For those of you who have known me for a while you would know that I am not easily rendered speechless. A weekend in New Orleans has left me so. An absolutely unbelievable city and that is only the limited amount I saw of it. Like no other American city. The most un-American city in this vast country / continent.
Friday
My flight to Dallas went from Sydney which means I had to go via Brisbane domestic airport to get there. This left a very short transit / connection time in Sydney and no option for duty free. I was lucky to get the plane, really really bad idea and I wouldn’t do that again. After about 16 ½ hours in the air I arrived at Dallas Fort Worth at the same time and day that I left Sydney as we crossed the International Date Line and I rendezvoused with Rosemarie and we headed off for a weekend in Loo-eazy-anna. Arriving in Nawlins about 19:00 and the jazz bands were already in full swing – it looks like this place was just made for me!
We were camped at the Crowne Plaza right on the corner of Canal and Bourbon Street – perfect!
One quick shower later and Rose and I rendezvoused with Dave for our first coldie and oysters of the weekend.
I didn’t realise that this place was as (in)famous for its food – especially seafood – as it is for its jazz and blues. I’m not trying to get a job writing restaurant critiques for glossy magazines, I loathe all those reality cooking shows and I’m not given to wanky phrases like “dahling, it is simply to die for” to describe food, but (and you’ll just have to trust me on this one) the weekend was one long culinary orgasm. That registered about 8:9 on the Richter Scale. And – it lasted all weekend! I think in two days I must have added 10 kilos and taken 10 years off my life (but that would be the years at the end and they’re sh1te anyway) so it’s a double win really.
Having gone into a seafood frenzy we did the obvious and added a tick to the box of life’s experiences. A stroll down the infamous Bourbon Street. The atmosphere in, and generated by one of the most famous streets in the world is very difficult to describe in words and photos. You can see, hear, smell, touch and taste it but not adequately articulate it. It’s a cacophony of chaos and colour, a kaleidoscope of activity, noise and parties. It’s one big street party and the only rules seem to be that everyone has to have a good time. Even the cops.
Having a seasoned tour guide with us we were very quickly in Pat O’Brien’s drinking ‘Hurricanes’ well the singular actually. They are enormous and mostly rum and I knew the outcome of the night was inevitable then! First place I’ve ever come across flaming fountains, neat idea and I think I’ll have one when I’m rich.
Everyone is really friendly and although it is packed it’s really easy and natural to gatecrash a couple of spare seats at a table and strike up conversations with complete strangers. I’m perfectly comfortable doing this but not everyone is always happy to be gatecrashed elsewhere, not a problem in Nawlins. I ended up chatting to a bloke who knew much of my old stomping ground as he was dragged around whilst his dad served 22 years in the Royal Navy. You meet some really interesting people. Having to wait until you’ve finished your drink before you leave the pub is not a problem as you are allowed to drink on the street. This is great coming from Australia as our nanny state does not let us do this (obviously we aren’t old enough to be responsible). The only stipulation is that you pour it into a plastic cup and leave the glasses in the bars. Masses of bucket sized plastic cups are in racks on the wall by the door. This is just so foreign to me it just has to be done for that reason alone.
The evening atmosphere is ambient but balmy and quite close, it can get really humid and sweaty, a bit like being in Cairns. That coupled with the amount of people on the street which is, at times, just like trying to walk through one large mosh pit means you don’t go out wearing your best bib and tucker. It’s a good idea to drink water. All the time. There is so much to see and do, you can’t spend too long in one place. Next stop was The Cats Meow http://catskaraoke.com/ karaoke bar and probably better left to the younger generation but once you’re on stage – anything goes.
It’s probably just as well I didn’t make it up there, I could just see those kids were begging for a rendition of ‘Geno’ by Dexys Midnight Runners. All the bars – and there are loads of them – are constantly in massive competition for custom so they are all offering drinks promos, usually things like “big assed beers” which made me smile and “three for one” (not two but three). So for $6 you can get the best part of a litre of beer. You know it makes sense! We weaved our way through the throngs of street artists, musicians and performers and a special mention has to go to the kids who have coke bottle lids glued to the bottom of their shoes to make tap dancing shoes – way to go kids. I gave him $10 for ingenuity.
Right at the far end of Bourbon St is one of its most famous establishments founded by the pirate Jean Lafitte. For his entire life, Lafitte insisted he was a ‘Privateer’ and if you called him a pirate to his face, he would challenge you to a duel to defend his honour. He has to be honoured as the only frenchman in history with any bottle. It was originally a blacksmiths shop and the building is believed to date back to 1722. It’s still called Lafittesblacksmithshop It is the oldest bar in the United States (see they do have some history).
