Monday, January 25, 2010

Back in the Big Easy

New Orleans, LA

The first time I went to New Orleans I was 18 years old. I had already been working on the Mississippi Queen for a couple of months, but since I had begun, we had been cruising exclusively up on the Upper Mississip, the Ohio, the Tennessee and the Cumberland rivers. However all summer I had heard legends of the near mythical city that my fellow steamboaters referred to simply as “Nola” and so the first time we landed in the Big Easy, even though it was around 11am, I bounded into a cab and asked for Bourbon Street. When I stepped into the hot sun on Canal and Bourbon, I was immediately approached by an older black man with a red t-shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. “Hey man,” he said with a wolfish grin, “I’ll bet you ten dollahs I can tell you where ya got yo’ shoes.” I recall thinking to myself, ‘I don’t think they even have Big 5 in Louisiana.’ I’m embarrassed to say I took and immediately lost the bet when he said, “Ha! You got yo’ shoes on yo’ feet.” That’s the kind of scam you fall for when you’re 18 and never been anywhere. He probably saw me from a mile away. Even disregarding that exchange, my first walk down Bourbon should’ve been a letdown. I strolled past the strip clubs and the dive bars, probably slurping on a ‘190’ or some other equally revolting frozen beverage. Everything looked grimy and depressing in the flat daylight. But I remember my eyes widening and my stride lengthening as a giddy shiver slithered up my spine. I’m not sure if it was the jolt of alcohol in the morning or the expectation of future events, but I have never failed to have that exact same reaction when walking on that street, even later when I realized that Bourbon is like the cup of sugar water you leave in the corner. It draws in all the dumb college kids and tourists and leaves the rest of the Quarter less burdened for everybody else.

Walking through the Quarter the other day for the first time since 2004, I feel that familiar joyous shiver. I’m walking with Tif, who worked with me on the CQ and had generously offered the hide-a-bed in the shotgun house she’s staying in a block off Bourbon. Tiffany is a one-of-a-kind. She wears funky clothes, has eclectic hobbies and has a mild form of Tourette’s which, here and there, makes her beep and squeak amiably. In most places she would seem eccentric, but in the French Quarter she fits right in there, and it seems like everybody knows her giggle and squeak. We walk down Toulouse past Bourbon and take a left on Royal. Imposing buildings with pencil columns and intricate iron balconies hover menacingly as we sneak up on the St. Louis Cathedral. Just before Jackson Square, we duck into Pirates Alley for a Bloody Mary. In most places, the jail that once held the famous pirate Jean Lafitte would be a museum, but in Nola it’s a bar where pretty girls in pirate gear sling drinks. We get our drinks to go (because you can do that here) and continue our stroll. We amble through Jackson Square past two-bit fortune tellers, palm readers and caricature artists and on down Decatur. We sneer at the tourists eating overpriced beignets at Café Du Monde, but I peer longingly into the Central Grocery, the only place I’ve ever had a real Muffaletta sandwich, but it’s just too early for that. We grab a couple of Irish coffees at the café where Tif works, curl back around and make our way into the French Market. We buy a pair of sunglasses and a couple of beers and saunter down the Riverwalk.

Even though I haven’t worked on the Mississippi since 2004, the swirling brown water still affects me the same way it did back 1995. The warm flush that comes over me has tinges of the Bourbon shiver only it’s combined with shutters of dread from working 14 hour days and then smell of old people fills my nostrils. I clear my confused sense by taking a long swig of beer and I lounge under the wooden gazebo sipping a beer while Tif shows me some of her tap dance moves and we trade calliope stories before we head back up to her house.

In the afternoon, the big game is on: Saints vs. Cardinals. If they win, the Saints have the opportunity to host the NFC Championship game for the first time, so we head back up Royal Street to the R bar to watch. We get there just as the game begins and the bar is already packed. The only seat we find is the corner of a pool table. In Seattle we are known to have some of the best fans in the NFL and I’m not prepared to say that New Orleans fans are better, but I will say that the ferocity of their devotion is admirable. People are dressed in costumes, have their faces painted and I think I’m the only person in the bar not dressed in Black and Gold. As one, the crowd sings with every touchdown, groans with every turnover and throws little yellow flags at the big screen with every penalty. By halftime there’s little doubt the Saints will win and Tif takes me around the corner to celebrate with some tater-tachos. Tater-tachos are exactly what they sound like: Tater-tots covered in nacho toppings… Glorious.

