Tag Archives: New Orleans

Baby, please don’t go

I had bagged an absolute bargain with the mystery deal on Bookit and ended up in the Intercontifuckingnental just 2 blocks away from the French Quarter. I figured it was probably the last time I was going to get to enjoy luxurious bedding and a beautifully apointed bathroom, for quite some time. But it does feel a bit weird walking into a foyer of a 4 star hotel with a dirty backpack on. The staff were nothing but gracious.

I went out exploring straight away, wandering down Royal St with all its beautiful little galleries and gift shops.

I landed in a Gumbo restaurant, sampling the local fare: gumbo soup, creole shrimp, jambalya and rice & refried beans (which i have to say, I’m not a big fan of – and yes, I know this is going to be problematic when I get to Central America). I was served by a very handsome waiter by the name of Bennett, who had the laziest Louisiana drawl…

This was just the start of me falling in love with Nawlins boys all over the shop. These men would have to be the politest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, they clearly love women and were just raised right. I came to love the sound of their dulcet tones lingering all over my skin. Everyone calls you M’am or Miss or more often than not, Baby. I loved it.

It was a lot more humid here than in Houston. This place was sticky, and sexy, and sultry. Hot, in more ways than one.

It also struck me as being quite European. The French and Spanish influences over architecture, food and attitude was everywhere. New Orleans a heartbeat, a soul kinda feelin you won’t find elsewhere in the States. Don’t get me wrong – there’s also a terribly touristy and terrifically tacky side to all this too. Strip shows, souvenir shops selling everything from colorful shiny beads to plastic voodoo dolls.

But what got me, was Everywhere there was music. Sweet sweet music. My kinda music. Blues, jazz and old school rhythm and blues.

And a fair bit of psydeco, which really ain’t my bag, but it’s easy enough to avoid what you don’t like for what you do.

I saw bits and bobs of bands banging out tunes, all up and down Bourbon St ‘lmost every day i was in New Orleans. But the one act that sticks out the most in my mind, was an a’capella group: 5 suited and booted beautiful, big black men harmonizing their lil hearts out under a gas street light, late one night.

The Street gets going around midday and doesn’t relent until the wee hours of the morning. It’s a cacophony. Of sounds, sights, smells. And just was it was in Vegas, you got people wandering around with drinks in their hand from start to finish. It’s no dramas to buy a drink in one bar and take it into the next.

On my first day, I got caught without an umbrella in a flash hailstorm. I dashed into the nearest pub which, I later discovered, was famous for the introduction of Hurricanes, a popular cocktail right across town. Inside, it was dark as night, and people were smoking and listening to some dirty swampy blues. When I went to the restroom, i had to pass through an old venue which apparently only comes alive at night; on the stage, two beautiful old grand pianos proudly stood. I was reminded of the time I saw Christa’s dad, Dick Hughes and Leonie, the pianist from her band, dueling in the Studio.

Later that night, I met up with a guy I met via Couchsurfing, to see his band play in a dive bar on the outskirts of the Quarter, in an area called called Marigny. It was all loud experimental slash post punk slash indy rock slash slash slash. Noise. And to be fair, it was noise done well. But I got over that kind of ‘music’ in 3rd year of uni. I was knackered and bailed for bed in the witching hour.

On Wed morning, I got my hair cut by a young lass who managed to fuse countrygrl with edgy fashonista. She was all tatts and pretty red curls. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth but she knew what was what. She directed me to the cool part of town- a street peppered with cafes spilling over with locals and vintage shops filled with gorgeous things i didn’t need or couldn’t carry.

I met another couchsurfer, a visiting Swede, for a tasty seafood lunch. And then we just cruised around for a while, poking around in the shops by the riverfront.

The next day, I went back to buy a beautiful hand crafted Mardi Gras mask from a vivacious Iranian woman I’d met on my 1st day. Everywhere you could buy cheap and nasty, plastic, made in China versions. This shop was the real deal. I watched her handsome cousin make one while I was there. We made plans to catch up on my last night.