It has been declared a national historic landmark. There is only electricity to power the beer fridges and the till(s), everything else is candlepower creating an eerie but not creepy feel. It’s quite easy to picture the place and the customers in the 1800’s – me hearties – arrrrrr. They have a piano bar where you all crowd around and sing and dance along, an absolutely brilliant atmosphere. He even played ‘A Land Down Under’ for Dave and I, salutes to that pianist.
A completely unique experience. I knew it was going to be a hard place to top but we gave it a go (all in the name of dedication you understand). Many of the other bars and clubs fade vaguely into one hazy memory of unbelievable musical talent and ridiculously sized drinks. Now comes the time we have to educate you on some of the things that happen on Bourbon St. All the buildings down the strip have balconies on the 2nd, 3rd, 4th levels and they are all crowded with the drinking and the drunk.
Rose asked Dave and I if we knew about ‘the beads’. Blank looks and vacant stares meant an obvious ‘no’. Everyone on the balconies has loads of highly coloured (and very cheap) strings of beads. Plastic bling at its finest. We were instructed to watch as we zigzagged down the street. You notice ‘negotiations’ taking place between the balconies and various girls on the street and then the beads are thrown down and suddenly the girls have their tops up (or down) and those puppies are out! What the…?
Yep right there on the street there is mammary flesh everywhere, it happens with amazing regularity. The idea being the girls collect as many beads as possible, not for any other reason than fun and then they whip them out anywhere and everywhere they want. It’s just a good ole New Orleans tradition, as old as the pirates that started the first bars here. I just wish I had a pair so I could join in the fun – I felt quite left out.
The only obvious and sensible thing to do now was to procure some beads and assume a position on a balcony. We did and we did and probably the less said about the rest, the better. Interesting to see how many girls were giving beads to other girls….
[Sorry no photos of those occurrences, it’s not that kind of blog].
The obligatory shot-seller came round with masses of multi-coloured test tubes full of more different coloured liquids than you would find in the average chemistry laboratory. I’m a great proponent of ‘When in Rome’ and we agreed to go for four of something which I knew was reckless but I’d slipped into that alcohol induced state where everything seems like a good idea at the time. Said shot-seller had the most enormous cleavage and inserted a couple of tubes into that cavernous cavern of heaving bosom and instructed me to drink them from there.
As I did, she grabbed a hold of my head and pulled me right forward into her whilst I was trying to swallow which of course induced the natural gag reflex and I sprayed the contents all over her leaving her cleavage all hot, wet and sticky. Enough said. She then took a couple of test tube shots, unzipped the bloke next to me and inserted the test tubes into his zip and she did them from there. His girlfriend didn’t seem very impressed. We’d been talking to him minutes earlier and he’d just flown his girlfriend down from New York to propose to her (let’s big it up for young love and romance).
That’s about the last thing I can remember. Apparently we ended up in an establishment of questionable / dubious reputation but as I have zero recollection of that – it doesn’t count. About 4am we called it a night and together with the rest of the drunk and insane I set off a very wobbly course for home and bed. I’d been up for 39 hours.
Saturday
Predictably I woke up and wished I hadn’t. Ever. That Hurricane I drank the night before had left Hurricane Katrina in my head. Or it could have been the shots. Or the 8 litres of beer. Etc. It is so warm and humid that even the cold water is warm and it’s impossible to get a cold shower. When you really need one. With commendable planning I had brought some panadol with me so I worked out how many would kill me and backed it off by a couple. It had zero effect, a bit like trying to kill a buffalo by hitting it on the arse with a rolled up newspaper. We breakfasted at Brennans a tradition that is truly unforgettable. Turn back the clock to a time when the aristocrats dined in leisurely elegance when breakfast was served on the patio amidst the soft rustle of exotic plants, a refreshing breeze from palmetto fans and the romantic aroma of magnolia blossoms. Truly a gastronomic phenomenon. It hasn’t changed. In centuries.
We had a walk down to the markets. However, just as we arrived at Jackson Square where the cathedral is, I was hit by a tsunami of jet lag and passed out on the grass ‘neath the shade of a large palm tree where Rose left me asleep for <insert number of> hours.