The Saints win and we head back down to a frenzied Bourbon street. At one point a second line marches by and we follow, dancing in the street behind a brass band. I haven’t second lined in a long time, but what I lack in rhythm, I make up for with exuberance. This is what I miss about New Orleans! Hmmm… dancing in the street…could this be the source of my Bourbon shiver? Or does it come from reconnecting with my good friends, as I will the next night? A couple of weeks ago I wrote about the importance of expectations and what’s great about the Quarter is you never know what to expect. For example, you might think you’re just sitting down for a nice quiet lunch with a couple of old friends and then all of a sudden find yourself belting out Karaoke in a bar named the Cat’s Meow at 3am and then later redefining the word ‘reconnect'. A hypothetical situation of course. In the end, I think the joy of New Orleans is the limitless possibilities that are held in each day, each person and on every street.

What I (re)learned today – It’s always good to know a local. On Sunday Tif took us to this amazing bakery named the Croissant D’Or Patisserie on Ursulines St. As soon as I saw the line of locals out the door, I knew it would be good.

Actual product found in Sky Mall magazine – Peeing Boy Fountain. Nothing says class like having a statue of a little boy peeing into your pool. What makes it even classier is when purchase this item on an airplane. I think there might be a 20% discount when flying from Boca Raton to Newark.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Stupid Minneapolis (though it's partially my fault)

Minneapolis, MN (Temp. Hi/Low 1°/-12°)

“Uhhh folks, we’re just having a little difficulty with the jetway out there. It appears to be frozen solid, but if you just hang on a couple of more minutes, we’ll get you on your way. And again, we thank you so much for your patience.” I hate it when people thank me for things I haven’t given them yet. After working in hospitality for more than a decade, I understand the ploy and have used it myself plenty of times, but when I don’t have any patience left to give, it’s a little annoying. We had already sat on the plane for more than 45 minutes back at JFK then had waited for maybe 20 minutes at a different gate for another plane to move, so now I’m ready to get off the damn plane. Finally they finish defrosting the jetway or whatever, the door opens and the line starts to move. When I step off the plane and into the long tunnel leading up to the terminal, there’s a cold blast. It doesn’t even feel cold. It just feels like my bones are going to snap in half for a second. Up in the terminal, my presenter and I make the long walk down to the baggage claim. It’s already almost 8:30pm. We’re both tired and we just want to get to our hotel. She suggests that she wait for the bags while I go and pick up the rental car, so I head down to the tram.

I love the tram in the Minneapolis airport not for the comfortable seats or the sanitary looking poles, but for the woman’s voice that comes over the speaker. As I step onto her tram, her sultry tones remind me to hold on to the rail while it’s underway. She has a throaty European accent that isn’t quite British. She’s probably from somewhere like Brussels or Reykjavik, though I bet her family had a summer cottage in Cornwall where she learned English and the art of seduction from an ex-MI-6 agent named Portia. Her voice makes me want to sample fine cheese and luxurious chocolate-covered fruits – naked. Her voice is champagne. The tram comes to a stop, jolting me out of my reverie. As I exit, her voice tells me to enjoy my stay in Minneapolis. “Oh, I will sexy-voiced lady,” I think to myself. “I will.”

Except I don’t. As an executive member of the Emerald Club, the National Rental Car umm… club, I pass-by the counter and go out through the doors into the garage. The air is an aluminum baseball bat. It’s the kind of cold that turns your cheeks into leather and your nose hairs into tiny daggers. I fight through the frozen air and find the nicest-looking car in the Executive section, throw my carry-on into the back seat and hop in. Before taking off I look in my wallet for my Emerald Club card and my license, except my license isn’t there. I frantically search my pockets. “Oh there it is,” I think, feeling it in my pocket. But when I pull out the card, it has a Holiday Inn logo on it. Shit! I look everywhere, but it’s gone. It’s probably still in the seat I was sitting in back at JFK. No license, no rental car. I picture my poor presenter sitting outside the terminal waiting for me in the freezing cold with all our bags. I fight back through the cold air, cancel my reservation and run back to the tram.

