we've had so far Andrew has practically run to the nearest restroom, returning like he just had himself a spa treatment. Glad to know he enjoys the food anyway. At the pier, half of our group nearly missed the ferry to Algiers when hitting the restroom at Harrah's Casino, racing through the ferry's gate mere seconds before the steward clamped the gate shut behind them. With the setting sun over New Orleans, we watched the city as the ferry skid the surface of the muddy Mississippi and docked less than ten minutes later. On the other side, we stepped off the ferry to a sleepy residential area where we snapped pictures and took in the view. Expecting something a little more entertaining, we were a bit wary to see that the only thing around us was a lamp lit walkway along the river, where we ventured out to for a little while. We were hoping to find something at the other end of the hill, but the further we walked, the less light we had to light our way and the fewer signs of life we saw. When a woman jogging with her dog approached us I asked if there might be a footbridge we could walk back to New Orleans nearby. Her reply was that the ferry was the only way over to the other side and as she began to walk away she bid us a good night and told us to be careful.

"What does that mean?" Kayla spurt out with fear plastered on her face as the woman's words registered. I was thinking the same thing. If a local was worried for us then what chance did we have going any farther? Noticing silhouettes of people roaming the distant trail ahead of us we all decided not to find out who was out there and turned back around. Mama duck was not about to sacrifice her ducklings because she was curious.

            Back on Bourbon Street, on the lookout for the Maison Bourbon I thought we entered last night. Halfway down on the corner of St. Peter Street...was THE Maison Bourbon. I ran up to the open door anxious to take a look inside and get a better listen to the music I could already hear a block away. At the door I met a host who put his arm out to me to escort me inside, but looking in, it seemed like the band that was up on stage at the moment was about to close their set for the night and I asked the man when the next one started so we could catch that one instead.

"Fifteen minutes? Perfect."

With my friends anxious to get the party started, I told the host I would be back. As we were walking by we happened at a bar across the street where a shabby man wearing a fedora, was hanging out by the door. I suppose he served as host and bouncer for the bar, and he beckoned us inside like a dealer or someone running an underground gambling club. Why not? Making our way in where people stood under a flood of blue neon lights, we eventually climbed a flight of stairs that lead out to a balcony overlooking the street below. When we reached the top, the first thing that jumped out at me was not a mass of people on a balcony, but two large breasts belonging to an plump woman about four and half feet tall carrying what looked like centrifuge tubes on a rack. What was meant to be used for the purposes of scientific experimentation, here it was filled with alcoholic concoctions of various colors and strengths. Before I had a chance to understand who this woman was or what she was doing, she took a long tube from its holder, shoved it between her large breasts and thrust my head towards the concoction and told me to drink. Three dollars later I was floating around the balcony on a shot of tequila watching people with beverages on a stroll below and uninhibited individuals stopping to flash their boobs for beads dangling from the hands of the people at the other end of the balcony. Beads were tossed in every direction, as far as the eye could see, to any person found attractive, begged enough, or showed what their mama's gave them. Who needs match.com when you can just walk down Bourbon Street and chat up anyone who throws you a ring of beads? Some fifteen or twenty minutes later, we were heading back down from the balcony to Maison Bourbon across the street, but before we had a chance to make our escape, Andrew and Nick got themselves collared by the chemist at the door and ended up throwing back two centrifuge tubes each from the grip of the woman's massive breasts. Free to go after that, we all walked away in a stupor, still reeling from our experience of just a half hours time.

            As the six of us walked back out to the street, the girls and I went to Maison Bourbon, while the guys were on the hunt for something a little more their style. I like to party as much as the next girl, but music and culture were top on my list of things to do in New Orleans and this place felt important to me. To sit in one of the oldest live jazz clubs on Bourbon Street, where Harry Connick Jr. and many other gems of the jazz genre served their apprenticeships, almost felt like a privilege to be in and I wanted to take full advantage of the opportunity to be there. Also, I think the girls and I had seen more boobs in the last half hour than we probably ever care to see, so taking a break from the chaos outside for some jazz sounded like music to my ears already. At the door we ran into the gracious host who I talked to earlier and without a word, he stuck out his arm for me to put my hand through and lead me inside to a table in front of the small stage. When we sat down, a man by the name of Duane Burg, who looked and sounded very much like Louis Armstrong, with a little extra flesh around the middle, was singing a traditional jazz song in front of an amazing band consisting of a pianist, trumpeter, standup base player and drummer. I was amazed. With pina coladas in our hands we sat back and listened to Duane and the guys in a half empty club and just relaxed. On a normal day, I'm sure this place is likely packed with hungry fans of traditional jazz, but with the craze of Mardi Gras, I can't imagine any locals attempting to go in and any tourist could easily miss the place entirely with all the titillation happening just outside.