Nawlins is hot. A lot. This was not a good day to be walking out in the blistering heat and humidity. With a hangover. And jet lag. Lucky I had a nurse with me! That was me out for the count for the rest of the day and I retired for a siesta. I regained consciousness a few hours later and Rose and I headed out about 8pm, leaving Dave to take in the NFL game between the New Orleans Saints and the Dallas Cowboys. Apparently the stadium is big enough to seat half of China!
Our own evening out was a much more sedate affair void of the previous evenings frenetic drinking. Muriels restaurant is a beautiful old building, originally a warehouse or something like that and legend has it that it was once the scene of a grizzly murder (as opposed to a murder which is not grizzly?) and the ghost of the victim still haunts the building. Muriel’s Jackson Square Great for publicity and PR! They probably don’t need to do that with the quality of food they serve, it was (dahling) simply to die for. Talking of service there are some things the yanks do really well (there are some things they do really badly as well but let’s stick to the positives) and when it comes to customer service you are unlikely to be able to top them. Sometimes people were so nice and polite and helpful I had to be sure they weren’t being sycophantic but they weren’t, they were genuine. It was just so refreshing from what I’m used to. After demolishing Nawlins finest seafood and a bottle of New Zealand Oyster Bay Merlot, we took a more leisurely evening stroll but the result was the same. First stop was The Bayou Club real ragin’ Cajun music.
No sooner had we walked in the door then the big black guy on the washboard pointed at Rose and beckoned her over. He grabbed the spare washboard and spoons and there she is jammin’ with the band on Bourbon St. We can’t all say we’ve done that. But I’m not jealous. Much. At all. Every bar we went into, every musician was amazingly talented. Jazz, blues, cajun – everything. Musical paradise!
One of the many piano bars we stopped in had a special guest who came and said hello – Cuba Gooding Jr. He’s down there making a movie “donde esta el dinero?”
Even though this was a sedate (by local standards) we still pulled it through till 4am, possibly stopping by restaurants and consuming vast quantities of food. Had some great oysters about 2:30am served by Cory who took a bit of a shine to me.
Sunday
My re-acquaintance with consciousness wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as Saturdays. We breakfasted or more accurately had the ‘Jazz brunch’ at Mr B’s Bistro http://www.mrbsbistro.com/ on the corner of Royal and Iberville Streets right in the heart of the French quarter.
Yet another top place and the breakfast/brunch jazz trio were outstanding. There was an old guy on the banjo who could sing just like Louis Armstrong, what an amazing character. What an amazing experience. There’s a dress code here, I had to have a jacket over my t-shirt. That casual would not be allowed on an evening but early was OK. Check out the requirements if you’re going to go.
Another gargantuan calorific intake and we took a stagger up to see the mighty Mississippi – the river that forged a nation.
I still remember watching all those Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn films when I was a kid and here, I was in front of the source of all Mark Twain’s novels and characters. Twain (real name Samuel Longhorne Clements) was born during a visit by Haleys comet, he said he would go out with it as well. He died the day after it’s next visit. If you don’t know how/why he got the name Mark Twain – look it up. It comes from the paddle boats and river he loved. Those magnificent boats plied their trade up and down this leviathan river for centuries, now they ply camera wielding tourists. I wonder what it was like for the first settlers, sighters and crossers. What would they have thought when they first happened upon the river when it was surrounded by the same things that had been there for 500 years? 5,000 years?
We caught the street car (not named Desire) down to the area where many artists ply their wares. More amazing talent.
I managed to make it to the French markets today.
Typically, I would avoid anywhere with the ‘f’ word in the title but I made an exception on this occasion. I will concede it is good for souvenirs, as the little sax playing jazzman in my bar at home can testify
and of course acquired the ‘been there, done that’ t-shirt. The markets have been around since about 1790 which makes them the oldest public market in the country, originally started by the Native American (Red) Indians to trade with the french.
The rest of the day was spent chillin’ out which is pretty much what Nawlins is designed for. Caught up with Dave for a quick beer, then went and watched the sunset over the mighty Mississippi and finally off to the airport for an overnighter in Dallas before a week’s work in Houston.
In summary:
New Orleans, Nawlins. You relax, go crazy, drink, dance, lose control, people watch like never before, you eat and drink yourselves stupid on delicious cajun food and very potent hurricane drinks. You experience a melting pot of sights, sounds and smells you’ve never encountered before and you never will again until you return. Because you will. This city doesn’t let anyone off that easily.
The Big Easy – one of the world’s most fascinating, most original cities. I’ll be back!