Friday – How much can we cram into our last day in New Orleans? Usually we have a tentative plan for what we want to see and do, but today we decided to wing it. We would take the city as it unfurled its opportunities, its challenges, and its unexpected.
We cleared the room, put our luggage in the hotel storage, checked out, and left the building. (All this had been prearranged.)
As we started toward the center of the French Quarter, we noticed that not only were the professional musician tour buses still lining the sidewalk, but now there were people in sleeping bags and makeshift accommodations lining the sidewalks as well. Some were still asleep, others were up and appeared to be awake. I asked one who they were waiting to see. “Hanson” was the reply.
Hmmm. I do consider myself fairly well informed… especially when it comes to music, but this one was not ringing any bells. “Oh?” I tried not to look TOO out of it. “Yes,” she said. “You know, from the 80s”. “OK.” I said. “Well, have a great time!” I smiled and threw out the parting remark, “We are old, you know. If it isn’t Tony Bennett or Tom Jones, we aren’t in the loop.” She nodded with a look of sad acknowledgement.
The really surprising part is that none of us recognized the name. I had to ask my children about them when I returned home.
Undaunted, we continued on our way. One of the places we had walked past… several times…was the courtyard with the bronze statues of 20th century musicians. New Orleans is synonymous with music. It has ragtime, zydeco, blues, and of course, its own recognizable style of jazz.
During the 1940s jazz was strong and popular, even beyond the city. But, in the 1950s, Rock and Roll became more prevalent.
When we think of jazz in New Orleans we think of Preservation Hall. Actually, I thought that was where the whole movement began. But, that is not so. Preservation Hall, located on St. Peters Street, began as an art gallery. Its owner, missing the freedom to attend jazz sessions because of business, invited jazz musicians to rehearse at his venue. Brilliant idea, that!
These sessions occurred randomly at first, but in time grew to occur nightly. Today Preservation Hall holds three concerts a night—except for some holidays.
The French Quarter pays homage to its musicians, not only with statues, but also by naming parks, programs, and concert sites after them. Those of us from an earlier era recognize the names of Jelly Roll Morton, Ella Fitzgerald, Al Hirt, Pete Fountain, Fats Domino, and, of course, the great Satchmo, Louis Armstrong. But, the tradition and the talent live on today with the Marsalis Family, Harry Connick, Jr., and Irvin Mayfield to name just a few.
After Katrina hit in 2005, Harry Connick, Jr. and Brandon Marsalis joined with Habitat for Humanity to rebuild an area in the upper ninth ward into a community called Musician’s Village for musicians who had lost their homes to the devastating hurricane. A Musician’s Relief Fund was created to provide grants, instruments, and gigs to assist musicians in getting back on their feet.
New Orleans is alive with music, from early morning to early morning. Its providers appear on the streets, in the bistros, and in the concert halls. Sometimes it is a lone saxophonist, sometimes an ensemble, sometimes a full orchestra. As one walks along enjoying whatever his interest may be, one is accompanied by omnipresent music. Not a bad place to be.
Another site we had not yet stopped in to see was the National Park’s Jean Lafitte museum. Today was the day. I did have my National Park pass with me, but it turned out that it was not needed.
What a treasure! Tucked away off a courtyard, through a loggia is a small, but very well presented museum of New Orleans… its cultural histories, its geographic sections, its varied topographies, its amalgamated idiosyncrasies, its languages, its celebrations. So much information in such a small space… and a gift shop.
It even presented a thorough understanding of the enigmatic Jean Lafitte… buccaneer, privateer, businessman, and ruler of Barataria… an island in the labyrinth of bayous and far from the reaches of early rules and regulations. (We had hoped to be able to take the tour of Jean Lafitte’s bayous, but will have to save it for next time.)
While listening to zydeco music on an audio receiver, I could hear Janet’s voice in the background. She was having a conversation with someone new. Hmmm. Will have to meander in that direction.
The couple with whom she was enjoying a lively tete-a-tete turned out to be from Australia. They were touring America by train, plane, pedi-cab and practically an ox-cart (had one been available to rent). They were seeing America from the grass roots route. No hopping from airport to airport for them. It was great fun listening to their experiences to date. Now they would spend a few days in New Orleans before heading for the northeast (which was our old stompin’ grounds). We had to share our opinions on the things they should not miss.
During the conversation, Janet mentioned that one of her ancestors was Cotton Mather (pronounced with a broad New England A… rhyming with father) and that they might come across his name in their travels in Boston.
The wife picked up on this and asked how that name was spelled. Janet said M A T H E R.