This time I don’t find her voice nearly as sexy. Her accent sounds put on. She probably grew up in Minnetonka or somewhere in the slums of St. Paul (oh they’re there!). I bet she learned the accent from some vagabond Aunt who used to dance for pennies and cigarettes in a travelling vaudeville show. When not working fancy gigs like doing Airport Tram announcements, I’ll guarantee you she moonlights doing voice-overs for smutty late night commercials for 1-900 numbers to feed her diet of Snickers bars and meth. When I leave the tram, she has the nerve to tell me to enjoy my flight and come back soon to Minneapolis/St. Paul. “Not if I can help it,” I think to myself.

I find Leslie, my presenter, huddling outside with the bags, bravely waiting for my arrival. Luckily, she’s a super-laid back lady from Seattle and so she’s understanding and even sympathetic as we go find a cab to take us to our hotel.

(Yeah I know, not much of an ending. But what do you want to know? The cab overcharged us, we got to the hotel and checked in. Then I had dinner and went to bed.)

What I learned today - Always put your license back in your wallet after showing it to security!

Actual product sold in Skymall magazine - Orignal Backnobber II - I don't even care what this product is and how it works, but there are so many things wrong with the name I don't even have time go over it all. Okay just one - How can you call something the orginal, but then label it II? That like calling somebody John Davis II Sr. And I'm not even getting into the whole 'Backnobber' business!

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

A Couple of Interesting Visits

Providence, Rhode Island

All right, so I’m back on the road after two and a half weeks of winter vacation. Most people work at home and then use their vacations to travel to some exotic location, whereas on my vacations, I go home. As far as exotic locations, well… you ever been to Albany? Anyway, I know it’s been a while since updated the ol’ blog, but in the month or so leading up to my vacation I was working on other projects. I promise to try to work on being more diligent in the near future, maybe.

Anyway, a couple of interesting things happened recently. First of all, back in November I met a couple of cousins. Now for most people this wouldn’t be much of an event, but for me though I have a grip of charming step-cousins over in Idaho, as far as full-blooded cousins go, I have a total of… 2. Yep I have 2 cousins and I had never met them, except for once when I was a baby. To be fair they live in Indianapolis and for most of my life I probably had a better chance of going to Ulaanbaatar than Indianapolis. However, I’ve been facebook friends with one and I had met my Uncle a couple of times and they both told me that if I ever make it to Indianapolis, I should come for a visit. Sure, I thought, if I ever make it to Indianapolis (though I do like saying Indianapolis… I even enjoy typing it – Indianapolis). Well, lo and behold, I got this BER job and what did it say on the schedule in November, but Indianapolis, so I arranged a visit. I must admit, I was a little nervous driving up to the house. If my cousins were weird, would that say something about me? I’m pulling from the same gene pool after all (or at least half of it). In the end, it turned out to be a perfectly lovely visit. I had a great time reacquainting with my uncle and his wife (my step aunt if you will) and getting to know my cousin Susan and her husband Leo, as well as Anne and her daughter (my second cousin). We even have plans to get together again the next time I make it back to Indianapolis… which is in a couple of weeks.

I also had a chance to visit my friend Cara up in State College, PA. It was another example of, “hey you should come visit the next time you’re in State College.” And me going, “Uh, well… I’ll be there in a couple of weeks, as it happens.” Cara was a girl who I dated while working at Club Med and like in too many of my relationships, we never really broke up, we just went in different directions. She went back to school in Pennsylvania and I moved to Mexico. These things happen. Anyway, I hadn’t seen her in about ten years and it ended up being a really interesting visit. She lives in a nice little town house just outside of town with her big, easy-going husband and her months-old baby daughter. Now I’m not at all speculating on what might’ve happened if Cara and I would’ve stayed together or implying anything in any way, but you know how sometimes there are forks in the road of life, and you wonder what would’ve happened if you zigged rather than zagged? My whole visit I kept having the weird feeling that I was walking around on the other side of that particular fork. I don’t regret any of the choices I’ve made (umm… for the most part), but it was cool to see what might’ve been.

What I learned today – Not all Comfort Inns are Sh*tholes, but the one in Providence, Rhode Island definitely is.

Actual product found in Sky Mall Magazine – Canine Genealogy Kit – For only $59.95 you receive a kit containing a cotton swab “that you simply rub against the inside of your dog’s cheek and then send to the lab in the provided envelope.” In merely three weeks the lab will send back DNA results along with an authenticated certificate of Ancestry. This product is just more proof that ever since the advent of fire-making tools and store-bought clothes, Americans have way too little occupying their minds.