You’ll have to forgive my absence over the weekend. Well, I suppose you don’t have to, but it would be very polite of you to do so. My mother gifted my husband and I with a prepaid trip to New Orleans. Frankly I was having a good go at having fun this weekend, so blogging didn’t really come to mind. That being said I felt like it was a weekend to be written about. If you are looking for tales of drunken debauchery, you’ll have to go elsewhere. This has much more to do with the Universe testing my patience and sense of humor. Also, to make up for my missed posts, I’ll be trying to post a few extra this week.
Friday
Houston to New Orleans is, under normal circumstances, a reasonable drive of about five hours depending on traffic. Traffic is a key word for the beginning of my story. It’s a finicky beast at best.
To get to New Orleans you must drive through the city of Baton Rouge. It’s a fairly good sized city that houses Louisiana’s darling university, LSU. The interesting, and in this case unfortunate thing, is that there is only one readily available place to cross the Mississippi River in Baton Rouge. That particular bridge is four lanes wide, two going in one direction and two going in the other, and most major highways dump onto this four lane bridge. I don’t just mean dump. I mean within a mile there are two major interchanges smashing all of the other people trying to get to the other side of the river. I’m not sure why everyone goes into the city during rush hour, but hey, I don’t live there.
Our lovely gps gave us several time saving suggestions. The amount of time they saved us amounted to less than ten minutes. Inevitably each “short cut” lead back to the same congested highway. There was no escaping the time sucking beast I10 had turned into. Every time we turned back to it there were bumper to bumper cars waiting for us. Eventually we gave in to the sardine highway.
After about an hour in Baton Rougue, we managed to make our way outside of the city. Surely there could be no more delays. Everyone who was trying to get to New Orleans must surely be there already in a haze of drunken bliss. Not so, said the universe. Ten miles from our destination, a hotel looking more and more attractive by the second, for no reason I can think of still traffic again slowed to a crawl. Red lights flashed, and those he weren’t paying attention caused those who were minor heart attacks.
We crawled down I10. Like toothpaste through a tube we squeezed into down town. With relief we made it to our exit. We then had to cross three lanes of traffic in a right turn lane on the left side of the road to get to the turn lane no more than one hundred feet up. Since this apparently is common, there were no issues.
Finally we had arrived. The valet came and took our car. It was whisked away to the safety of a parking place somewhere. I fished the reservation information out of my purse. I’m always paranoid that I’ll forget things mostly because I often do. When the family of five had finished checking in, we stepped up to the counter.
A woman with her hair piled at the very top of her head eyed us with the disdain only common to the service industry. I gave the name and the paperwork. Unfortunately, even though my mother told them to put our names on it our names did not appear on the reservation. With a twist of her upper lip we were informed that she wasn’t supposed to let us into the room unless our name appeared.
It must have been a great inconvenience to her personally, but eventually she relented and checked us into our room. Gratefully we took the elevator up to our room. The room I have no complaints about. It had a massive bathroom and a massive bed. Sleeping in it was a bit like sleeping in two separate beds. My husband and I had to roll across the cavernous expanse just to snuggle, but that happened later.
Famished and tired of being cooped up, my husband and I struck out into the garden district where our hotel was located. We were a bit put off by the fact that there didn’t seem to be anyone wandering around. I suppose they all must have been stumbling around Bourbon Street. Turned off by the lack of other wanderers, we didn’t make it very far.
Waiting under blazing neon lights was Igor’s Bar, game room, and laundromat. And no, they weren’t kidding about the laundromat part. Inside, a small collection of locals was bellied up to the bar drinking and smoking merrily. The ceilings were low and wooden. Christmas lights curled around slot machines and faded red light bulbs lighted a closed in seating area just to the side of the door.
My husband and I got a local brew and took a seat. We’d seen signs that promised fried food and burgers. The kitchen was more like a cubby at the end of the bar. The one bartender seemed to be managing it all. We watched the bartender hopefully. Surely someone would order something. We just didn’t want be the first ones to ask.
