Stormy New Orleans

There's thunder and lightening tonight in the Big Easy. Fitting, given the serious and reflective nature of the day. Sorry ... not many laughs for you tonight.

Another carb-loading episode this morning for breakfast. Why do these hotel chains think offering you up a choice of waffles, bagels, cereal, English muffins, toast, oatmeal and danish is a good idea? It makes me want to go back upstairs and take a nap, even though I know housekeeping wants me out so they can make their rounds. At least this place adds greasy sausages and microwaved eggs to the options.

There's also another small problem. Why in the world don't these hotels have fans in the bathrooms? Do they think patrons don't poo on vacation? Three women trapped in Cajun country with red beans and rice on the menu ... is a recipe for disaster. I pat myself on the back for packing Febreeze.

On to our day. Our first stop is the World War Two Museum. I have a closet obsession with WWII history. That ... and documentaries. WWII documentaries are a particular bonus. Our visit to the museum is particularly special as my grandfather was at Pearl Harbor when it was bombed. He died a few years back, and this is something he would have really loved. Grandma regales us with stories about how they met during the war as pen pals, and about what it was like for him in the South Pacific, and her in nursing school. Her eyes get red as she relives memories I can only imagine.

I knew Grandpa was a company clerk during the war in the 25th Armory Division (he later moved to the 24th and became an MP). I knew he never fired a weapon. But today I learn something new. I learn HOW he got the office job that probably saved his life, while he and my grandmother's friends died. As they were assigning details, the guys were asked if anyone could type. My grandfather stepped forward. He couldn't even put paper in the machine, let alone type. I wonder if this makes him a coward. Or maybe it's genius. Then I recognize it's the same opportunistic nature his granddaughter inherited.

I also inherited his hunt-and-peck typing skills. This entire blog, and my life, really -- one key at a time.

The next step is a city tour with Javier Cuellar (our driver and GM of Dixie Tours) and Chris San Marco (our tour guide). I can't say enough about these guys -- they are hands-down THE company to tour with in New Orleans. Just lovely, lovely people. They really went out of their way to make sure we got a thorough tour and plenty of photo-ops. Chris teased us, but answered every question we threw at him.

We run through the French Quarter, looking at the infamous balconies jutting out over the streets and galleries jutting out over the banquette (that one's for you, Chris!) We see the balcony where Elvis sang in the movie King Creole (see pic).

We head to the 9th Ward, the area devastated by Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Chris was living in St. Bernard Parish when Katrina hit, in the home he and his wife raised their family in for forty years. On August 29th, a 23-foot wall of water washed their lives away.

It took a month for the water to recede enough for Chris and his wife to return. When they did, all they could do was sit in the car and cry. When they fled, they left behind everything. When they returned -- very little remained. Lost in muck a foot high on the floors of their family home ... were their memories. Their childhood pictures. Their wedding pictures. Photos of their kids growing up. The things that make life -- life -- gone.

And much of life in this place remains absent, save slabs of concrete where houses containing other people's pictures used to be. Can you imagine your neighborhood, full of life and vibrancy one day. Vacant the next. A sense of community, and then nothing. No friendly neighbors waving across the fence. No kids playing in the backyard. No smells from summer barbecues. Just silence. Like a graveyard. I find this point driven home by the photos I've taken today. Steps that lead to nowhere, looking sadly like a grave marker for a life that used to be.

Chris says he and Javier could do two tours a day seven days a week before Katrina, and still turn business away. Post-Katrina, this is the first tour he's done in 15 days. Most people think the French Quarter and other touristy areas of New Orleans were also ravaged by water, but it's a false assumption. These areas suffered storm damage, but nothing as devastating as the effects of the loss of tourism.

Come to New Orleans. Eat beignet. Drink bloody mary's. Drive around with Chris and Javier. It's the best thing you can do to help.

And a sneaky way to help yourself with a visit to this fabulous city.

Mom Saves My Ass ... Mr. O's Special Sauce & The Michael Freeman Experience

Mom Saves My Ass

We arrive in Slidell for our Honey Island Swamp Tour. I've talked to Paul on the phone who tells me he's been doing this for 27 years. He's cute. I meet him and a very business-like Paul Jr. when we arrive. As soon as we lay down our $23 each for the 2-hour tour, we're shooed down to the loading dock by Captain Charlie.

