Jessie Goes….

As anyone who has read enough of these blogs knows by now… I have trouble writing those last few days of each trip. But, instead of a final story on Birmingham and the trip back, I’ll give you a few factoids postscript style!

Here’s some facts, figures and musing as I find myself back in Tampa today:

Total Miles Traveled: 2047

Average Price of Gas/Gallon April, May 2008(Most Expensive): $3.45 ($3.59)

Average per day cost in gas: $30 bucks

Average Lodging Cost: $75

Most Expensive Lodging Cost after tax: $130 (Birmingham, AL)

Cheapest Lodging Cost: $18 (Lafayette, LA)

Things I wish my rental car had: Cruise Control. 50mpg. GPS.

Moon Pies encountered (eaten): 3 (2.5)

Number of Days with rain: 2

Number of Nights spent in tin shack during tornado warnings: 1

Number of Times car was up to its headlights in flash flood: 1

Number of Days with Temps above 80 degrees F, despite warnings: 1

Best (Worst) Views of the Mississippi River: Vicksburg, MS (River Road, LA)

Number of Times ate Red Beans and Rice: 4

Number of Times ate Oysters: 3

Number of Days where no fried food was included: 1 – there was a flood and tornados, didn’t eat dinner, ate moonpies which to my knowledge are not deepfried.

Alligators spotted: 25+

Great Blue Herons: 5

Snakes: 2

Vampires: 0

Boat breakdowns: 1

Times when Mapquest or Google Maps was way wrong: 4

Times when roadsigns said left, but meant right or straight: 6

Times I crossed the Mississippi (times by accident): 6 (2)

Number of hours of driving Sprint got zero phone service: 8

Voodoo dolls acquired: 2. watch out people, I haven’t assigned em yet!

One other quick note on general knowledge gained: here is a list of words New Orleans residents really really pronounce “unusually”: Chartres Street (said Charters), Burgundy Street (said Bur-GUN-dy), Vieux Carre (said voo ka-RAY), Calliope (said Cal-e-OPE)

And Finally, the basic route: Tampa, FL > Apalachicola, FL > Pensacola, FL > New Orleans, LA > Vacherie, LA > Breaux Bridge, LA > Lafayette, LA > Baton Rouge, LA > Natchez, MS > Vicksburg, MS > Clarksdale, MS > Oxford, MS > Tupelo, MS > Birmingham, AL > Montgomery, AL > Tampa, FL

Growing up in southern Virginia the word for uttering obscene phrases was called “cussing.” This was something I rarely did there, and I’ve always attributed this to having much younger siblings in the household with a penchant for uttering these phrases back to you at the most inappropriate of times, to the mortification of visitors.

Then, I moved to NYC, where cussing had never been heard of, but CURSING is an art form. On the trading floors across New York 4-letter words were as common a part of the vernacular as hello, I need coffee, and buy/sell. Elsewhere in the City they also flew out in casual conversations with rapid fluidity.

Now, even back in NYC, my non-trading floor self really tried to keep that language in check – my deep Virginia roots still cringed every time they heard a woman say something, “unbecoming.” Sexist, perhaps, but southern gentility still made some headway into Virginia. Anyhow, I generally reserved it for driving, where I’ll be d@mn*d, j-ck@ss drivers really got to me, tried to kill me often, and let face it – only a passenger or two was ever the worse for wear, and my potty mouthed self faded back into the recesses after just a few minutes.

The entire point of this being, this is the same girl now driving through Mississippi on an actual schedule, with an actual appointment, with someone important.

And, this is the same Mississippi of just a few days previous, only it had lulled me into amnesia by the amazing friendliness of the people, and two days of reasonable driving, with no turns (left or right) required.

D@mn! Sh*t! F— ( I still don’t like that one)!! WHO DESIGNED THE ROAD SYSTEM HERE??

I won’t get into it (die, Tupelo, die!) but suffice it to say, my nearly 2 months of southern “reconditioning” **(about 85% of the time these days I have stopped wishing dead on people, for instance) crumpled completely under the utterly inefficient stupidity.

Get me to Birmingham (lords name in vain), cause, like every good Southerner and NYer, I NEED A DRINK!

