French Quarter

ON THE ROAD

Dear Reader: Thanks for staying with me this far! (Note that I addressed you in the singular. You know who you are.)

Let’s see, I have to fill you in on all of New Orleans, and the details are a little fuzzy. So, sorry, but might have to make up some stuff.

We vastly prefer the personality and charm of small “boutique” hotels over the big corporate hi-rises, so we were pleased when Priceline got us a room on the edge of the French Quarter at a place called “Marriot.” Definitely French. We were a bit surprised upon arriving to see that it had 42 floors and 1,300 rooms. Sigh. More marketing hype. 

My cousin Lisa complains that so far I’ve done a poor job of relating the “food” part of our trip, and wonders why I haven’t reported the eating of exotic local foods. Well, New Orleans is widely known as “The Wacky Food Capital of the World,” so here’s my chance.
Okay, so I decided to step out of my comfort zone. I ate breakfast at the Krystal café on Bourbon Street, and not only did I dine on eggs, sausage and biscuits—all bonafide Deep South fare—but also something called “grits.” These turned out to be odd to the palate, so I spit them out, but still—if that effort doesn’t validate my culinary courage credentials, I don’t know what does.


To ensure that our daughters wouldn’t be exposed to anything inappropriate, that afternoon Shana and I “previewed” Bourbon Street while they passed the time in a casino. It didn’t take long for us to assess it as reasonably family friendly... were it not for what one might experience through sight, sound, smell, taste or touch. Even Helen Keller would have found unsavory elements. I’d elaborate, but there’s a chance my mom might read this. Suffice it to say that we were outraged at the debauchery.

After several hours of this distasteful jaunt through Bourbon Street we were surprised to run into some very close friends of ours, Janet and her husband What’s-His-Name. What are the chances that we’d find each other on the same sidewalk, at the same exact moment in time, in a city 2000 miles from home? It must be at least one in 100. Anyway, we all discussed our disgust at the depravity. I explained to them that I was just going in here to ask for directions to the nearest Lutheran church.

Shana then returned to the hotel, and I stayed behind to photographically document the depths to which our society has sunk. Yuck. The album will be available online soon for $19.95.

For our afternoon snack we binged on beignets. I'll eat an extra helping of broccoli when we got home to make up for that.

That evening the four of us had dinner at the Gumbo Shop, a local favorite patronized primarily by tourists. I considered ordering “crawdads,” which are creatures resembling giant cockroaches with claws, whose corpses are presented sprawling across a bed of rice, but I was hungry so instead settled on something that wouldn’t trigger my gag reflex. I got the Creole Combination Seafood Plate, which contained no antennae, eyeballs or suction cups. I enjoyed both the taste and the flavor.

Side note: The waitress said “Good choice!” each time after Sammi, Sophie and Shana ordered their dinners, giving them confidence that they each had been blessed with a discriminating sense of good taste. But when I said, “I’ll have the blackened dog poop on rice” and without thinking she chimed “Good choice!” I began to question her sincerity.

After dinner Sammi and I went to Preservation Hall and listened to the last set of the night. Despite being a lifelong jazz fan, somehow I had pictured something completely different that what it is, which is a tiny, cramped place that seats about thirty people on three wooden benches, and a few more standing in the back. No food, no drinks, no dancing—just superb music, all acoustic, played and sung by masters. We and the rest of the audience were totally immersed, engaged and enraptured. Ahhh. It was too beautiful to mock.

The next morning we left Louisiana and drove through Mississippi, Alabama and part of Florida.

A few words about the so-called oil spill “disaster.” Everyone’s all, “Oooh, big bad BP is an evil, greedy corporation. They’ve ruined the gulf for years… blah blah blah” Oh, really? Thank you very much, Lying Elitist Media, but I’ve seen it with my own eyes. En route to Florida we left the interstate and drove the coastal highway along the gulf in Mississippi. The wide beaches along this stretch are beautiful (still!), with pure, fine white sand and warm waters. Normally this time of year the place would be swarming with hordes of tourists, creating a traffic and parking nightmare, not to mention making it nearly impossible to get any elbow room. But thanks to BP, we had literally miles of it practically all to ourselves.

And you should see the vibrant new colors in the water that enhance its visual interest! Still think it’s a “disaster?”

We spent the night in Tallahassee. The best word for it is “unnotable,” which isn’t even a word. Next destination: Savannah, GA.

Note: Shana misses Lola, and I’ll bet that Lola misses her. I just miss her eggs (Lola’s).