Two beers in the sound of sizzling rose in the distance. We looked at each other and knew that only one thing could fix this farce of a trip beginning. Two words. Chicken nuggets. I made the last of my beer disappear, so that my husband could order a mound of salty fried goodness, fries, and beer. He came back with the addition of a shot of Jameson, which I sipped like a dainty priss much to his amusement. I like it just in small doses.
When the steaming pile of nuggety goodness arrived we didn’t wait long. Plastic was ripped unceremoniously off of the two sauce packets. Honey mustard and sweet and sour sauce. No two sauces could have been better.
Stuffed and finally feeling like our trip was finally getting into the swing of things, we made our way into the hotel bar. Behind the bar a great mound of a woman wearing a black smock that was working very hard was wiping glasses. Another bartender, tall, rail thin, and wearing a beard that matched his smirk finally waited on us. My husband, ever the whiskey addict, ordered a rusty nail, and I ordered a Creole coffee. Both were delicious and enough to send us crawling to bed.
Japanese is a bit of a hobby of mine now also my husband’s as well. We are currently mounting a job hunt to get ourselves to Japan, so every spare moment we are practicing something. We just didn’t realize how convincing we were until the mound on legs walked back over and asked us quite pointedly where we were from.
With an amused giggle I replied that we were from her. She seemed dubious at best but let it go. After some chit chat about the small nothings of life bartenders want to know about, we found our way back to our room for the night.
Saturday
I woke reaching across the bed chasm for my husband’s hand. When we turned to face each other, we smiled. A California king bed is a wonderful and ridiculous thing. If you ever want separate beds, but like your significant other too much to be apart a California king will do it.
Hunger finally forced us from bed. I had been to New Orleans before, but my husband hadn’t. There are very few things you must do when in New Orleans besides eating local food and getting uproariously drunk, but one which many can agree on, drunkard or not, is Cafe Du Monde.
With a roll of quarters in my purse, we boarded the street car. A ten minute ride got us just to the other side of the French Quarter. Using my experience from the last time I was there, I managed to get us to the fabled fried food eatery. As was expected on a sunny Saturday morning in a tourist town, the line stretched down the block. Perhaps it was stupid of us not to look further, but what’s done is done. We got into the line. It was moving so why not.
Halfway through our wait I spotted another line off to the side. I would later discover that this was the to go line. That plays an important part of the story. What we didn’t realize was that the line we were in was the table service line.
A little more waiting got us to the front of the line. We had the pick of an entirely packed restaurant. No one seemed to be moving anywhere in the restaurant. The only thing moving regularly was mountains of powdered sugar.
Then from across the tent I spotted some people on the move. I took off down the aisle like a shot with my husband in tow. Too bad someone else, who hadn’t bothered waited in line, had also spotted the table from the exit. With a pair I wish I had, the woman plopped down into the seat as I set my purse down on the chair.
“Really,” I said in utter shock. Not a single word escaped her. She simply stared me down as though I were the offender. She simply sat and waited for me to go away. Before my husband had a chance to cuss out a perfect stranger, we left the green and white tent. The nerve of some people right?
Starving, and now cranky for other reasons, we made our way through the throng. All we’d wanted was a damn beignet. I’ll just save you some trouble and the boring read through of another line. We didn’t get one.
What we did get was some more beer and fried pickles. It was truly the breakfast of champions and in true New Orleans style it came with street performers. Half way through our settling sense of relief and first drink a pair of all night partiers wandered in. One had scraggly unwashed hair down to his shoulders. He kept referring to his nearly incoherent friend as party rock. He bellied up but thankfully drank nothing. Party Rock ambled around and ran into a few things.
A man in a fuzzy white and black bear jacket out of Fargo sat hunched in the corner eating his breakfast and ignoring all of it. Just another morning in The Big Easy right?
We escaped with half a beer in hand and made for the street car. After seeing how packed it was, we elected to walk the two miles back to our hotel. We had a lunch reservation, courtesy of my mother, at one o’clock. Even walking we had plenty of time to get back.
The walk was one of the few things that was uneventful. We made it back to the room. I wanted to put my coat in the room and so did my husband.
The little light should have flashed green. That’s what’s supposed to happen when you use your room key. The key word here is supposed. With a half an hour left to find our way to the restaurant we decided we didn’t have the time. We would check on the key, ask for directions, and be on our way.