**I should note however, I did buy 2 voodoo dolls in New Orleans, so stay out of my way people, I’m not cured yet!

Totally drenched and fearing for my computers life, once again I streaked across what used to be the lawn to my little piece of sharecropper heaven. It was starting to get windy out too, I noticed and no sooner had I been in the door 30 seconds and the power went out. I stared out the window at the insane rain hitting the panes. If it kept up there would be a foot or more of standing water out there.

The lights came back on after about half an hour, and given the increased crappiness of the weather, I decided it was no food for the night, I would just get by on water and 2 moonpies!

I fooled with the old TV, which did get some channels, and as the wind was now really cranking outside and rattling things, I found the local weather. And thats when it dawned on me. We are in serious tornado country, and this continuous line of thunderstorms we’d been having for the past 5 hours was just the kind of thing that causes those things. The news confirmed my suspicions…there had been touch downs all over THIS county, 3 were already dead across the state line in Arkansas, and the weatherman was firmly insisting that all people watching this broadcast get into a safe room, or be prepared at a moments notice to go to the safest part of the house. I looked around me at the corregated tin roofing, and barnwood that surrounded me. “aw, crap (that isn’t what I said, but this is a G rated website)”. There is NO safe place in a shack. I wandered around and decided the shower in the bathroom would have to be it for me. It wasn’t really funny.

An hour passed by and those instances when the power was on, I watched the weatherman pointing out windsheer (it was currently 65mph right outside the window… my car was looking pitiful out there, and its left front wheelwell was totally under water. I was so glad it was a rental). The ground was fully a lake now, and the corregated tin roofs of the barn I could see out the window was flapping up and down in the wind making a racket and inspiring images of ripping off and coming whirling through the air wizard of oz style sheering my head clean off as I looked into the darkness.

Another hour and it was midnight and I just couldn’t take it anymore. My safe place was going to have to be my bed, because I was exhausted, hungry, and still never did get online :). (wifi was definitely out now). So I closed my eyes, visions of floodwater floating my bed across the room and tornados blowing my walls down were dancing through my head.

I woke up in the morning, still alive, still in bed, and all was quiet. A lot wet outside, but the sky was a perfect sunny blue, as if it was pretending it hadn’t done a thing the night before. Power lines were down but the water was receding. I spoke with Bill, the owner who was thanking his lucky stars that morning. Me too. I got in my very wet car, whose floorboards had been flooded, and headed outta town.

I arrive in Vicksburg, perched high above the Mississippi river, about 2 hours to sunset, and make my way through the main street and down a steep enbankment towards the river to the bed and breakfast I’m stay at tonight.     It is surrounded by lovely gardens and feels old and staid.  The front gallery porch among the columns looks out onto the might river in the distance, the sun glinting off the water, and filtering in the cloud of heat rising from the hot southern afternoon.    A riverboat is off towards the right, “gambling” I think. 

The owner, a distinguished looking lady, greets me at the front door, and I fall back as I enter.   The hall is enormous.  The parlor, I can see into on the right from the front door is even bigger .  These rooms are stunning, and eloboratedly period.  The decor is almost like out of a movie, impossibly 1890.   No gaslights though.   This house is easily larger and grader scale then Oak Alley I visited a few days back.

The floor groans lowly as I step into the dimness of the hall.  My host says, stiffening, “ You were due at two” nodding her head a single time, she stares directly at me.

“oh, I didn’t realize….” I trail off not sure of myself, and how to explain the left/right phenomenon..

“it is no matter now, but I must leave immediately.   You are to be the only guest here tonight, and I have to pick up my husband”    She continues without acknowledgment from me “I will not be back before 9pm.   Sunset is at 7:30, and if you should go anywhere, I would suggest you return before then.”

There is a pause, as if its my turn to speak, I manage an ‘ehmmm’.

She turns her head toward the large front porch, “the sunsets over the Mississippi from the porch are not to be missed”….. with that she hands me the key though my hands are already filled with my bags, “one more thing, I would advise you not to go walking around here alone, definitely not at night”.     I look down to situate my bags, my keys and myself, and when I look up, she is gone.    I couldn’t say for sure exactly where she’d gone to, or which door she’d left from (wasn’t the front or the back!), but I was definitely alone.  I could hear my heartbeat in the stillness.

