Nawlins

On our first trip to New Orleans, four years ago, we stayed in a B&B on the edge of the Quarter, just down St. Ann's from Rampart, so this time I suggested we stay at the Place d'Armes, smack in the center of things, just a couple of blocks from Jackson Square.  To further enhance the experience, we invited our good friends Kathy and Mark, who had never been to New Orleans before, to come along.  

We arrived in the early evening on Wednesday and after getting situated at the hotel, set out for dinner at Sylvain on Chartes St., where we'd had brunch on our previous visit and found the food excellent. Though it was already dark, the evening air was so mild we sat out on the patio comfortably sipping Moscow Mules.  I ordered Papardelle Bolognese, which turned out to be even slightly better than at Little Napoli in Carmel, my quality standard for the dish, and we planned out our next few days with the help of some pertinent tips from our very personable waiter.  Afterward we strolled over to Cafe du Monde for beignets and coffee.   

In the morning Kathy and Mark headed for the Garden District, which Frieda and I had toured on our previous visit, while we walked down to the Mississippi, muddy brown as always but more swollen than I remembered it.  From there we wandered upriver to the Jean LaFitte Info Center.  A romantic figure, LaFitte was a smuggler and pirate, a handsome rake and ladies’ man with aristocratic affectations, who operated in the Gulf of Mexico in the early nineteenth century.   He was said to treat captured crews well, often returning them to their ship after stripping and selling off the cargo.  His reputation was as a Robin Hood, a thief with honor.  After ambling through the exhibits there, we took a Lift to meet Kathy & Mark at Mohony's Po-Boys on Magazine St. for lunch, a new neighborhood we hadn’t been to before.  The Po-Boys did not disappoint.  After lunch we wandered down Magazine St. looking at clothing and antique (or some might say, junk) stores.  

  

Around six PM we took a stroll over to Frenchman's St. to catch some music, stopping briefly in The Spotted Cat, Bamboula's, and BMC: but none of the bands grabbed us.  In BMC, mostly empty, the band had their amps so cranked it was painful to be in the room, so we shoved off for Bourbon St. to see was going on there.  We found that three weeks before Mardi Gras it was already crazy.  Some scantily-clad woman out in the street in front of a bar near the end somehow persuaded Kathy and Mark to let her blow four Jell-O shots apiece down their throats, and that set our evening off.  Later we bought $5 Hurricanes and went dancing, first at a disco club with a talkative DJ who shouted instructions over the music like a drill sergeant and then, when we tired of that, at a club called Fat Catz that had a live band. 

                                                                                  

House in the Faubourg Marigny

Friday morning we ambled through the French Market, a trinket-fest down by the river, explored the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood with an on-line tour that Kathy looked up on her phone, had lunch at Pere Antoine, then shopped for souvenir trinkets on Royal St. for an hour or so.  The Krewe Boheme parade (“krewes” are social clubs that sponsor parades) started at seven, so at six we trotted over to a bar on Dumaine and Chartes for a few Moscow Mules, then staked out a position on Dumaine, not too crowded at that point.  The Krewe Boheme, a new parade, not that large, was our first Mardi Gras parade.  After it passed by in a swirl of noise and light and color, we headed to Rouses Market, where we grabbed a couple bottles of wine, some cheese and crackers, and returned to the hotel to seize control of the large patio table and take advantage of the continuing mild weather to drink and chat.     

Longue Vue

Saturday, we decided to dial things down a bit by touring the Longue Vue house and gardens, built in the Lakewood neighborhood in the twenties and thirties by Edgar Stern, a cotton baron.  The grounds featured the distinctive flora of the locale and promoted serenity.  When we felt sufficiently calmed, we walked to the nearby Metairie Cemetery, where Kathy wanted to locate the grave of Louis Prima.  After she'd succeeded at that with the help of her very smart phone, Frieda played “Just a Gigolo” on her phone and we danced around his grave in tribute.  Exiting the cemetery, we caught a Lift to Rosedale Restaurant, a one-time police station that looked shabby on the outside but all new on the inside, where I had the best meal of the trip: Bourbon chicken thighs, utterly delicious.   

Bourbon Chicken

After a rest, we returned to the same spot as the previous night for the Krewe du Vieux, a well-established parade much larger than the Krewe Boheme.  Perhaps they had organizational issues on account of the size, as we had a long wait for it to show up at our viewing location.  It was worth it in the end though for the raunchy anti-Trump political satire alone.  The street was mayhem, more than triple the crowds of the night before.  Unbelievably crowded and crazy.  We could barely force our way through the mass of people to get back to Rouses Market to buy a couple bottles of wine, chips and guacamole to take back to the hotel.  

Krewe du Vieux

On Sunday morning, our last day in New Orleans, we went to Johnny's Po-Boys for breakfast and strolled the Quarter one last time.  Back at the hotel we packed and checked out, then went down to Jackson Square for Pimm's Cups, our final cocktails, and back to Johnny's to pick up Po-Boys to take to the airport.

I’m not a true enthusiast of New Orleans, it was Frieda who pushed for a return visit, yet I have to admit the city has its charms, is a unique novelty worth experiencing, and having a couple good friends along for the ride enhanced the experience.  We had some pleasant experiences and I did come away with some fond memories, so I don’t regret it; although, on the flight home (I presume) I picked up the nastiest chest cold I’ve had in years. 

G'bye Nawlins!