            Inside the club, wearing a big stupid grin on my face, I'm sure I looked like an easy target for attention, especially sitting in the front row with my girl friends. But, with all of my attention on the band, Duane often pointed in my direction with a wink and smile and like a giddy schoolgirl, I just lapped it up and cheered him on like a fool. I was loving everything about this place; the sound, the style, the people sitting around us. I could see it in their sway that they were feeling it too. Halfway into the first set, the guys came in to join the rest of us for a few songs. I don't know if it was the shots that they had earlier or the hand grenade that Andrew clearly finished before he came in, by the evidence of the large, empty green cup in the shape of a hurricane glass donning an evil smiling cartoon grenade painted at its bulbous base, but he was glazed. Spilling drinks, talking over the band and dropping remnants of trash he brought in from outside. I was not happy with him.

"Andrew, you're making a mess."

"Oh, sorry."

"Not here. It's not that kind of place. This is special." I don't know why I chose to use those words. I must have sounded "special" myself, but it came out like I was a five year-old telling her friends that her clubhouse was a magical place.

"Oh, okay," he whispered.

I couldn't stay mad. With a sheepish apology and his puppy dog eyes looking back at me, in sincere remorse, how could I? Like a child reprimanded by his mother, he sat back in obedience and tried his best to sit still for a minute. However, anxious to dance, like always, he had to let out the fever of energy that was welling in him so Allison and the guys took off and head to a club next door. In the middle of the next set, our host with the most approached me for a dance when the band started a swingy tune and, hesitantly, I gave in. There I was...dancing in the middle of Maison Bourbon as gracefully as I could, which was probably a disaster since I know nothing more than the electric slide, the Harlem shuffle and a basic two step that made me look like a twelve year old a school dance, but my partner was an excellent lead and I didn't care anymore.

            When the set was over, I thanked Duane and the band who gave us a shout out earlier and head over to a place down the street called the The Cats Meow. Here we caught up with the other half of our crew as Andrew and Allison waited their turn to sing karaoke. Inside, not long after we showed up, I spotted a man walking in that I happened to meet earlier, at the first bar. He was a tall, attractive man who seemed well put together in his white button-up shirt and jeans. He was hanging around a man who looked a little older but similar in look. The first time I saw him was actually below the balcony, but then he made his way to the top with the rest of us and started chatting us up. On the balcony, I noticed this man looking at my hand and I realized he was checking to see if I was married. Until then, I didn't think to look at his own hand, but that gave me the idea to do the same, and before I even saw it, I knew he was. On his left ring finger was a shiny gold ring he didn't notice that I saw. Bummer, that's a deal breaker. Moving on. Then a few hours later, here he was again. Only this time...he seemed to have mysteriously lost his wedding ring because it was nowhere to be found, on any of his fingers. When he entered and saw me he came right up to me, gave me a little hug then removed a ring of beads from his neck and wrapped it around my head. Then after a "hello" he officially introduced himself and his boss to me. Apparently, they were away on a business trip, possibly having to do with the music industry, because handsome married man was trying to impress me by boasting about his boss being buddies with Adam Levine of Maroon 5. They just so happened to be in New Orleans by chance and were lucky enough to enjoy Mardi Gras at the same time. Aren't we so lucky? If I hadn't already known what I did about his marital status, I would have swooned like a character from a Jane Austin novel at this point, because this was a girls dream come true here. A handsome older man bee-lining for me in a crowded room, with a big smile and soft embrace...whoa, be still my heart. However, I knew that he was married, so I curbed my desires and kept my personal life exactly the way is should be...personal. Mama don't play those games. Thankfully, soon enough Allison and Andrew were up and all attention was on them. Now I've heard Andrew sing plenty of times before. At work he's like my own personal iPod because every time I run into him, he's singing a Britney Spears, Beyoncé or Rihanna song in my ear. So this was nothing I hadn't heard before. However, I had to give him a lot of credit for having the nerve to get up on that stage and sing to the masses. A serenade is one thing, but this was something else. And Allison, wow, that was the first time I ever heard her sing and I was blown away. What a group. With the crowd riled up they sang their drunk little hears out. And with the close of the song and we were all ready to get out of Dodge for the night. Sorry handsome married man, in another lifetime perhaps.