“No other guests” I thought as I dropped my stuff where I stood.  Nobody was there to see me or care that my bags were laying in the middle of the parlor floor.  I said out loud, who knows why, “how odd”. Echos. 

I mean, it is odd!  Alone, completely alone, in someones old drafty mansion, who you’ve met for less than a minute. I run my fingers across the ancient baby grand piano, standing dwarfed by the 14 foot tall windows and massive room, “mostly in tune” I say outloud again.   I saw the reflection of the room across the hall through an enormous gilted mirror whose glass bore that ghostly haze of age.

I giggle a little to myself, it was like being in one of those historic house tours but I could touch things, take pictures, tread on the carpet AND sit on the Victorian settee.  I’m alone and there’s nobody here to see me… I glance up at the 15 foot moulded ceilings, looking suddenly for hidden cameras at this thought.  I have watched waay too many Hollywood movies.  Nope, unless they were cleverly disguised in the eyes of those creepy portraits..(why do all old houses have these things!!?).. there were no cameras to be seen. 

“Cameras…” I laugh again at myself… this time outloud shaking my head as I roll my bag back to my room, imagining all the portrait eyes veering left as I walk down the hall.

My room was the old library, and still is the old library, complete with wood paneled walls, 2 floor to ceiling walls of books, fireplace, wingchairs, a globe, and a dead hunting trophy.  The only thing missing is the massive desk, replaced with an even more massive Eastlake bed and quarter canopy.     Dusty volumes stand guard as I quickly change and store my bags, while sepia toned photos stare back at me from their Victorian framed perches as I give them the once over, dialing Rob to tell him of this turn of events.

“She probably didn’t leave” he says off the bat “she’s somewhere watching you on camera”. 

“I’ve already thought of that, and I’d be a pretty boring subject,  by myself”.   I reply, “wish you were here, we’d be having a ball, walking around in our velvet smoking jackets, with our brandy snifters speaking in fake accents.  The place to ourselves.  I gotta get going though if I want to catch the sunset AND get something to eat, so I’ll call you later?”  Besides, I thought to myself… this place looked as secure as a pasta strainer, and given the ominous warning about walking around by myself, I WANTED to be back here before sunset for more than one reason: namely so I wouldn’t have to let myself into a total dark, soon to be creepy empty mansion.

There are days when all the romance of roadtrips goes out the window.   Lets say, when you fight with your computer to accept the free wifi WEP at your hotel for an hour yet it still never really gets on, so you finally wait in line to use theirs, and get the directions (very specific) from Google maps, so you won’t have the hassles of trying to find your way.     Leaving an hour late, I think, no big deal, as, really I don’t have specific plans, so  I stop off at Café des Amis in Breaux Bridge (I am headed back east, so its on the way), and have a great lunch… spicy broiled shrimp on a croissant (super flakey), with swiss cheese and lettuce.  Super duper good.  The place was homey and fun too.   They host a zydeco lunch on Sundays apparently, but being as it’s a Thursday, it wasn’t in the cards for me.    

So following my trusty Breaux Bridge to Vicksburg map I head East on I-10 towards Baton Rouge, Zydeco music blasting.   Unfortunately, my trusty map failed to tell me that you have to exit onto I-110 to actually catch 61, the route that leads to Vicksburg.   So, 20 minutes later when I’m out on the other side of Baton Rouge, I pull off into some random parking lot and try and pull up MAPQUEST  instead, on my blackberry, which takes 20 minutes of trying, because the search function is apparently on the fritz down at Mapquest.   Anyhow, finally I see the map after zooming like crazy and realize that I-110 is the way to go, and I keep the specific instructions, which say things like… take left exit 2, then take left exit (specifically) 8a!     I should have questioned the rarity of two Interstate left exits in a row.  Turns out that Mapquest is dead wrong too, as 61 is not on a left exit, and as a matter of fact is also not 8A.   deep sigh.     

