New Orleans

It’s over 500 miles from “The Big D” to “The Big Easy” – about 10 hours of driving (or, if you select “walking” on Google Maps, 7 days!). At this time of year, New Orleans is hot and humid, but none the less alluring for that. I chose to drive there staying on the highways, and return by a more leisurely route. So I left Dallas on Interstate 20 (I-20), headed south on I-49, and then west on I-10. In case you’re not familiar with the US road system, I-10 is the southernmost coast-to-coast highway, stretching from Santa Monica in California to Jacksonville in Florida – almost 2,500 miles; in contrast, I-90 is the northernmost, and also the longest at over 3,000 miles – it runs from Seattle to Boston. In between, the major highways increase in number identification as you go north, except that there is no I-50 or I-60. You probably don’t care to know any more than that.

I-10 took me through Lafayette, on an elevated highway across the Henderson Swamp to Baton Rouge, and over Lake Pontchartrain to New Orleans. After checking in at the hotel, I took a cab into the French Quarter for dinner. July 4^th is not the best time to visit the Crescent City – every year for the last 15 years it has hosted the Essence Music Festival. Even my Sri Lankan taxi driver complained about the number of African-Americans that inundated the town. I have nothing against any ethnic minority, but moderation is the key, I think.

I found a café with outdoor seating and live jazz, and enjoyed a large plate of etouffee – spiced seafood (shrimp, crawfish, oysters) served over rice. If you’re feeling uncharitable, it’s sort of leftovers-stew – but good nonetheless. Thus fortified, I went to see what Bourbon Street was all about. If you’re young, you would find it fun and vibrant; if you’re older (like me), your jaded palate might find it just a little too much like the “party district” in many other cities. My mental snapshots, which probably would not coincide with yours, include: a pale white girl in a short skirt and impossibly high heels, crying as she is hustled along by her black pimp; a young guy in dirty clothes crouched by the roadside devouring the remnants of a slice of pizza; whiffs of cigar smoke; jelly shots, “big ass beers” and “hand grenades” to go; big bubble-butted black girls with gelatinous breasts squeezed into space-age fabric that defies the normal laws of physics; drains full of old Mardi Gras beads; scantily clad girls trying to attract men inside Larry Flynt’s Barely Legal club, or Babe’s Cabaret, or the Stiletto Club, or Little Darlings, or …

Coffee and beignets - the breakfast of champions!

One block away from Bourbon Street you could be in a different world – art galleries, upscale hotels, a classical guitarist accompanied by a singer with angelic range, a restaurant almost hidden in a courtyard at the end of a small alleyway. I think it is probably this variety that makes New Orleans, and the French Quarter in particular, such a unique experience.

The next morning, I was back in the French Quarter, at the Café du Monde for a breakfast of coffee and beignets. The coffee is different – it contains chicory, and is served half coffee, half hot milk – and so are the beignets – a French doughnut that is square, has no hole, and is drenched in powdered sugar. Beignets are the official State Doughnut (I know …). The café has been there since 1862, and the beignets are the only food item they serve. They’re open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

A born hunter ...

A blue crane in the bayou

When the temperature is above 100  ̊F (38  ̊C), it’s too hot to walk around for long, so I signed up for a “swamp tour”. At 11am I boarded the bus that was to take me to Jean Lafitte’s Swamp Tours, and along the way, the driver explained some of Louisiana’s history – that it has parishes instead of counties, which is a relic of its predominantly Catholic roots (while most of the rest of the US was Protestant); that Creoles are different from Cajuns – Creoles are of mixed race, black and white, and Cajuns were originally refugees of Arcadia (the name is a corruption of “Arcadians”) in Canada (now Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island), and French-speaking[1]; that New Orleans is the second largest port in the US (after New York), which is why the government will continue rescuing it from hurricane damage, even if most of it is 100 feet below sea level; that bodies are buried in above-ground concrete tombs (as in much of the Caribbean) because the water table is so high.

The swamp tour itself followed man-made canals through swamps (some navigable, some treacherous) and into the bayous. The landscape is similar to Florida’s Everglades, but a different experience – the airboats are replaced with a puttering barge, which probably reflects the laid-back Louisiana lifestyle, and they have only alligators, rather than both alligators and crocodiles (shame on you if you didn’t know they were different – try looking here: http://lmgtfy.com ).

Swamp panorama

After the tour, I went looking for a Cajun restaurant, hoping for catfish and Zydeco music. I got the catfish, but, because the restaurant was close to the Convention Center where the Essence Festival was based, they were playing Michael Jackson[2] music. It’s entirely beyond me why the black population would take to their bosom someone who attempted to “adjust” his heritage for most of his life.

I watched the July 4^th firework display from Washington on television. The fife and drum bands made me think that the US is quietly acquiring tradition – I wonder if perhaps nations turn to the past when they no longer have confidence in the future.

Fausto's

Crossroads to Everywhere?

Later, from my room on the 9^th floor of the hotel, I watched the New Orleans firework display. It’s comforting to know that, even in these recessionary times, we still have money to burn …

The journey back took me almost 12 hours, but was relaxing – driving along roads that were sometimes lined with cypress and live oak, sometimes by fields of sugar cane or corn, but almost always flanked by the railroad that predates the road; diverting briefly to visit the gravesite of Charlene Richards; stopping for a crawfish po’boy at Ken’s Fausto’s restaurant in Kinder; pausing at a produce stand for fresh tomatoes, noonday onions and purple hull peas, and scribbling down a recipe or two from the proprietor. I love to drive.

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[1] If you’ve ever heard Cajun music, or heard a “real” Cajun speak, you’ll know that, although they speak a sort of French, it’s probably not anything that a French person would recognize. I doubt any self-respecting Frenchman would say “Laissez les bon temps roulez”.

[2] When Neda was killed by a Basij bullet recently in Tehran, “the world was watching”; as soon as Michael Jackson died, “Errm, we’re busy right now – could you come back in a couple of weeks?”