Thursday, November 28, 2013

NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 4)

My excursion included viewing six mansions built in the 19th century. The owners had coordinated with the local historical society to open them to those of us willing to buy a $22 ticket. Five of the homes had been converted into condos, which meant walking directly into bedrooms that had previously been parlors.

After World War II, with housing at a premium, subdividing estates dawned on many as an obvious solution. Despite their high ceilings, these living spaces felt closed-in, dark and cramped. Over-decorated in ornate Napoleonic-era furniture, chandeliers and then — all of a sudden — an entirely misplaced bed in the living room. It disoriented me.

The exteriors of these enticed me, but once inside I wanted to run. There was something sad and make-do about the grandiose reduced to stuffed quarters.

There were three docents assigned to each house. Apparently members of some sort of antebellum cult dressed in off-the-shoulder hoop dresses, these Southern belles were a mix of the old and the young. All moist, pale and brimming with knowledge of their assigned manse, they welcomed those of us on the tours with beaming smiles and extra long vowels.

I admired one house beautifully renovated in shades of pastel green and peach, with period, yet not ostentatious, furniture. Behind the manor, a two-story former stable had been converted into a guesthouse. I could live there.

On my way back to the hotel my curiosity was further rewarded when I walked into three Realtors' open houses. These joints weren't cheap, with close-to-New York City prices. A one-bedroom condo in a converted house, with a tiny kitchen, a loft, a living room barely big enough for a sofa and television, and a small outdoor patio: $1.4 million.

Mind you, because Katrina flooding was not a problem in the French Quarter and Garden District, these buildings remained structurally sound. Wind, rain and the occasional tornado wreaked havoc, but these neighborhoods didn't sustain the water damage 80 percent of the city suffered.

However, the prospect of exorbitant insurance rates (if one could even receive coverage) coupled with a high mortgage struck me as a daunting proposition for anyone seeking a home in New Orleans. And then there are those ladies named Betsy, Katrina and Rita ready to sweep through a fragile, ill-repaired levee system and deteriorated wetlands. Real-estate investment in this city presents a challenge.

And yet, as I walked down narrow brick streets and looked up at bougainvillea-strewn balconies, my mind played with the idea of living in such a romantic, dramatic, decadent and delicious world. One could paint, write and compose great works of art submerged in the heady, steamy magic of New Orleans.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 3)

William shot me a smile and I returned it. We knew we were saying darling, adorable...and glad we don't have 'em. William's brother and his wife had a girl and a boy. Eventually they'd have a third and spending time with them at the beach or on Christmas morning was certainly "a good time had by all," but we never regretted our choice.

After dinner, William and I stepped home, tipsy and sated, to spend our last night together. William's bosses decided he should return to Los Angeles and I wanted to stay a full week. I'd barely started to click off items on my "must-eat" list and there were still many neighborhoods to explore.

The next morning my own pirate sailed away I gave myself a mission: I would seek solace in cheesy grits and biscuits before taking a house tour of the mansions on the Esplanade (Espla-naid).

I walked out of the hotel at eleven the next morning and wandered into the Quarter. Along Royal (Rerl) Street I discovered a Food Festival. It was like the city was waiting for me to arrive. White tented booths ran down the center of the street. Folks purchased beer, wine and Bloody Marys along with gumbo, fried turkey legs and pralines (praw-leens).

I bought a bowl of spicy jambalaya (jom-ba-lye), sat on the steps of the police station and listened to authentic jazz undulating from the end of a busker's trumpet. New Orleans languished as her real self on this day. The sun beat down at 84 degrees and the humidity was a damp 98 percent. I caught a glimpse of myself in a Napoleonic mirror and saw that I'd slipped from a feminine glow directly into sweating like an oinker. Bad.

I needed help and went to the French Market, where I found a Panama hat. The only good thing in the French Market, by the way. It's mostly a cheesy collection of T-shirts and voodoo dolls. In front of Cafe du Monde, where William and I had previously enjoyed cafe au laits and hot, powdery beignets, a crowd had amassed to cheer competitors as they crossed the finish line of New Orleans' Ironman race.

After seventy miles of biking, swimming and running, extremely lean men and a few women stumbled soaking wet into the arms of volunteers. Many looked delirious and needed to be carried away. It was a bit sickening to witness and could put one right off athleticism, especially after a bowl of jambalaya. I clapped my hands for the runners and moved on toward the direction of the house tour.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 2)

Together William and I took a three-hour jaunt through the French Quarter, then up the Esplanade and into Mid-City, where we landed at Liuzza's by the Track, near the New Orleans Fair Grounds and racetrack. More diner than restaurant, it was purported to have some of the best po' boys in the city, and we arrived hungry. William ordered the shrimp po' boy, a French loaf stuffed with three dozen of the tender babies dripping in a spicy butter sauce. I bit into my oyster (erster) po' boy. Juicy, fat oysters had been deep-fried to a golden crunch and wrapped in lettuce, tomatoes and a fluffy French loaf. At the end of our long walk, it was back to the hotel for showers and the delicious sensation of slipping into cool, white sheets under snowy duvets for an afternoon nap in keeping with a Southern tradition. We slumbered satisfied after the tasty meal and pleased to be in a new world where his per diem took care of such lunches and our hotel room.