Thankfully there was no one else at the front desk. We asked politely why our room keys didn’t work only to be informed that it was because we were supposed to checking out today. The travel gods were truly laughing by now. Dismayed we told her that couldn’t be right. She looked through and nodded. Apparently booking a two night stay as two separate nights is a thing. Right then and there we had to re-check in for our room. The best thing we got out of the hassle was two free drinks and breakfast. Thanks for that at least mom.
With a little time to spare we made our way to The Commanders Palace. It was a testament to the elite set from about fifty years ago with a turquoise and green awning. Once inside, we were whisked across a comically confused room to our seat by the wait station.
At first we didn’t know what to make of it. It was part pretentious full dinner service and a rich child’s birthday party with balloons at every table. There were white table cloths, two forks, two spoons, and a waiter who seemed to think we already knew what we were having two seconds after we sat down. The fact that we didn’t posed no problems. Garlic toast and water could certainly solve that.
In quick succession drinks and our three course lunch was ordered. Then we noticed the birds and the tassels. In opposite corners the wall had been papered with a gentile powdered pink. Hanging in neatly arranged rows were tassels the exact same powdered pink. Whatever held them in place glistened under fake candle chandeliers with gently waving orange light bulbs. They wiggled loosely like flickering flames.
The rest of the restaurant was a respectable blue with a swirled damask pattern and birds because well, you must put birds on things. Except, not all of the birds were painted on. Some were in fact plastic and stuck to wooden dowls. My husband and I were thoroughly amused.
Amongst the confused finery we enjoyed the sounds of a well rehearsed jazz group. The trumpet player was a big white guy pretending almost convincingly to be Louis Armstrong. Things were settling to pleasant until someone requested Deep in the Heart of Texas. The restaurant erupted into timed clapping and well rehearsed lines from Elementary days. Texans do like New Orleans.
Our food was delicious. I had turtle soup and quail. My husband had and absinthe oyster dome and eggs benedict. It was all very good. We also greatly enjoyed some poor soul the table over with a misguided hairdo and a girl who only seemed interesting in letting him touch her fingers.
We paid and we escaped across the street to a traditional cemetery. We had a lovely walk. Then we went back for a nap before venturing back to Bourbon Street. We went, had our hand grenade, and then escaped back to the garden district. However, we didn’t get to do that before being stuck on the street car for thirty minutes. At this point we were ready for just about anything. We couldn’t do anything other than find it funny.
Dinner was the last chance the travel gods had to laugh at us and laugh they did. The place was the Blind Pelican. The food was amazing except that none of it came together. I’m not trying to be negative. The service issues were more than excusable. My husband received his muffaletta. I’m not an olive fan but it was great.
The obviously over worked waitress came, after forgetting to check on why I didn’t have a beer yet, to inform me that the reason my food was taking so long was because they had run out of the bucket of oysters.
Damn. No worse luck was ever had. You mean to say that I get to have, gasp, freshly shucked oysters on my po boy? The world is to cruel a place to exist in.
My char grilled oysters came and then were no longer there. They disappeared so fast they may not have actually existed at all. Needless to say if the appetizer was that good I couldn’t wait for my sandwich.
When it came on crusty french bread. The bottle of hot sauce had barely touched the table before it was being put to good used on my light golden oysters. They were creamy and crunchy and everything I’d hoped they would be. The side of cheese grits, an after thought at first, turned out to be a treat that would forever ruin store bought grits. They were just enough creamy and just enough chewy. I could have licked the small plastic cup they came in.
Thoroughly satisfied and amused by the side show presented by the waitress yelling at her manager for trying to tell her she had to be there until closed, we settled up and moved on down the street back to Igor’s.
I can’t say that it was a perfect trip. Seven hours to get somewhere running a circus of errors can be frustrating. Once I decided to just sit back and enjoy the show, I no longer saw the inconveniences as anything more than a serious of stories to relate later. Make lemonade. If you choose to add the vodka that’s up to you.
Wow I didn’t think this would end up being quite so long. Let me know if you’ve also ever had a laughably ridiculous travel experience.
WEWrites 