“Oh My!” she said. “That surname is in my lineage as well! Except we pronounce it Mather (with a long A… as in bather). Perhaps we are distantly related!”
It was agreed that it was destiny that had brought them together and that, for all intents and purposes, they should consider themselves cousins. So, hugs all around!
What a way to get a day started!
Our goal today was to eat our way through the French Market. Is this when we use the cliché that our eyes are bigger than our bellies? Well, we tried.
Janet and Sandra hadn’t had hurricanes yet, so while they ordered the well-known New Orleans cocktail at one booth I ordered a muffaletta half (divided into thirds) at another… now that took some calculating.
For those who are not familiar with a muffaletta, it is very much like an Italian grinder (sub) except it is served on a round bread loaf with a floor of olive tapenade and a LOT of olive oil… and compressed Panini style.
This one was terrific… a little more hot pepper than I usually enjoy, but then, this is New Orleans. The olives were exceptionally good and the olive oil was unlike anything in the neighborhood grocery… more Williams- Sonoma.
Nearby were small, round ice cream tables and their accompanying wire chairs. We were fortunate enough to grab one just being vacated. Nearby, a couple (looking very much our age) were scanning the area for a table of their own. Families with small children and carriages, couples with friends, older folks with younger relatives were occupying every table in sight… and showing no indication that they would be leaving soon.
We invited the couple to join us, if they could find one more chair somewhere. As luck (and agility) would have it, there was one nearby.
We all gathered around this tiny table to enjoy our ala carte morsels. It turns out this couple was from London. They also were planning to spend 5 weeks here in the States, their first stop being New Orleans.
What a great time we had chatting with them… sharing our memories of visits to their country and giving them suggestions on what to see in ours. We laughed over pronunciations and perspectives. The wife couldn’t see paying exorbitant prices for porridge, even if it was called Grits. We pointed out that in Italy it was called Polenta and the prices were even higher.
We stayed way too long enjoying their company. (It is an easy thing to do in New Orleans… stay too long enjoying food and folklore.) But there was more to see and do, so we bid our farewells and went our jolly ways.
Previously, I mentioned the block-long flea market. This time it was serious. We were there to dicker and purchase. It was time to think about Christmas gifts and birthday gifts and hospitality gifts and gifts to ourselves. By the time we exited the far end, we had done pretty well. Some of it would be worn home, some of it would be folded extra small to fit in the carry-on, and some of it would have to put up with being scrunched in the big bag for a short plane ride home.
It was late afternoon, by now, and we were running out of steam. We headed for the end of the line platform and waited for the doors to open on the streetcar. One last $1.20 for three.
We rode the river-front line as far as Bienville and headed for Decatur. Decatur Street is narrow. Bienville Street is narrower. It was crowded with large trucks with media equipment, people who looked like they knew what they were doing scurrying about, sight seers, policemen – and women- directing traffic. When asked what was happening, a smiling policewoman explained that they were taping an episode of NCIS on the block. Ahhhh.
Our last meal of our vacation in New Orleans was to be oysters. There was an Oyster bar on Bienville not far from our hotel. We bantered with the sidewalk staff about the excitement on the street, entered, and prepared to be pleased. Janet and Sandra ordered a cup of Gumbo and a half dozen oysters on the half shell. Simple enough. I, on the other hand, had not had Jambalaya or fried oysters all week and felt it would be remiss not to have them now.
Big mistake. My memory was full of the lightly coated, lightly fried, briny tasting, plump oysters we had had last year on the outer banks of South Carolina. I saw no reason not to expect the same quality here in New Orleans in a restaurant with the name Oyster Bar. Au contraire mon chere.
It need not be discussed at length. I will merely offer that the Jambalaya was tasteless and dry and the oysters resembled a plate full of corks. It was too close to plane time to complain or send them back… I ate some, paid the bill and left a disappointed diner. Oh well, I still had the wonderful memories of all the great meals we had enjoyed.
We arrived at the hotel, called for our luggage from the storage room, said more good-byes to the staff who had been so helpful, and waited for the cab that the concierge had called.
The trip to the airport was pretty routine. The cost was $15 per person for two or more. Something to remember if you need to decide between the Airport Shuttle and a taxi. Remember the shuttle cost $20 per person.
We were flying different airlines and deposited at different departure gates. Hugs and good-byes all around and promises to text when we arrived home.
As much as we had enjoyed our excitement-filled week in the Crescent City, already, our thoughts were on where we would spend next year’s Girls’ Getaway.
(Photos for this escapade can be found on the facebook: The Untethered Tourist. Click on PHOTOS on the header, then again on ALBUMS)
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