Later we shared dinner at Muriel's in the Jackson Square area of the Quarter. Housed in a former mansion, the restaurant is apparently haunted. In a secret corner, under a staircase, we discovered a table set for two with goblets of red wine and bread; for the ghosts, they said. Another pirate parade traipsed past our window as William sipped a Sidecar and we dined on crawfish crepes, soft-shelled crab, Louisiana shrimp, and oysters. The pirates threw beads to the crowd and shouted ho ho ho and stuff about rum.

William and I glanced over our shoulders as the Muriel's maitre d' seated a couple and their toddler at a table directly behind us. I could feel my face tighten into a sour, pursed mask. Why on earth do people think it is a-okay to bring young children anywhere, anytime? Why?

A waiter delivered water to the parents and to the child a bundle of crayons. Oh for God's sake, our elegant evening looked like Sesame Street. I sucked in air and then gulped my wine, fortunately not at the same time. We turned our frosty attention to the appetizers before us and the pirates outside our window.

Near the end of our meal, in the ladies' room, I ran into the mother and her tot. I politely looked down and the child held her clasped hands up to me. She wound her pink fingers around and around, proudly showing how she'd washed them. I slipped to my knees and stared into her bright blue eyes, wide under a frothy halo of gossamer hair.

Did you wash your hands all by yourself? I asked, and she giggled.

She stuck her foot out to show me a white sandal with a large flower on top. Her tiny toes barely peeked out the end of the shoe.

Are these your new shoes?

Like a miniature dancer, she switched feet and pointed the other toward me. We both took a moment to study her sandal.

You have two new shoes? That's fantastic.

She swept her hands down the front of her cotton dress and I thought: Southern belles are surely born.

Oh, I hope she didn't disturb your dinner. This is her first time in a grown-up restaurant. The mother's voice came from far away. It had a tinny distance.

How old is she? I whispered. And what's her name? Caught in the spell of the little girl's eyes, I couldn't look up at the mother.

This is Annabelle. She's nineteen months. The child and I were in a private bubble.

Annabelle, I softly repeated, and again she giggled. Your shoes are perfect and your dress is lovely, Annabelle.

With that she wrapped her small hand tight around my index finger and tugged. Annabelle led me out of the bathroom, down the dark hallway and back into the dining room. With my knees bent and my body tipped halfway over, I looked like Quasimodo and yet was fine with that. It’s the kind of sacrifice one makes when one has so instantly fallen in love.

William laughed out loud when he saw us walking toward him and in a flash, he too was enchanted by Annabelle, whose name could as easily have been Scarlett, or Blanche, or Maggie, or Daisy.

The sun set over Jackson Square and sleepy Annabelle lifted tiny fingers in farewell over her daddy's shoulder as her baby blues closed.

The restaurant window reflected a couple rosy in candlelight. We stirred frothy cappuccinos and shared sweet crème brulee. We'd been sprinkled with magic by one of Louisiana's best. At a mere 30 inches high Annabelle was the real deal.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 1)

In the spring of 2009 William flew to New Orleans to start a job. This was three and half years after the Katrina disaster. I hadn't visited the Crescent City in many years and was saddened by horrible images of the city on television.

William's departure fell during spring break for The Shakespeare Club, so I was free to follow. We were in Louisiana Luck.

We arrived in New Orleans too late for Mardi Gras (good) and too early for Jazz Fest (sad) but right on target for Pirate Week (spelled Pyrate down here).

Pirates of all ages, colors and genres. Gay and straight pirates. Fat and skinny pirates. Dressed in full regalia, they stomped through the French Quarter and continued to do so for the week. Toddlers wearing eye patches and headscarves brandished swords from their strollers. The most common types of buccaneer were chubby middle-aged white men strutting in packs of three or four, gray hair springing out of their bandannas and cummerbunds stretched to the point of snapping.

I was reminded of Civil War re-enactors on battlefields in Virginia. These aged pirates wore a similar braggadocio of commitment and careful planning. Their faces registered ecstasy as they waved to the crowds. Their black breeches billowed above silly striped-stockinged calves. They dressed in gem-colored brocade coats, thigh-high leather boots and great three-corner hats with wild feathers aplume. They smoked, drank and cussed like, well, pirates. Everyone was acting with a capital A.

William and I wandered into the Jean Lafitte Blacksmith Shop Bar. A low-ceilinged, dark cave-like building with original blackened brick fireplaces and charred wood beams, it was the oldest building in the Quarter, dating from the 1770s. Story has it the pub was a blacksmith shop run by New Orleans' famous hero-pirate, Jean Lafitte. In reality, Monsieur Lafitte and his crew set this joint up to sell their glorious plunder to willing New Orleans buyers. Years later, the bar became a favorite drinking spot of Tennessee Williams.