So, now I’m 2 hours late getting to Vicksburg.  And still a lot of time on the road ahead.    Historic Rt 61 isn’t half bad though, lots of nice plantationy houses, tiny towns, it’s a nice highway, rural enough, beautiful forests, not tons of traffic… would be roadtrip heaven and without my multistop tour of Baton Rouge, I’d have been quite pleased.    In Nachez, (pronounce like matches, not like natCHEZZZ-for some reason all the locals keep telling me this, as if they have some psychic ability which knows I’m about to pronounce it wrong.  They are right, I am.. but still), I picked up the Natchez (again, like matches) – Trace trail, a top notch parkway which went all the way to Vicksburg.    It’s the prettiest thing I’ve seen driving around here.  And no traffic.   I’d say roadtrip-wise, this isn’t to be missed.   Yes, I know its just a road, but trust me.

Of course, to end my lovely day of driving, almost redeemed by Natchez (matches) – Trace Parkway, I get back on rt 61 which comes into Vicksburg and T’s into I-20 West and East, take your pick.. well because there was a sign that said, “DOWNTOWN VICKSBURG, next left” I think to myself….well lets get into left lane, which means we obviously, will be going I-20 West as there are no lefts before hand.  So of course, 3 seconds after I get all the way left, the downtown exit for Vicksburg, was a)4 lanes over on the right, b)was merging with tons of other highways at that point, so even if I could pull a stuntdriver move and get 4 lanes over and down a steep rounded incline ramp from going 65 mph, the 12 cars between me and the exit made that foolhardy, and c) to add injury to insult… it was the ONLY Vicksburg exit on this highway… and yep, you guessed it, on this side of the Mississippi!…. so 20 minutes later after having crossed the Mississippi twice and gone back into Louisiana against my will, I finally made it into Vicksburg.    GRRRRRRRRRRRR.     Whose dumb idea was it to drive this?  

Moral of this story:  when they say left in Louisiana or Mississippi, they actually mean right.  They really do.  There is no such thing as a left here.   They’ve infiltrated Mapquest and Googlemaps too, so don’t be fooled.  Trust no one, and always go right.

Things I did:

Café Des Amis, Bridge Road, Breaux Bridge, right downtown amid the antique shops.   I loved it. Double check plus.

Outside of big cities, the USA doesn’t have a heck of a lot of guesthouses of the hostel type.   A place where you can NOT make reservations in advance and have a good chance of landing a cheap bed, or find yourself in an atmosphere where single travellers can congregate.    Lafayette, probably considered the capital of cajun country, does have one called the Blue Moon Guesthouse.   Clean, has a 50s soda pop vibe, nice front porch, wifi, and computer access and a lovely shared living room area.

My room, for a 4 bunker (which I had alone), was $18/night, linens included.  But enough about that, what was really cool about the place, besides the meet other people travelling vibe, was that its back porch doubled as a little bar and music space, and starting around 7 o’clock, the place was packed with locals toting their instruments ready for a little cajun jam session.   I got myself an abita strawberry ale, and with my flipflops on and t shirt and sweatpants I joined the group for a while, then would go back to my room and do my own thing.  Then back outside for the jam. 

The cajun locals are wonderful.  First they do speak with that accent that can be difficult to follow, and many of them actually speak French.   They are open, abundantly friendly, and the opposite of reserved.   The gentleman I was sitting with, a white haired guy, probably in his 60s asked me my name and where I was from.    No more than 10 minutes later someone else comes up to me and tells me they heard I had lived in Manhattan for a while and was asking me some tips!   It was kind of nice actually, as I didn’t have to keep introducing myself, nor telling the same old stories.  As I obviously was one of the few non locals in the place, everyone got the scoop from each other (quickly!) and introduced themselves. 

There was a special going on tonight at the blue moon… it wasn’t going to be straight zydeco, and actually it looked like a lot of the locals weren’t going to get to rosen up their bows afterall, because hanging out on the back porch with us was Mamadou Diabate, in the area for a local zydeco festival, and also Jazzfest down in New Orleans.    He is a native of Mali (maybe or maybe not Timbuktu, but it sounded better in the title), and plays an instrument that is called a kora, which looks to me like a gourd string base.     In Mali, they have a caste system, and Mamadou grew up in a caste that are specifically musicians (called jeli caste).  You can imagine how much of a master of this instrument this man is to have made his way internationally.    

