Week 15: an extra heaping helping of humility

 Good-byes are hard for me and this one stings. I hope it’s only a see-you-later.

To back up a bit: on Monday we breakfasted at Elizabeth’s with a trio of determined bees that we temporarily housed in upturned water glasses, then drove out to Whitney Plantation. This is the rare plantation that tells its story from the perspective of its enslaved inhabitants, which is powerful and grim. I can only imagine the futile loneliness of living in the middle of the swamps. Dinner was at the Sneaky Pickle, buffalo cauliflower wraps and delicious fries and lovingly-prepared cocktails.

Tuesday was predicted to be stormy, an unsettled day of tentative walks and random meet-ups, card games, charging up phones, and waiting. When the afternoon storms fizzled, we walked to Frenchmen Street but nearly every venue was preemptively closed. Overnight, around four a.m., thunderstorms raged, with lightning so bright I couldn’t sleep.

Wednesday saw the departure of the Christmas Day arrivals. They came by with wine, leftovers and a palpable air of relief. We cleaned, packed and worked, and headed out in the evening to the Blue Nile to hear the New Breed Brass Band, and a glimpse of Kid Merv across the street. I felt happy watching these talented young players tear it up on their brass, and also deeply sad to be leaving.

Thursday dawned hot and sunny, and we ate leftovers, went for farewell walks, and eventually hopped in a Lyft driven by a talkative Cajun and headed to the airport.

*

Arrival on the west coast has been complicated. Illness, bad feelings from a landlord, rain, confusion. I’m trying to remain calm and focused but my stomach is in an uproar. Today, laying low, a few errands, a distant hello at ETG, and now writing.

C’est tout.

week fourteen: friendcation and packing

This week has been as unsettled as the weather.

*
Friendcation continued with outdoor brunches (Ruby Slipper, St. Coffee), outdoor dinners (Dat Dog, Pizza Delicious, Carmo), and some fabulous art and photo ops at Jamnola.
With mid-week departures came the very welcome arrival of my partner on a balmy night. We taxi'ed directly to Rosalita's for tostadas and margaritas, a quick drop off at home, and then a stroll around Frenchmen Street.
Friday was wet and stormy and we unfortunately had appointments around town. We pit-stopped at I-Tal for delicious vegan soul food, and Maison Bourbon to hear the incredible Kid Merv.
Saturday was New Year's Eve, a lazy morning of coffee and breakfast, then pre-NYE cleaning, changing of sheets and sweeping/vacuuming. A break to see a friend and visit the Kwanzaa market at Studio BE. And, the happy news that another section of my memoir will be published in May.Then at-home pre-gaming of cauliflower curry, beer and a cooperative card game. Then d.b.a. for an all-woman brass band, drinks in the alcove and the best people watching. Just before midnight we strolled outside with our midnight drinks, did a countdown with Gen Z kids on the street, then shouted Happy New Year as fireworks exploded overhead and bands played and people cheered and danced to a guy rapping on the back of his truck.
New Year's Day dawned muggy and foggy. I was pleased not to feel too hungover and shared a restorative joint on a walk alongside the Mississippi. We made an afternoon pit stop at a snow-ball pop up and then at Vaughn's, to drink Victoria beers outside while Saints fans cheered and sang indoors. We chatted up a Katrina veteran and self-professed cat rescuer (Mark) who talked and smoked and told stories. His wife arrived shortly, part of a Cat Lady Pub Crawl. It happens once a year on New Year's and included a dozen women in cat onesies and decor, drinking and wending their way around the neighborhood.
Welcome, 2023.