To be continued...

Jour une...Touchdown

            Before Christmas came around, I had a day where I was craving input and adventure like someone starved for food. It was my first day off since Thanksgiving week and all I wanted to do was curl up on my red leather couch with a soft blanket wrapped over my shoulders, a large steaming cup of joe at my side and a pile of books on my lap. It had been too long since I'd sat down with a good book and I was beginning to feel like I was getting dumber every day. Earlier that day, I made a trip out to my favorite bookstore in the city and decided to peruse the travel section. There are quite a few places I want to visit and looking at that massive stretch of possibilities in the form of books describing those places, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the choices but excited by all of the wonders of the world I had yet to discover. How can a person possibly see all of this in one lifetime? Even if that were their day job, to travel and report their discoveries, it still would not be enough time to see everything and really let it all soak in. With this in mind, I had to think hard about my next destination this year. There are many countries and foreign lands in this world that I hope to travel to, some sooner than later, but besides those, there are many cities in my own country that I've dreamed of seeing as well. On this list is...the windy city of Chicago, the country music capital of Nashville, the Starbuck's home base and emerald city of Seattle, the beautiful sandy shores of Honolulu and above all, the one city that has been sitting at the top of my list with Memphis for years...New Orleans, Louisiana, the city where jazz was born and Cajun/Creole cuisine sets tongues on fire. There are two times a year when New Orleans is at its peak performance. One is during its jazz festival at the end of spring and the week leading into Mardi Gras in February/March. Since I like to live by the modu: "never leave for tomorrow what you can do today" and having so many other places to see and things to do in the later months of spring, Mardi Gras it was. With a handful of friends and co-workers excited to join me on this next adventure, flights were booked and our fabulous hotel in the historical district of the French Quarter, near downtown New Orleans, was reserved before Christmas even came to pass. Mission Mardi Gras was in order.

            Now, I've never been a football fan, I've tried, Lord knows I have, but I just could never get into the sport. So when Super Bowl comes around, I usually find out which Sunday it ends up on, the Saturday before the big day. When I booked this trip back in December, I was looking specifically to fly out on a Sunday or Monday because those are my days off and going to New Orleans towards the end of the month long celebration of Mardi Gras is when you catch the full blast of the festivities and the best parades. However, my five friends, Nick, Renee, Allison, Andrew and Kayla and I were, all on a budget for this trip and for some reason that particular Sunday of February 3rd showed flights going into New Orleans at a sky rocket price, but the Monday after was at a rock bottom low. Why the big difference, it was just one day? I thought. It wasn't until last week that I found out that this year's Super Bowl was being hosted at the Superdome in New Orleans, and that was only because I read about it in a guidebook. What a dope. We missed Super Bowl but maybe we'll run into one of those lovely football players still hanging around for Mardi Gras after the game. Too bad the Saints didn't make it this year. Then New Orleans would really have had something to celebrate. Looks like we're in for a double whammy of a celebration anyway. What were the odds?

            Sunday night, the day before leaving for New Orleans, like every night before a trip dating as far back as I can remember, I couldn't sleep if my life depended on it. What I was doing instead was just thinking about all of the things I needed to do before I left and obsessing over all of the little details I learned about New Orleans and trying to remember where everything was for when we got there. The excitement of an impending journey always sends my mind reeling with the promise of good times, sights and sounds beyond my imagination and adventure awaiting me just a few short hours away. How can a person sleep on a night like this? I always loved traveling and remember waking up before the sun as a child, crusties still my eyes, listening for my parents' footsteps outside the door, waiting for them to officially tell me it was time to get ready for our adventure. At the crack of dawn, I packed the last of my belongings and head out to the bus stop, conveniently located at the end of my street. With impeccable timing, I met with my traveling buddies already on the bus when I climbed in. Half asleep and hugging their cups of coffee like a lifeline, we all greeted each other with excitement and head for the airport just ten minutes away.