In the afternoon, I met up with the Swede to take the last working paddleboat down the Mississippi. She was an absolute beauty, working hard to make her way down a big ole dirty brown river with many stories, and a lot of history attached to it.

A body of water which constantly gives the people, who choose to live by it, such a hard time – but clearly she holds so much appeal they can’t tear themselves away. We saw some of the remains of the devastation that Katrina had wreaked.

People here are very loyal to the city and all it stands for. They have rebuilt and bounced back. Their attitude is about living in the moment, celebrating the now.

I got to go down into the engine room of the Nachez, much to the satisfaction of the tomboy in me. Old machinations fascinate me. Plus, I got a happy snap of me with the Captain!

The Swede had organized a meet up with some of the Couchsurfing locals, so I tagged along. A bar called Love Lost. I immediately got chatting to an interesting bloke at the bar whose job was a town planner, who specialized in the prevention of homicides. We discussed best ways to murder a person and the imminent demise of his relationship.

I later teamed up with some of the locals for some pool (those who know me, know I have a very small window where I can actually play pool and it’s somewhere between the fifth and eighth drink. I think I was on drink number 9 by this stage).

They had the coolest jukebox ever, all rock and roll and blues and GOOD singlalong stuff. None of this Shits of Summer 99 rubbish. They even had some ACDC. And it was something stupid like 8 songs for 2 quarters. I was in jukebox heaven!

It was still so warm even at midnight, and i wanted to walk home but the boys insisted on hailing me a cab. I slept well that night.

On Friday, my last day, I had a lazy day, just eating and sleeping and reading and writing.

I later met Sha’hlha and her handsome cousin for a few drinks which turned into a lot of drinks and then a lot of shots, and I think there might have been some karaoke and maybe a pash. With the handsome cousin, whose name I can’t even remember now. He walked me home.

And then I went back out. To get a shrimp po’boy. Note to self: tequila and prawns no more. I woke up at 7 for my flight, cursing my inability to expel nausea in the usual way. I just felt crook for the whole flight to Mexico. When will I learn.

11 June

Going back to Houston

Some days my “on a wing and a prayer” style of traveling doesn’t always work out for me. I could do to be a bit more organized. In my defense, I am getting better at not holding up international flights.

So from Memphis, I had originally thought i would get a car, drive to Nashville, have a look around, and then fly to Houston from there. Mistake Number 1: I’d let my credit line run out.
I did have money but a bank transfer that should have taken hours took days, and therefore, i couldn’t hire a car.

No dramas. I’d just take the train.

Find out there are no trains direct from Memphis to Nashville.

Okay, so I’d just take the Greyhound. Next available was the next morning and meant I’d be cutting it fine to make my flight but it was doable. Provided the buses ran on time. I was assured they, yes m’am, they absolutely do.

Found out they don’t.

After a near 2 hour wait, in a terminal filled with a bunch of toothless hillbillies & a bunch of other, let’s call them ‘interesting’ characters, we piled onto the bus an hour late. Then we were asked to get back off the to pack our own bags into the bottom of the bus. I did a quick calculation, 40-something passengers… This would take at least 20 minutes. There was no way i was going to make my flight.

A bouncy haired, sassy young mother by the name of Lisa who I’d befriended in the line, suggested it was possible i could still make my flight if I drove.

I checked my credit card again, and the money had gone through. So I decided to revert to Plan A.

I tried googling the number of the car rental place up the road. Wireless had dropped out. I left my bag with Lisa and asked her to watch it while I did a mad dash about 1/2 mile in 35 degree heat with approximately 90% humidity – only to find they had no cars.

Mistake Number 2: I didn’t swap phone numbers with Lisa. Running back, I started worrying I would now miss the bus. In retrospect, I’m not sure why I was worried about making a bus that was going to make me late for my flight.

I ran back just in time to see the bus take off around the corner.
Mistake Number 3: not being clear with Lisa what she should do with my bag, in the event this happened. Yes, I know, I’m a bloody idiot.

