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...