What a cool things to watch, he played for awhile on his own, what I would guess to be more traditional Malian kora melodies, but then a band of cajun players joined him, and he joined in the zydeco fun.     One of the locals asked me to dance the waltz (which is still danced here, though not exactly a normal waltz), taught me a few steps and whirled me around this tiny space cleared for waltzing activities.   Afterward properly thanked me for the dance, and went on his merry way! 

What I did:

Blue Moon Guesthouse, 1-877-766-BLUE (2583), 215 East Convent St.  Lafayette, LA, http://www.bluemoonhostel.com/index.html

Mamadou Diabate, http://www.mamadoukora.com/

7 people, 2 from Korea (1 who spoke no English – how he ended up in a Louisiana swamp outside of Breaux Bridge is anyones guess), and 1 Cajun, took off in our swamp mobile at 3:30, pushing off the side of the banks of the Cypress Island/Lake Martin Swamp. 

The boat is a dinged up but still sturdy looking crawfish skiff, which, according to the Cajun, can glide along in very shallow water, even mucky mud, without worry.  

MY biggest worry, in the first 1 or 2 minutes, was that here we were, in the swamp, and everyone in the boat wanted to see a ton of ‘grandpapa’ alligators, the really big ones.   For me, it seems much scarier to see them in the boat, where your escape options are a)throw in the elderly lady and hope for the best or b)jump out of the boat that they are attacking, one giant U shaped bite already out of it and slowly sinking, but risk that you are now in the water WITH THEM.    On land, I can zigzag run with the best of them, and to be honest my previous encounters have either been in the back of the house in South Carolina, or on golf courses, both where they just run away to the water.  Also only the ‘safe’ alligators have been left by the “alligator police”, the equivalent of exotic lawn ornaments.   

They also have the element of surprise in the swamp…they can see you, but as they are submerged, you can’t see them. 

Butch, the guide, lets us know that alligators have been around since before dinosaurs, and their basic survival method was 2 part: eat anything smaller than you, and run away from anything bigger than you.    I quickly put my arms and camera back in the boat.   

About 2 minutes into our journey we see a log with not one but two alligators sitting on it.  We get closer.  And closer.   And closer.   They are looking at us, and one slowly lowers himself into the water.   The chatty woman behind me murmurs, “aw, how cute” then “oh, he ran away”, in that baby talk voice.   “He’s not gone!” I think to myself, changing my vote from the elderly lady to her, if one of us has to go, “he’s probably under the boat!”

Butch reminds the portly unsteady gentleman that alligators really do go after things they deem smaller, so standing up in the boat is a bad idea and he shouldn’t do it again.     My guess is it was more to do with his ability to capsize the boat than anything else…. he’d be the second sacrificed, if it had to be that way.  

Anyhow, the alligators did actually run away, and we went to find more, which only took us about 45 seconds.   And then another minute after that, 2 more.  5 more in the next 20 minutes, and so on.   This place is teeming with them.   And of course, as human logic is so backwards this way, the more I saw of them, the less worried I was.  Eh, an alligator, so what, big deal.   Alligator, smalegator.

So, after I too came into my own false sense of security, I really did start to enjoy this swamp.  It is absolutely beautiful.  Turtles (Butch calls em: Gator popcorn), a snake, and thousands of birds.   Great blue herons, ibis, roseated spoonbills, snowy egrets, anhingas, red winged blackbirds, and comorants to name just a few.   They have a rookery at the far end, so its birdy heaven, all amongst the tupelo and cypress trees.  

My second worry, came about an hour and a half into the ride, when Butch decides to motor through a 50 yard clump of water hyacinths.   We rev up, I get lower for streamlining :), and off we go, outboard motor a chugging.  Until we get about a third of the way through…then.  dead.  crank crank crank.  nothing.    Butch starts to pull out his extra parts and go to work, fixing the propeller (he ended up having to put an entirely new propeller on), all while standing in the boat, so as not to get eaten by anything swimming around.     Anyhow, new propeller on, we have two choices. back or forward.   And, here we go, forward.  Crank it up.  Everyone in the front of the boat… chugg chugg chugg, and OUT.  yay.  