No sight of my bag. I ran to the info desk guy, screaming at him to Stop. The. Bus. My bag was on it. Nashville. Late. Flight. Houston. Missed. Yell, yell, yell. Because it’s very helpful to yell in a situation like this.

He just laughed at me, dripping with sweat carrying on like a maniac and told me to calm down – he had my bag.

Hadn’t i got my car, he wanted to know. I explained my situation to him and he and a sweet lady started helping me work through my options.

I’d change my flight. It would cost me an extra $50. But I still had to get to Nashville. The next bus was cutting it fine again, and i certainly didnt want to go through this whole ordeal twice in one day. And besides i wouldn’t get to Houston until midnight.

Or I could fly from Memphis for an extra $400. And still get there at 7pm. By this stage all I wanted was a solution. And a couple of shots of tequila. It was only 1030 in the morning. I took the flight from Memphis.

We stopped in Dallas, and the flight was delayed for about an hour. I think for Morgan Freeman.

When I arrived at Houston, I did my usual thing of freshening up in the restroom before going to the baggage claim area. Let everyone else scrabble for theirs first, mine’s usually waiting for me. There were a couple of bags circulating restlessly but mine was nowhere to be seen. Then I got a tap on the shoulder by an airport official. Not what anyone wants.

“Did you just come in from Dallas, m’am?”
yes.
“Do you have your bag identification tag?”
yes.
“Come with me, please”

I feel my blood pressure rising for the second time that day.

“Your bags are still in Dallas, m’am”
I justed started laughing.
of course they’re in freakin Dallas. Where else would they be.
“pardon me, m’am?”
nothing.

Basically I wouldn’t get my bags until the following day. They gave me a toiletries bag. I asked them if they had spare pairs of panties. They laughed. I was being serious.

I got to Dave’s quite late. Jamie greeted me with a big hug. Dave handed me a beer and introduced me to his gorgeous wife, Rita. I reckon that was the best beer I’ve ever drank in my life. I was very glad to be in Houston. Finally.

***

That night, we went to a few different places to catch up, drink and listen to music. The thing that has struck me most about the bars, pubs, and clubs right across the States is there really is such a diversity in look and feel… Pubs in Australia tend to be quite homogenous by comparison.

We spent the weekend at a music festival called Freepress Summerfest. Started by a street press publication, it is now in its 3rd year and has already featured the Flaming Lips and Yeasayer on the bills. This was a “small” festival for Texas, with just 50k odd goers. It was damn hot all weekend with temperatures peaking at just over 40 degrees. I met a good bunch of Rita and Dave’s friends and a big day was had on the 1st day.

We had some dramas on the 2nd day, because I hadn’t been issued with a festival wristband, only an alcohol wristband. I got into a lengthy argument with the volunteer gatekeepers, who were insistent that I would have received one. I hadn’t. They were clear they had no intention of letting me in because I was supposed to have kept it on. This then escalated into a very heated debate with various other people who couldn’t help me and a couple of arrogant hick cops on a power trip. I was insisting on seeing a paid event manager, and was starting to lose my shit. I was almost at the point of getting myself arrested when Rita and a couple of good cops saved the day. We were escorted around to a side gate of the festival and I was given a new wristband and told to avoid the front entrance when leaving that night. We ended up having a great day (a bit more subdued than the Sat, but fun nonetheless) and I was especially stoked to sneak backstage to congratulate Cut Copy, who one of the last acts of the day, on an awesome gig. They have a massive following in Texas, and were a perfect way to end the weekend.

The next day I just mooched about the neighborhood, poking around in vintage clothes shops looking for a pair of cowboy boots (sadly none to be found) and got myself organized for New Orleans over a couple of iced teas.

I shared a lovely Tex Mex meal with the boys, Rita and her cute-as-a-button little girl and turned in early for a stupid o’clock flight bound for Louisiana.

7 June