the blur of week 13

This week was the blur of wrapping up work for 2022 and impending friend arrival.
Over the weekend I had coffee with a new friend, sharing our stories of mother-loss (hers 30 years ago and still fresh) and trading tornado scares (her Winn-Dixie had its roof blown off).
On Sunday I was walking in the neighborhood when a woman ran by with a stroller. I need to catch up to the second line, she yelled, so I followed her to a small, festive parade featuring 2 Christmas-themed floats and 2 brass bands, with folks dancing and other folks dragging coolers full of drinks. What a joyous moment.
On Wednesday my pals arrived to hugs and laughs and merriment, and we met up at Bratz Y'all for beers and pretzels and a divine black forest cake. They'd been up since 1am so we said goodnight.
Thursday we had pizza on a heated patio then enjoyed Kitten N Lou's living nativity, with silent-disco headphones, rum hot toddies and so much glittery drag cheer. It rained during the angel's solo but no one moved. Then a drink at Vaughn's, and a stroll by a few bars closer to home.
Friday we were up early for a very chilly breakfast at Elizabeth's, fried green tomatoes and good coffee and some shit-flipping from a sarcastic waiter, then a road trip to Avery Island to tour the Tabasco plant.
I enjoyed seeing the countryside, endless miles of bayou and swamp, and the chitter chatter in the car about life and I-tell-yew-what down-hominess. We were awed by the bottling line, the enormous vats and well-work work stools, then the bountiful gift shop. Back in town before dark and we all called it a night.
Saturday was Xmas eve so we strolled in the cold, sunny French Quarter, dined on pralines and beignets and coffee at Lorettas, oohed over the amazing art at Antieau Gallery, had Irish coffees and banjo jazz at Fritzels, a so-so slice of za, then disco naps and late-night partying at the Phoenix with lots of laughs about the FQ tiny cop cars.
Sunday, Christmas, wobbly and hungover, we nommed breakfast at St. Coffee, mercifully open and serving up toasty bagels with pumpkin seed pesto, delicious burritos and hot coffee. Our friends arrived that evening so we fed them Nola Po-boy fried treats, Bywater Bakery Xmas cookies, and vino verde.
More to come next week as friendcation continues.

patio time (theres a theme here)

Baldwin&Co

FrenchTruck

PeterNPaul

Rosalitas

StCoffee

week 12 and its cake every day

 

My sib and partner visited for five days and geez I’m tired!

They flew in Sunday on the heels of a drenching thunderstorm. I sloshed my way to the library and hopped the express bus to the airport. After dropping off luggage and a brief rest to charge phones, we got coffee at Bywater Bakery and rambled around town, visiting a vintage store and enjoying the post-storm afternoon. A stop at Mardi Gras Super Market netted beads, masks (including an exquisite rhinestone number) and a t-shirt. Dinner was Rosalita’s, then jazz in the FQ and on Frenchmen Street, ending with Treme Brass Band, all of us exhausted.

Monday, coffee and grits at St. Coffee. Everyone had work so we reconvened in the evening for Viet-Cajun cuisine at Bywater Brew Pub, including fried pickles and charred brussels, then over to the holiday market at Siberia (punk art!) and a thorough tour of Robert’s Grocery Store and all the Southern, Cajun, New Orleans special ingredients.

Tuesday we rambled in the increasing heat through the French Quarter in search of cake. Most bakeries were closed, so we made do at Cafe Beignet with their carrot cake, checked out the Backstreet Cultural Museum, tried in vain to buy vegetarian soul food (all venues were closed), then gave up and walked to the Quarter for Central Grocery muffaletta, another punk market, band-aids, and then to the museum for Da Truth Brass Band on the balcony. It was a pleasant evening with stiff drinks courtesy of Donny, an energetic brass band, and two young dancers who moved with joy. Then a quick trip to Goodwill, another vain search for veg-friendly soul food, and finally over to a chain for less than wonderful grits, mac-and-cheese and OK pecan pie.

Wednesday we noticed with the severe weather alerts, that schools were pre-emptively closing, then the museums. I walked my sib back to the Airbnb under lowering clouds and thickly humid heat with a stop for cake at the co-op. My landlord was frantic, insisting we not walk, giving me advice if there was a tornado. I got back home and settled in to watch a Christmas movie only to get an Imminent Danger alert around 3.45 to seek shelter. Shit. This was real. My sib was keeping an eye on the news and weather radar but I was too freaked out, so I followed orders and sheltered in the bathtub with a heavy quilt and some blankets and my charged-up phones. There was wind and drenching rain. The sky was dark, then lighter and green. It got loud, then quiet. Is this when to worry, I wondered. My sib called. There’s a tornado southeast and heading directly our way. Well fuck. We hung up. I pulled the comforter over my head and waited. My partner texted. A niece. A co-worker. By 4.30 the tornado had passed a few blocks to the east and I could finally step out of the tub but I was shaky. Was more coming? It rained hard for another hour. I watched the radar and the rest of my movie, fortified with whiskey egg nog. Later we had dinner at Cochon, my neighborhood empty and quiet, some fences blown over, the streets littered with palm tree branches and debris. Frenchmen Street was empty, all clubs except the Spotted Cat shuttered and dark. We browsed the bookstore and went home.

Blue skies Thursday, and cold. My family’s last day, so we hit the hot spots: Loretta’s for praline beignets, Bywater for chantilly cake, Elizabeth’s for fried green tomatoes and more charred brussels. Dr. Bob’s art estate, another vintage store, and then goodbyes. It was nice to have people here that know me. I say this to friends and they brush me off--well you meet people don’t you--but it’s not the same. Also, we lived through an ugly storm, huddled in our respective tubs, afraid and hoping for the best.