But now we don’t have a backup propeller, I think.  And here we are in the densest thickest part of the swamp!  This might be a serious problem, and I could imagine this becoming a 2 hour tour of the Gilligan variety.  Then the Korean guy answered his cellphone which he had brough along, and I figured we probably were pretty saveable, and just let my imagination have a rest.

After learning a lot about swamps, and swamp denizens we were returned to our cars safe and sound about 2.5 hours after setting sail.    Butch, the cajun guide, was incredibly knowledgable, and lent a localness to his tour with stories about his brother in law  (not the sharpest lure in the tacklebox) and what it was like growing up in the swamp.

What I did:

Cajun Country Swamp Tours, Personalized Tours, butchguch@yahoo.com, 337-319-0010.  About 10 mins south of Breaux Bridge, LA. Butch arranged this with me the day before, and there only is a minimum of two people to go out on a tour at the time you’ve come up with.   He coordinated with other folks that called in, to accomodate my schedule and my singleness.  Top notch.  $20 dollars (plus tip)

Another great roadtrip day, near perfect weather, 72 degrees, no humidity and blue skies this morning, so uncharacteristic of New Orleans in May.

First order of business on the day, aside from packing my things back into the car, is a small detour on my way out through the Bywater and Lower 9th Ward neighborhoods to see for myself how things are looking.    I am happy to say thing are looking “under construction.”  Locals have repeatedly mentioned to me during the past few days that things in the past 6-7 months are really coming together.   These two districts which received so much of the devestation are now a mix of total wrecks, construction projects, with a few perfectly restored historical houses rising like phoenixs in the rubble.   Everything is jumbled together with some construction workers, debris, dump trucks, and severly potholed streets, and I saw more than one moving van.   MOVING IN!  It is still appalling that this is coming on three years since Katrina, and this area still looks like this, but at least something is happening, akin to real progress…finally.

Now, don’t get me wrong, there are whole streets down here that still have those memorable red x’s on them saying they were unsafe for habitation.  Many houses have no windows, and a few have pitiful little signs saying “please don’t bulldoze”, waiting still patiently for their owners to return.   In Bywater, 1 or 2 of every 5 houses stands exactly as it did a week after Katrina, and probably 3-4 in the Lower ninth ward.  But those hard hats and u-Hauls are creeping ever closer.  

BTW, I did check out the levees in this area… you must be KIDDING me Army Corps of Engineers!  These things are a quarter of the size of the levees just upriver… a backed up toilet might overflow them.  This really does need to be fixed, or it will repeat itself.    4 feet tall is just too low!

Now, onward! Au revoir New Orleans!  Trying to take the scenic route through rural Louisiana, I hop off I-10 as soon as possible, taking the route known as River Road… where I’ve heard tell of scores of antebellum plantation houses lining the Mississippi.  “How picturesque” my imagination tells me.   Gone with the Wind overlooking the swollen Mississippi, as barges move slowly through.    Well.   I’m here to tell you that it just doesn’t work like that!  There are plantation houses… but you have to get past River Road, and up the 20 foot tall levee to get even a glimpse of the river!! (duh, I knew this, but hadn’t put two and two together with my imagination).    On top of that rural Louisiana isn’t known for its over the top wealth – River Road is home to plantation, shack, mobile home and electro-plant alike.    It was much better in my head.   Oak Alley Plantation, however, was much better in person, despite its lack of river views.

 Apparently, some time in the early to mid 1700s some French chap planted a lane of live oak trees, no house mind you, but a gorgeous lane of trees that he would never live to see the magnificence of.  I’m always baffled by the hardwood lane planter foresight/goodwill.  The planters ‘minds eye’ has to be good enough – because 10 year old oak trees are pretty scrawny looking, particularly spread 20 yards from each other.

One hundred years later a New Orleans boy fell in love with both a girl and the “oak alley”, which was by then looking pretty stately, and decided to build his new wife a beautiful plantation.   This house and many of its 1700 acres of grounds and fields are still in very good repair today.