A few minutes later we're zipping down the Pearl River hunting alligators. Our fearless leader warns us to keep our body parts away from the sides of the boat as we approach the first of two fat gators. I'm preoccupied considering the environmental ramifications of Charlie feeding these big scaly monsters marshmallows and hot dogs. But the beasts are actually jumping out of the water for a taste of unmentionable pig parts -- so who am I to judge?


Sally is the big gator that's finally on our side of the boat, munching on marshmallows. While I'm happily snapping pictures, she's circling ... looking for treats. I'm not paying attention. I lean back -- against the railing. Mom's yelling at me. Charlie's looking nervous. I look from them to the huge gator eying my butt. Sure, it's a very tasty looking morsel -- if I do say so myself. And certainly more substantial than wieners and raw smores.

I sit down.


Mr. O's Special Sauce

It's a quick drive from Slidell into New Orleans. We take a long long walk around the French Quarter, stopping to eat biegnet (pronounced behn-yay) and drink cafe au lait at Cafe Du Monde. Mother of God, my mouth has died and gone to heaven. Grandma is eating powdered sugar by the spoonful, and spilling enough of it across her bosom to make her look like a sloppy coke head. This may just be the best $10 we spend on the trip.

BEFORE



AFTER



As Mom stops to shop at Chicos, we walk on. She doesn't want to spend enough to avoid bugs in the bed ... but she's got a twenty or two for a new outfit. Eeesh. I realize it's 5:00 somewhere ... and I need a drink. Hello, blood mary. Get this -- you can buy a drink here and WALK AROUND. I might relocate. God bless America ... and the girl that made me this drink. I swear -- it's the best damn bloody mary I've ever tasted. I actually walk back to where I bought it to thank her for making my life miserable. I'll never find it's equal.

Which I am completely convinced of a half hour later as mom and I grab two more to sip while we're relaxing in the pool. It's not as good -- sorry, Bartender John. But he does give us great tips on other places to hit later.

We head to Olivier's for dinner. Sadly, there are three other diners in this beautiful third-generation restaurant. Our three generations want authentic creole. The sad part is -- I'm not sure what that tastes like -- thoughI'm unconvinced Emeril would have been impressed with my crawfish ettouffe. The crawfish were sublime, but overall -- it wasn't that flavorful.

Was WAS tasty, however, was the salad dressing. I just about lick my plate trying to figure out what the hell it's made of. I'm told it's a Cajun Garlic Herb Vinaigrette. Blah blah blah. I want to know what's IN Mr. O's special sauce.

That just sounds wrong.


The Michael Freeman Experience

Talk about sauce ... or SAUCED. We head to Bourbon Street to catch a little blues at the Funky Pirate. Big Al Carson is playing. All I can say this large man lives up to his name and reputation (thanks for the tip, John) . The acoustics are terrible, and sadly Grandma's hearing aids can't keep up with the squealing from Big Al's equipment, so we move on.

As we're walking down the street, littered with drunk people, a curious things happens. Enter Michael Freeman. Out of nowhere, this young kid runs up and asks us to take a picture with us. Must be something about this old lady -- dressed in all black like she's heading to a funeral -- on Bourbon Street. I'm mean, the woman looks good in black -- but she's hobbling a bit after walking so much and we're a sight, I am sure.

I digress. Michael Freeman is very enthusiastic. I am sure he must be drunk, though the girls are eating it up. I tell him and his friends about the book and he goes crazy. I ask him to send us the pictures, but nobody has a pen and I am out of our business cards. I run into the closest place I can find to jot down our email address.

I'm gone less than five minutes.

When I come back, Michael Freeman has an arm around both of them and Grandma is wearing like eight strands of Mardi Gras beads. Do you know what you have to do to get Mardi Gras beads in New Orleans? As I explain it to her, she pulls her shirt away from her body and peers inside. I'm not sure what she's thinking, but I'm SURE it's time to get back to the hotel.

It's like Grandmas Gone Wild.