Today it’s back to work. I’ve got gifts to mail and Doreen Ketchens is playing tonight.

week 11 head down and werq

This is the week shit caught up with me.
Tired. Didn't feel great.
I went for some very long walks in the muggy mornings to sweat it out.
The panhandler outside District yelled at me when I didn't buy him donuts (the woman ahead of me in line
told me she'd gotten him coffee and 2 glazed).
I went to an art event but never found the person who invited me.
I bought a Creole cauliflower, creamy white with the most beautiful pale green leaves.
Croissant d'Or served up a rich slice of Italian cake.
I even had vegetarian poboys at Killer PoBoys.
Tomorrow family arrives and I'm excited.

week 10 a clarity

Up to double-digits now, and I’m both sad and eager. I’m enjoying my stay but I’m lonely. I miss people who love me and that I can be silly with. Talking to shopkeepers and co-working space people just isn’t the same.

Sunday last was more of the same tediousness but I was making progress so I got things going early on and walked up Esplanade in search of groceries and coffee on a cool, glorious morning. I don’t enjoy walking across four-lane highways and under interstates but otherwise it’s a pleasant walk. I found some mayhaw jelly (new to me and could be tarter but it’s good enough) and tried Cypress Cakes on my way back. Unfortunately the coffee was bitter and the pastries lackluster. A rare miss.

I reached out to my New Orleans acquaintance about meeting up but he never replied. However, a friend’s daughter was in town so we texted and agreed to meet up Monday. I took an afternoon break to walk through the JamNOLA Festival, then finished up work and headed home late.

Monday: nervous about letting my boss know the tedious project wasn’t quite finished, I was up early, got another batch going, and headed out in PNW-like fog for French Truck Coffee. It was a joy to see my friend’s daughter, who sounds like her Mom and patiently gave me an hour to hang out and talk. She isn’t a fan of New Orleans--it’s busy but slow, she said. As opposed to New York City, which is busy and fast. We also discussed how Southerners seem more closed off than Seattleites to adding new friends. I do wonder. (And the biscuit breakfast sammy from French Truck is surprisingly good: get the pimiento cheese, spicy and tangy, and don’t toss out the herbed strawberries.)

The day dragged as co-workers got snarly about some of their files and I had to stay late to work and then jump on a cousin Zoom and then a friend Zoom. I made it home by 9 pm, so tired I was in tears.

Tuesday I looked forward to ushering but that alas was canceled and my boss needed help with another tough project.

By Wednesday I was so tired it was all I could do to work and stagger home.

But Thursday! Most meetings canceled, I took a rare afternoon break and walked to Rouse’s, shot the shit with a guy complaining about cops rounding up homeless and vendors off Jackson Square to prepare for the Macrons’ visit, then strolled to Baldwin & Co to sit on the patio with hot tea and some reading.

Friday I took comp time and even though I felt headachey and sinus pressure, went for a long hike across town, checking out Honest Bakery (ok pastries, diffident service), and impulsively walking back through the Warehouse District. I stopped at Le Mieux Galleries and was amazed by the art (especially Kathryn Hunter’s witty embroidery).

On my way back along the river I walked through the shopping mall, gazed at the Mississippi, and lurked by Jackson Square hoping to see Macron and madame. A Dickie Brennan's waiter in sharp red lipstick poked her head out a French door. “What’s going on out here?” The French president, I said. She made a face--bah--and shut the door. This day I stopped at St. Coffee for more patio time, then Rosalita’s for a watermelon margarita.

By Saturday I felt better and got writing done before the big gala event. I got emotional walking there, with people in festive holiday headdresses and glittery clothes, hearing Vince Garibaldi playing, and literally no one I know to wander with. But, I went to my shift and worked for two hours, checking wristbands, giving directions, surviving one “don’t you know who I am,” and evicting one would-be party-crasher. I’m sure there were notables but I only recognized the football player guy from Southern Charm New Orleans. There were gowns and sequined coats, high heels and big hair, a seven-foot tall man in a kilt and top hat, two men in tuxes rolling a giant wooden cent around (“big money coming through!”), and of course jazz. A Spanish-themed quintet, a vibrant second line complete with Baby Dolls I’d met earlier, a free shot of whisky courtesy of a woman bartender I chatted up, plus an all-woman jazz band complete with washboard. Outside in the muggy night as tourists gawked and the beautiful people lounged and a horn played from the balcony, I felt a moment of gladness.