As is getting to be pretty darn common around here, the architecture is a mix of Greek Revival and southern veranda style, and to keep the occupants cool it sports 16 inch thick brick walls (under plaster), 12 foot ceilings, a 13 foot wide veranda and 2nd floor galleries, both which run on all four sides of the abode.   There are also floor to ceiling windows with cross ventilation symmetry everywhere you look, opening fully like doors to catch the breezes.

Aside from being just a lovely large old house, the history of the family and times comes alive through my period dressed guide, bustling around in a hoopskirt, no less.    Even as wealthy and privileged as this family was, 3 of 6 children died of TB and other illnesses.  makes you stop and think about just how good, the good ol’ days really were.       

Things I did:

Oak Alley Plantation, Restaurant & Inn, 3645 Highway 18 (Great River Road), Vacherie, Louisiana USA 70090

Of course there are a few other things that have influenced New Orleans in the more modern era.  The government, notably during the early 20th century has been famously corrupt and bribe oriented.  Today, some say, just like the chicory in the coffee, the french in the cuisine and the party atmosphere, things come to this city and take up roost, and not much has changed during these hundred years.     This looseness of political office morals has had the city deep in prostitutes, party times, bootlegging, and the requisit music that accompanies it.   The New Orleans style jazz bands, often young, hungry and wildly talented, can be heard throughout the city, as well as many a man and lady singing the blues.  

Traditionally, the New Orleans style of jazz, with Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton and Sidney Bichet among its ranking founders, is a music to be danced to, with a swinging, syncopated, harmonic rhythm.      The band consists of a trumpet, a clarinet and a trombone, as well as some sort of rhythm section, often just a string base or these days, a base guitar.     It is very distinct from, and frankly a lot more fun and catchy than,  Chicago land style and New York City style jazz forms, which were all coming about during the same part of the early 20th century.   New Orleans claims itself to be the birthplace of jazz, and who knows, with its awesome roster of homegrown talent, maybe it is.    It definitely was one of the first cities to allow black populations to congregate and play music (as well as be educated), so the immigrant Haitian, Creole, and the freed black population had a huge influence very early on in the cities life, playing in what is now Louis Armstrong Park.   

Anyhow, I can’t tell you how cool it is to be just walking around and hear music coming out of radios people, which doesn’t sound like the same old alt-rock, I-am-a-depressed-young-man (with the exact same sound as everyone else) tunes or THUMP THUMP THUMP brain numbing rap numbers.   People LIKE jazz, they like blues, they grew up on zydeco and delta tunes.   And youngsters learn how to play instruments, beyond 8th grade band class.   There is something amazing about watching a skinny kid, maybe 17, producing a haunting perfect melody on a horn.    Believe me, its more impressive than rhyming to a base beat any day.

Personally, my favorite place to hear some local jazz is at the Spotted Cat, located on Frenchman street, running just outside the backside of the quarter in the Fauberg Marigny neighborhood.  That street has another of my favorites too, Snug Harbor.  Both have live jazz nightly.  

I got there early, for the first set at the Spotted Cat this evening, around 6:45pm, and its me and the oldtimers hanging on the bar.    I have a date with a Vampire tour (I couldn’t resist one super touristy thing) starting at 8:30 (nightfall – cue the organ music), so given that I passed out last night before actually making it out, tonight it was now or never.  

An hour and half, and a few Abita Strawberries later, I walk lighthearted and quickly through the now dimly lit streets of the back of the quarter, with my to-go cup in hand racing to meet as many vampires as possible.   

“There are two types of vampires” a theatrical young man says to his vampire audience “fictional, and mythical… those are NOT the same.”    What can I say, it was fun, the tour focused on neighborhood history, ghost stories, vampire myths and legends, and true accounts of some crazy new orleans souls drinking blood from captives held tied in a second story apartment, one of those with the lovely balconies, right there on Royal Street.      Another account is of a gentleman, who by all accounts, seemed to have been on record as living more than 200 years, and with still no record of his death.   Sounds like a familiar Twilight Zone episode right?

One of the more New Orleans things about the tour was the bar stops along the way, include Jean Lafitte’s (the most famous pirate, or technically privateer, in New Orleans history), which made it sort of like a wandering, historical, slightly spooky bring your drink along cocktail hour, or three. 

