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...