             I don't know why the universe likes to give me a hard time getting through security at airports, but something always seems to go awry at those cursed gates. As I was busy stripping off my coat, belt and shoes without falling over and pushing my belongings through the metal detector at the same time, a security officer decided to have a good ol' time making fun of the layer of fur covering my carry on bag. My lovely black and white cat, Gizmo, loves to use my suitcase as her bed whenever I have it out for a trip. And because my suitcase is black, it looked near the color gray with her fur plastered against it and I forgot to put a hair roller to it before I left. With the security guard having such a blast at my expense the men in line behind me began to join in as well and I suddenly became the airport butt of everyone's joke at the gate behind me. I laughed with them, but it got old fast. Ha ha, okay. I have a lot of fur on my suitcase. Yes, my cat still has plenty left on her chubby little feline body to keep her warm for the winter...that was a good one...ha ha. Then as I went through the vertical metal detector they use now, I was the only one in our group to get pulled aside for a pat down. All I was wearing was a pair of slim chinos and a pink shirt. Why on earth would I need a pat down? With a gloved hand, a female security officer patted my right shoulder and I was free to go. My shirt was thin and not in the least bit baggy enough to be able to hide any lethal weapons, but I got searched anyway. Unless it was the metal clip on my bra strap they were detecting, I really don't know what else it could have been.

            After arriving in Charlotte, North Carolina for our connecting flight, all six of us were called up to the desk by our gate over intercom. Oh Lord, what did we do now? We haven't even reached New Orleans or sipped our first drink yet and we were already having issues with the authorities. It was either that or we were getting put on another flight due to some technicality. Either way, we were not expecting good news. To our great surprise, not only did we escape any of those issues but we were getting full reign of the back of the plane. With only half of the flight being filled, they needed to balance the plane's weight by spreading passengers throughout both ends of the aircraft. Because we were traveling together, originally filling an entire row like the previous flight, we each had a chance to have our own window seat if we so chose and that's exactly what I did too. However, even with a row of three seats all to myself I still found no sleep. After two cups of coffee, there was no way to take advantage of this cozy opportunity. After this, it would be the floor or a lightly padded bathtub if I wanted any sleep. Figures.

            Apparently, it was the Baltimore Ravens who won the Super Bowl the night before. The moment we stepped out of the plane the airport was jam packed with football fans clustering in groups of Raven fans dawning Super Bowl champion t-shirts, smiles stretched across their faces and purple beads hanging around their necks. While in other clusters, the down cast faces of San Francisco fans in their own team shirts and beads, sat impatient to get home after suffering delays due to weather conditions in the Northeast. The tension was mild but there was a divide among the airport as fans for each team stayed on "their side" of the terminals. Once we left the airport all we could do for the first few minutes, was bask in the sixty-two degree weather outside as we stripped off the winter coats, we cowered under just hours ago, to shield us from fifteen degree weather back in New York City. Then catching a taxi we head for the French Quarter, bound for our hotel. On the ride there, I was so mesmerized by the architecture of the city I didn't pay much attention to where we were exactly. I trusted that the taxi driver knew where she was going because we were paying a flat rate but I tried to study the map of New Orleans before I came so I would know where I was going at all times. However, unless you've walked the streets and experienced the three dimensionality of a place, a map could do only so much for you at first. When we turned on to Chartres Street, I was entranced by the beautiful architecture of the building just before us and just finished commenting to the others behind me about the place when the taxi driver stopped at the curb and told us that this was our stop and this was the Hotel Le Richelieu. Wow, it was even better than the pictures I saw on the Internet. When does that ever happen? When we went to the front desk to check into our one room to share, because that was all we could afford if we wanted to stay in the French Quarter, a large blond woman at the front desk told me, after realizing we were six people, that we were "not allowed to have more than four people in a room." What?!

"But I called before booking the room and the man who answered said that it wasn't a problem. They didn't have any cots to offer the extra people, but as long as there was space on the floor and that's what we wanted to do then that was fine."

"Sleep on the floor? No, that's ridiculous. No one would've told you that," she responded.

"I never would have made the reservation unless I knew that I could do this. We don't have the means to pay for another room just for two people for five nights and the web site said that there was a fee for any extra people, which we're prepared to pay, but we can't afford the cost of a whole other room."

Shaking her head and chuckling under her breath, she punched some keys on the computer. "Sleep on the floor," she mocked.

Oh man, I'm a very calm person. I may think some mean things and scream in the quiet recesses of my mind without suspicion of my frustrations at times, but I was on the verge of flipping out on this woman when she said this, in such a way that it was more like poking fun at my intelligence and calling me a liar at the same time.

