Every trip has its defining moment … a moment against which every aspect of the trip is measured. The New Orleans adventure was no exception! I’ll come to the point. I was pick-pocketed and yes, it tainted by perception of New Orleans to some extent. But, in reality, it wasn’t being robbed that bothered me so much. It was that I disappointed myself.
I am a victim. I am scarred and fearful and post traumatic and will be so for many years to come. I will play the victim card and will act inappropriately … loosely guided by my victimization. I am justified in all that I do or say … my scars are deep … to the bone. My victimizer must live with what he has done, but will probably never pay for what he has done. It is his fault that he broke the law … that he stole my wallet. There is no excuse … not need, want, or entrapment. What he had to work with was choice and he made a bad one. On the other hand, it is my fault that my wallet was stolen. Because I was dumb, careless, oblivious. I have to live with that. I offered my wallet on a silver tray and it was accepted. It is hard to resist … especially if you were not born with a silver spoon to go with it. I still get to be a victim. I think I have earned it. This is my second time at this rodeo. I think I have earned it. Maybe someone will put a coin jar with my picture on it at the local 7/11.
But wait, I am getting ahead of myself. Things started going
askew right from the start. We headed out about a week ahead of schedule due to
a death in the family, necessitating a trip to West Virginia. Rather than
showing up early in South Boston, VA at Anne’s brother’s place, we visited with
Louis and Susan in Eden, NC for a night and then continued on to South Boston.
We celebrated early Xmas in both places and on the 24th drove to
Charlotte for our fight to New Orleans. We had arranged to park at a local
hotel while we were gone, but it was immediately apparent when we arrived that
the parking lot was already overflowing with cars. Seems that the online
booking for the parking and the reservations for the hotel parking weren’t
sharing information … result – nowhere for us to park. They sent us to another
hotel that had agreed to help them out and let us park there.
We arrived at the airport and check-in was quick and
flawless. That is, until we went through the xray screening. I had plenty of opportunity
to see that Anne’s bag had been pulled to be searched as I went through the
buzzing metal detector 7 times. Finally,
realized that I still had on my watch. I got out just in time to see that Anne
had forgotten that she had a bottle of wine in her bag and was denying the
guards accusation that there was another oversized bottle of liquid in her
bottle. Turned out to be the bottle of Listerine I had put in there at the last
minute. Oops!
We strolled down to our gate and sat down to await our
plane. About five minutes before time to board, the gate attendant announced
that there had been a mechanical problem, our flight was cancelled and we
should line up to get rebooked. When I looked up, Anne was just a blur, ten or twelve people
down the line. I shook my head to clear my vision and she was third. I have
seen this before in movie lines when she had to rough up some old ladies and
children to move up the line. This time it was a nice looking Hispanic family.
They probably thought that Anne was saying, “I am with immigration” when she was really
saying “get out of my way”. Since we were 3rd in line, we were
offered a direct flight (unlike the flight we had booked with a stopover in
Atlanta) that got us to New Orleans the same time as our old flight. For our
inconvenience we each go $25 vouchers for dinner. We used these to buy earrings
for Anne and some BBQ as a snack before boarding. We were even on the emergency exit row with great leg room. No telling what we could have
gotten if Anne had shoved those last two persons out of line.
What can I say about New Orleans? An adventure?
Definitely. My kind of town? Not really.
Let’s face it … I am too old for New Orleans. Not that there isn’t a place for the
elderly, like me, in New Orleans. It’s just that New Orleans (NOLA) is a huge
frat party … spring break … homecomimg
weekend. It’s heart beats amid the neon lights of Bourbon Street. Hidden
beneath the detritus of so-called society … its beer cans, broken bottles, and the
vomit that collect along the gutters and at entrances to the strip clubs, beer
halls, and tourist souvenir shops. It is all about the party … walking the
streets drink in hand … bar hopping and strip club ogling. 
If you are looking for New Orleans jazz … it’s not on Bourbon Street. The music there is hard and loud … sexual innuendo with the volume turned up ... music you can stagger to while sipping hurricanes and grenades out of a plastic cup and strolling the street. We never found New Orleans jazz. Granted, it may have been hiding somewhere out of our price range. We were told to seek it on Frenchmen Street in the Marigny. At best, we found a little zydyco.
Not to be deterred, we, well I, reluctantly resigned myself to spending a little more money in order to assure that we would hear authentic New Orleans jazz before we went home. There was huge brunch buffet with "live jazz" at the Court of Two Sisters, which is now run by two brothers. Soon after we entered, my beloved money was wrestled from my grip and I quickly began to question how "live" our jazz was to be and if it was authentic New Orleans jazz.
In order to be certified as authentic, the jazz must pass four tests First, at least one person in the group must be wearing a beret. Second, jazz musicians need to take breaks. At the Court of Two Sisters, one of the musicians was wearing a beret and they definitely needed a lot of rest. In fact, they played two songs, were completely worn out, and needed a long rest. When they came back, they managed three, maybe four tunes, and had a relapse. Thirdly, jazz musicians need to be "laid back". Our drummer/ lead singer took a nice break in mid-song to answer his cell phone and chat a bit. The bass fiddle followed suit with a little texting during the next song. They met the third standard hands down. Alas, I don't think we heard authentic New Orleans jazz. Much to my chagrin, no one wore sun glasses. And sun glasses is the fourth and most important standard.
Don't start thinking that we had a terrible time ... far from it. Take the brunch buffet for example. How disappointed can one be with 80 items on the brunch buffet. It had everything cajun and more. I am not one to let modesty or manners or embarrassment get in my way. I have no shame and eat until it hurts ... both them and me. Selected favorites that graced the numerous plates that sat before me, were the made-to-order Eggs Benedict , the turtle soup, and the bourbon pecan pie.
There wer other must have favorites ... like Oysters Desire
... like Red Beans and Rice with Sausages
... like muffelato at Central Grocery
... like beignets at Cafe Beignet
by the way, there should be a warning about eating these outside in the wind. If not for us, at least for the lady behind us who had to leave her table covered in powdered sugar.
... and of course, Po Boys of various persuasions including oyster.
The people of New Orleans were generally friendly excepting of course, the pick pocket. On Xmas morning, we took a stroll along the Mississippi River. Strollers and homeless alike greeted us warmly with a "Merry Christmas". We stopped to listen to one musician singing the blues and stayed for a Xmas serenade just for Anne.
Anne took an unusual interest in some of the guys in the sculpture park. Not really sure what she saw in them.
Unfortunately, the locals were not quite as friendly to me. In fact, I found them to be surprisingly quiet.
One of the highlights of the trip for us was the the New Orleans Museum of Art . Nothing like being at the museum to make a guy feel right at home.
And the sculpture park beside it was excellent ... and weird ... just like I like it.
There may have been better places to stay in New Orleans, but I can't imagine any place better than being in the French Quartier. There was always something to see and plenty of local color.
One thing for sure
we will never forget
our trip to
THE BIG EASY
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