Things I did (it was a busy night):

The Spotted Cat, 623 Frenchman St, Right past Esplanade.  Live, real, NO style jazz, nightly.  Cheap beer too.  Like 2 dollars each.

Haunted History Vampire Tour, meets in Jackson Square, nightly.  Can be booked online, or I think you can just show up at 8:30, $20 dollars in hand.

Pirates Alley Cafe.  Pirates Alley, right on the sidestreet beside St. Louis Cathedral.  Not a cafe, but a really pleasant small homey bar. 

Jean Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar, 941 Bourbon St, the oldest bar in the city, the oldest structure in the city, and the guy was a pirate of almost Johnny Depp proportions.  And the 2 bartenders managed to serve up our entire group of tourists, who all came in exact same second, in less than about 3 minutes.  

Abita Strawberry Harvest Ale, I’ve been doing this everywhere on the Deep South tour, and, if you are in Louisiana or Mississippi during the time when this seasonal brew is available (now), it is a must try.  I, as a rule, don’t like fruity beer.  To this I make a single exception, it is unusual, light, definitely a strawberry smell, and if I could import them to my apartment it would be my downfall.

So…how is it that New Orleans, and the French Quarter in particularly, got this way, so different then the rest of the country?    Well, first, though settled in 1718, it didn’t become part of the good ol’ USA til after the Louisiana Purchase, and many say that it still, in part hasn’t quite joined up. 

Though it doesn’t particularly look it, the big swampy area was settled by the french army and fortuneseekers in the early 1700s, with the promise of wonderful fertile territory and land abounding.  This seemed to work every time on those settler people!  Unfortunately it was one holy hell of a bug and alligator infested marsh at the time, and everyone kept getting and dying of malaria, but somehow, as keeping the delta region was of wonderful military advantage, it perserved.   

The French King, Louis the XV, at some point gave the colony to his cousin, the King of Spain, ushering in a militant spanish era of about 40 some odd years, during which their were 2 huge fires, and subsequent rebuildings (killing more than 50% of the population, I believe), so this would explain the preponderance of spanish colonial style architecture, the walled courtyards, shared common housewalls,  and filligreed iron trellesses found here, with a french building or two thrown in here and there that survived both fires.   

Whats funny is the real heyday of the city came when the USA took the reigns, as  the river commerce indeed created enormous wealth (as is apparent by the enormous and grand houses of the garden and uptown districts, the size of these neighborhoods quite large as well – we are talking thousands of insanely wealthy people).   French and Carribean, Irish and Italian immigrants poured in by the boatloads creating the beginnings of the creole and cajun cultures and foods so inherent to the parishes today, as well as adding that voodoo spice to the primarily Roman Catholic cityfolk.  

So, there you go.   As I wander about the quarter today, walking my legs off yet again, I marvel at the older spanish ‘inner city’ architecture with all of its layers and balconies.   Though everyone knows this area for Bourbon Street, it really is only one street of tawdy, trashy, hurricane pouring, strip teasing mania… and only the first 6 or 8 blocks at that.  The back part of Bourbon, and frankly the entire back part of the neighborhood is nearly entirely residential.     I frankly have never been thrilled by the bead and inhibition throwing environ, and I nearly always can go the entire time without ever visiting a single block, and disturbing my image of the beautiful, faded and ancient french quarter, the one of Lestat, and of myself!   However, if drinking a footlong rum cocktail, trying to get girls to flash you for beads, and paying for it if you don’t get lucky is your thing, Bourbon Street will not dissappoint.

Back to food, of course, as another one of my favorites is also great for people visiting solo.  Acme Oyster House.  It is a tourist destination, but you will also be surrounded by locals, and if you sit at the oyster bar, for every oyster you order it seems you get a free one (known as a lagniappe here).    They also have all your cajun standards, po boys, and other seafood.    One tip though, arrive either before noon, or after 2 for lunch, and same goes for dinner, early or late.  There is always a line out the door during standard mealtimes. 

Things I did:

Acme Oyster House, 724 Iberville St, French Quarter.  Oysters by the dozen.