"Because it might have been a mistake on both parts, we can work out a deal for another room at a discounted rate, but we can't have more than four people in the room. And, if you try to sneak them in, all of you will have to leave. It'll be difficult as this is the busiest week of the year here because of Mardi Gras and Super Bowl but we'll see what we can do."

Looking behind me, I could see that the same stress and concern I was feeling were etched across my friend's faces as well. Being the unofficial leader and guide on this trip, I felt like they were my children, my responsibility and I had to protect them from any concern about the trip, but at the same time these things were out of my control at this point and I wouldn't have been able to cover this on my own. From behind me, continuous chuckles at my expense came bursting from the woman as she worked out the issue on the computer in front of her. How is this funny? She seemed to think that putting us in a state of worry was hilarious. I don't know if I was just being sensitive, but I was beginning to feel like the butt of everyone's joke today. The other attendant at the desk, a slender, doe eyed woman, standing quietly beside the big blond, seemed to have some compassion for us and our current predicament. She thought nothing wrong with us staying in one room if that was what we wanted. Living in New York City, apartments the size of a single room in this place could hold as many as two families and I've spent many a nights in hotel room floors just to save money and I know that I'm not the only one. However, this woman either never traveled within a large group before or she was wealthy enough to travel around the world in a state of luxury. Either way, she was being a caviler battle-ax about this, out of jealousy or pure meanness, I don't know, but I wanted to reach over the counter and choke her every time she shook her head at me and laughed at my expense.

"Well, it looks like we can give you another room for the week at less than half the cost of a night, per night. That way no one has to sleep on the floor." Chuckle, chuckle, shake, shake. Oh my God, someone hold me back, I'm going to kill this woman!

            Finally agreeing on the price, having no other choice, we headed to the top floor, situated on the fourth level, to take a look at our accommodations and freshen up from our recent travels. It was a lovely place with the most beautiful view of the in-ground pool down below and the rooftops of city over the horizon. Cracking open the functioning, French style windows, we stood before the window as the sweetest breeze from the Mississippi River and the many restaurants surrounding the hotel came wafting up to meet us. Ah, that's nice. The extra cost for an extra room hurt us a little financially, but I was glad that I didn't have to sleep on the floor all week. I suppose my ignorance came to an advantage this time. With hotel issue taken care of, the city awaited us and I wanted nothing more than to brush the lingering frustration that I was still feeling from my shoulders, sit somewhere nice and take in the culture that was New Orleans below.

            Each one of us was starving from the long journey so the first thing we wanted to do was eat and some authentic Creole food sounded good all around.  Racing down the street at New York City pace, Renee, the smallest of our group, reminded us that she couldn't walk as quickly as the rest of us and we should "slow it downn, slow it downnn." Her point really, was that we were on vacation and we had all the time in the world to get to where we would eventually go, but those words of wisdom would eventually become a mantra for the entire trip, a constant reminder to take it back a notch and let everything soak in at a leisurely pace. This was something none of us were used to anymore and we all had to work on. I try to live in that leisurely state of mind when can, but it was easier said than done when there was so much I wanted to see and do here. All in good time, I had to remind myself. "Slow it downn, slow it downnn." We eventually found ourselves in a dive near the hotel called Coop's Place. Because this place was busy for the middle of the afternoon that said something. The food couldn't be that bad if people were there and eating the food without showing signs of disgust on their faces as they chewed. In fact, from the looks of it, it seemed like a spot where the locals went. There was nothing flashy about the place that would catch a passerby's attention but a small sign swinging over the open door to let a person know what the place was called. With one look at the menu I spotted a seafood gumbo, so I was sold. Just as the rain started to come down, we decided to go in and have our first meal in New Orleans.

            Strangely, of all places, I once tried gumbo at a Chicago style pizzeria in Massachusetts, knowing I wasn't having the real deal then, but it sounded good so I ordered it. Although it wasn't bad, what I really wanted was to someday have the chance to try gumbo where it originated. Where African slaves introduced okra and hot pepper plants from Haiti to wealthy Cajun families in Louisiana and here, in Louisiana, was my chance. In a courtyard kitchen that was partly inside and partly out, with an awning that didn't quite reach far enough to cover the simmering pots and pans from the Louisiana rain, hunched cooks that looked something like a cross between an aged gang of bikers from the likes of Sons of Anarchy and grizzly truck drivers I've seen racing down highways on road trips, stirred and tossed gumbo and jambalaya with expert ease. Before my house specialty gumbo showed up, I ordered a drink called a sazerac, with origins dating back to pre-Civil War New Orleans and considered the oldest known American cocktail. The recipe was some combination of cognac or rye whiskey, absinthe or Herbsaint, and Peychaud's Bitters. One sip and I forgot where I was. The drink was so strong I felt a hangover just smelling it, but I had to try it. Something that old and that historical...how could I not try it? I got about halfway through with it and had to revert to a glass of water or that would have been the end of my night, as I knew it.

            When my gumbo came around, I dipped my crooked spoon into the spicy concoction surrounding a heap of white rice and tasted real gumbo for the first time. Prepared with dark roux, fresh French Market vegetables from around the corner, file powder, which was sassafras leaves ground to a powdery consistency, shrimp, crab claws, and oysters, my mouth didn't know how to comprehend what it tasted. It was like nothing else I had ever put to my lips and it was amazing. It was fresh, hearty and better than what I hoped it would be. It had to be that little dash of New Orleans precipitation that happened to land in the mix. It could quite possibly be the secret ingredient that the Chicago style pizzeria was missing. Gumbo...check. Next.  

            Before heading out to our next destination, where ever that was, we browsed the shops along old Decatur Street when I spotted my dessert, a praline from the Magnolia Praline Co. The first time I ever heard the word was in a movie starring Natalie Portman and Ashley Judd called Where The Heart Is. In the movie, Ashley Judd's character called one of her many children Praline, "after dessert food." Knowing it was a sweet treat, I've always been curious to try it. With one bite, I decided I might name one of my own Praline, if the day ever came. Where have you been all my life Magnolia pralines?

            After consuming my desert in less than a minute, I was itching for some jazz. I've been itching for some jazz since I booked this trip back in December and I couldn't wait another minute. Thankfully, the crew was more than happy to accompany me on this quest and it took no time at all to find a place, which was also recommended by our waitress at Coop's Place. Just down the street we came across the Balcony Music Club, or BMC, where a blues-like jazz band called Li'l Red & Big Bad played the venue. With the doors open to the street the music practically pulled us in like a shepherd's crook around our waists. Inside we settled around a small table in front of the stage and watched a sassy red head named Nancy Gros sing her blues away with a band that looked as though they were suffering the repercussions of all those good times they had in the seventies. Although they looked older than they might actually have been, they played like they were younger than anyone of us sitting at the foot of the stage.

            As we sat at the table sipping our drinks and listening to the band, a waitress came by and dropped an ashtray at the center of our table. In unison, we all stared at the ashtray like it was some unidentifiable object, then looked up at each other as supreme shock and excitement registered on our faces. I might have been a bit of a smoker in my college days. Every guy that I had ever dated in that time was a smoker so I had picked it up then, but eventually quit shortly after those relationships ended and I graduated from college. Every now and then I dabble with a butt or two, on those few nights I go out and drink with friends who smoke. It's been quite a while since I've last had a cigarette, but when I saw that ashtray sitting in the center of that table, not only did I reach for one of Nick's cigarettes, but so did Andrew, Renee, Kayla and Allison and we all sat around that table sucking on our cigarettes and blowing out the smoke like drugs addicts going through withdrawals. It was a good thing the club was mostly empty because anyone sitting around us would have asphyxiated over the ring of smoke around our table. I can remember a time when restaurants had smoking sections but that was so long ago that I sometimes forget that time ever existed. Smoking inside that club felt so liberating but foreign to me. I couldn't help but feel like I was doing something wrong and we were about to get thrown out on our butts for doing it. Man I love this place already.

            Before Li'l Red finished her set, she came out to the dance floor and I noticed her do this little shuffle then proceed to do a series of steps that looked very familiar to me. It was when she repeated the little routine that it suddenly dawned on me that she was doing the Harlem shuffle! I know this dance! Suddenly, like someone possessed and clearly reacting without thinking, I jumped up next to Li'l Red and started doing the dance when Renee went up and the three of us did the Harlem shuffle to the small crowd. Had I been completely sober, I probably wouldn't have done that, but I just couldn't help myself and I was glad I did because it was fun.

            When Li'l Red finished her set, we left to explore more of what New Orleans had to offer, when we came upon Frenchman Street. While Mondays are considered normally dead days in the restaurant, club and bar industry, Frenchman is where you can hear the live sounds and wide variety of New Orleans music at it's best. Frenchman is a street that consists of a two-block-long entertainment district, only walking distance from the glitzy neon lights and blaring cover music of Bourbon Street but what a difference. If I had to compare, Bourbon Street would be equivalent to Times Square, while Frenchman would be more like the East Village or alphabet city Manhattan. This was where most locals liked to hang out, and I trust that they knew what good jazz was all about. Because this area is just outside of the French Quarter, where some would consider a sketchy area, in all likelihood you wouldn't know it was there unless someone told you about it and, like the BMC before this, it was another recommendation by our waitress at Coop's Place. Best of all, the drinks were considered cheap here and admission was free for most of these clubs. Just a nice contribution to "Philip" was recommended, as in "fill up the tip jar," for the bands who played the venues because most of the musicians here make their living souly through these tips. We didn't really have a clue where we were going when we ended up on Frenchman Street, but the sound of music drew us to this area and when we got there that was when we realized where we were. When I spotted a club called Maison, my eyes lit up. Since doing my research back home before coming to New Orleans, I've been wanting, so badly, to go to a place listed as Maison Bourbon. This legendary club is where many famous jazz artists began their career, including my favorite, Harry Connick Jr., but I didn't realize until I walked in that it was a different Maison. This Maison was actually called Maison Frenchman, duh, but I was so glad we stumbled across this place because the band was amazing. This was jazz, the real deal. This whole street was just saturated with the likes of jazz at its finest. I was in love. I could live like the gypsies on the sidewalk outside and listen to this stuff everyday if I could. I wanted so badly to talk about what I was hearing, which was something in the likes of jazz from Duke Ellington's time, but who knew what I was talking about? My friends were ignorant of jazz. They seemed hungry for the sound, the style, the feeling, but they were not on the same level of infatuation that I was in. And, I don't know if it was the alcohol, but I suddenly felt very alone among my friends, who didn't know the real me, I realized. Very few people know that person and I could actually feel myself clamming up and putting up walls. They were something equivalent to dry walls, but they were walls non-the-less. However, in no time, the music took over and I was free from my insecurities for as long as I was hearing the music.

            When we showed up at Maison Frenchman it was towards the end of the final set they were playing, so we only caught a few songs from the fabulous Aurora Nealand & The Royal Roses before we hit a place across the street called The Spotted Cat. This place quickly became my favorite spot, outside of the later discovered, Maison Bourbon. Here a forties style jazz band called the Bayou Shufflers lead by Kristina Morales, a young blond dressed very much like little orphan Annie with a voice like nothing I've heard outside of the forties era. Her voice was so surreal that I felt like I had traveled back in time to the days of Dinah Washington and Ella Fitzgerald. The six of us sat by the bar, the only space in the club we could squeeze ourselves into and watched the venue with amazement. What a performance...by every member of the band. Each person brought something to the whole of the band and the music they were creating, in the most natural way. I could have stayed there all night as long as they kept playing.

            When we left the club Kayla and Andrew went back to the hotel for some rest but I wasn't ready to call it a night just yet. I didn't want to waste a single minute on this trip. If I got four hours of sleep a night, that would give me just enough rest to get on with another day. With Allison, Renee and Nick by my side, the four of us decided to take a walk to the Mississippi River. It was close by and I've been hankering to touch those muddy waters ever since Memphis back in August. I missed my opportunity then, having run out of time but now was my chance. Somehow we found the river in our drunken stupors. Just over the hill and past the boardwalk was that Mississippi River. Kicking off our shoes and socks, the four of us stepped down the wooden steps of the boardwalk into the river and let the cold waves roll over our pale feet. I don't remember putting my shoes on after that, but I do remember falling into a hole in the sidewalk about two feet deep, where a tree was once planted, then stepping out of it only to trip over a cobblestone and land sprawled across the sidewalk instead. Then shortly after, I dropped my phone and spent five minutes looking for the dang back cover with Nick, Renee and Allison hovering over the sidewalk with me like scavengers hunting their prey. What a mess. Marcy and alcohol are a toxic combination. I should not be allowed to go to bars without a warning label around my neck from now on: "Please cut off after two drinks...or suffer the consequences." If this was what my first day in New Orleans was like, I could just imagine what state I would be in once the parades start rolling through town. Lord help me.

To be continued...