On The Run
August 9, 2011
This morning, Kate Perry's press manager reported that she will be taking an "extended vacation."
"What this means," the PR guru explained, "is that Kate will take a few weeks off from her blog in order to regroup."
The news came as a shock to many people, including her own support staff. One barista at Readers Cafe, Kate's favorite work spot, said, "I never thought I'd see the day. I mean—DUDE—she's dedicated. She was in here every-frickin-day writing. She's a machine. Even on holidays. I just don't believe it."
Kate's PR person clarified: "She isn't going to stop writing. In fact, Kate's working on a couple exciting new projects. This break from her blog is simply so she can pour her energies in these new ventures. Trust me—you'll like what she's got going on."
Some, however, weren't surprised when our writing superstar declared her intention to step back from the limelight. "She's been on edge for a while now," McLovin, her trusty laptop, said. "It's not surprising. Even when she's on vacation, she makes sure her blogs and guest blogs are timely and entertaining. No one could sustain that sort of bubbliness indefinitely. But I knew she was going to crack the day she threw her furry slipper at me and screamed, 'I just need a break!'"
"She actually threw something at McLovin," one witness said. "I couldn't believe it. She loves that sucker."
When asked if Kate was on the run, McLovin poo-pooed the notion. "She's not a fugitive, she's just an overextended writer. She wants a few weeks of peace and quiet to finish work on her new project. It's not a big deal. She's not turning into the Unibomber. At least, I don't think so."
Kate's press manager assures us everything is okay. "She'll be back eventually. In the meantime, you can follow her on Twitter. She'll continue tweeting."
Kate was unavailable for comment.
New Orleans!
New Orleans is an interesting place. On the surface, it's an adult wonderland, like Vegas minus the gambling. Anything goes, alcohol is available any time of the day (they have to-go windows for beer and daiquiris), and half-naked women are a dime a dozen.
Underneath its frivolity, New Orleans has a heavier side. Crime and poverty are high, and its citizens are fearful. The general feel is oppressive, like a dark energy has pressed down on the city for centuries.
That said, there are such lovely things about New Orleans. Like its peoples, who must be the friendliest people on earth. Everywhere I went, people stopped to chat. And the buildings and homes were beautiful, with their balconies and hanging gardens.
Unfortunately, I didn't take any pictures of them. No, I have no idea what I was thinking. I did, however, take a picture of this sign, partly because it's hilarious and partly because the bar's name was the Pour House, just like in the Guardian series:
In the mid 1800s, a crate arrived on the docks, marked "EXPEDITE" and nothing else—no name who it was being sent to or where it was from. After several months, someone finally opened the box to find this statue:
Since it was obviously a saint, an executive decision was made to deliver it to the Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel, where it still stands today. Of course, they named it St. Expedite.
There are a lot of antique and junk stores in New Orleans. In one of them, I found a gaggle of odd birds.
I met a voodoo priestess. Here's a shot of her workstation:
Her "office" was fascinating. You can't imagine how much stuff there was in there, everything from dolls to bottles of alcohol to Christmas lights to money. The impression I got was that everything there had a purpose, or was added for a reason. I asked the priestess about this, but she didn't give me a direct answer. Here's a small corner of her space, but the entire room is covered in kitsch like this:
I also met Dr. Love. My sister and I were sitting on a bench, listening to a jazz band and eating homemade popsicles, when he blew us a kiss from the other bench. Then he got up, picked up his broom, and began to pretend-swat unsuspecting women's butts.
Yeah, I don't understand it either. All I know was that it was funny, because most of the women never realized he was pretending to whack their booties. Then he sat down with us, flirted, and had us sign his white cap. He even let me wear his black sheriff's hat:
No, I have no idea what his story was. I'm going to google him later.
Apparently New Orleans is home to the best fried chicken in the country. So my sister and I trekked for miles on foot (literally) through the hood (also literally) to see if Willie Mae's Scotch House really did have the best fried chicken ever.
The answer: it was the best damned fried chicken I'd ever eaten. It was worth the achy feet and near heatstroke. If you go to New Orleans, go to Willie Mae's. Except unless you're walking with a kung fu princess, you may want to take a cab to the joint.
Since we're talking about fried food...
That's right—beignets! From Café du Monde, at 3am, which is really the best time to have beignets, in my opinion. Yes, there is a cup of powdered sugar on top, and somehow it ends up all over your face before you're done.
New Orleans is a musical city, more so than any place I've ever been. And it was especially musical due to Jazzfest last week. You could find talented musicians jamming on every corner, kind of like this one:
On our last night there, after leaving a club, because it was 3am, my Magic Man took me for beignets. We sat at the edge of the Mississippi and ate them under a crescent moon. After we dusted the powdered sugar off our faces and turned to leave, we were greeted with this view of the St. Louis Cathedral:
Lovely and magical. That pretty much sums up the trip.
La Maison et Le Chat
“Kate, I have to read this to you.”
Putting my book down, I looked up at Dawn, who sat reading at the other end of the couch. “Go for it.”
“I’m still reading the Julia Childs's memoir.” She held it up so I could see the cover. “There’s this quote that’s great, but it’s in French so I’m going to mangle it.”
The princess herself.
“Thanks for the warning.”
“I didn’t want your ears to bleed or anything.”
“So…” I smiled encouragingly. “The quote?”
“Right.” Resettling her glasses on her nose, she read very carefully, “An may son sens chat set lavvy sens so lay.”
It took me a moment, but I got it. “Ah. Une maison sans chat, c'est la vie sans soleil. A house without a cat is like life without sun.”
“Exactly.” Dawn beamed at her cat, who was crouched on the floor in front of me. “I feel that way about Tinkerbell. She’s like a ray of light in my world.”
Tinkerbell lifted her head and hissed at me—the kind of hissing that makes you want to back away really slowly.
“Um. Yeah.” I pulled my feet up onto the couch, just in case. Because I’m sure they look better with all my toes in tact. “Tinkerbell’s something, all right.”
“I don’t know why she’s been so strange the past few days.”
“She doesn’t normally freak out and attack her own tail?”
“No, she does that. She just doesn’t usually lay in wait for guests and try to trip them. She’s been talking to you a lot and following you around all over. That’s not normal.” Dawn frowned at the wee beastie little princess. “I think she’s trying to tell you something.”
“Maybe she has a message from the fairies.” I glanced at the cat, who stared steadily at me, obviously waiting. I breathed a sigh of relief when she huffed, as though disgusted with my telepathic shortcomings, and sauntered away. "Next time I visit, I'll bring a cat-to-English translator."
The princess herself.
Adventuring
Yesterday morning I woke up and decided I needed adventure. So I got dressed, walked to the panadería to get a sandwich for the road, and then headed to the train station. Next stop: Segovia.
When I came to Spain, I thought I'd check out Granada, maybe Malaga and Toledo, but Segovia wasn't on my radar. But then I mentioned visiting Toledo to one of my new (Spanish) friends, and she said (somewhat wistfully), "I quite enjoy Segovia."
So there you go. And there I went. Lucky for you, I took pictures, so it'll almost be like you went along with me—only you didn't have to slather sunblock all over yourself.
The aqueduct. For those of you unfamiliar with Roman innovation, it's a fancy bridge that transported water. Segovia is in the background.
The cathedral. It was the biggest cathedral I've ever been in—I'm pretty sure. Things I noted about the interior: it was at least thirty degrees cooler than outside; there were more than a dozen small chapels circling the main nave; and it was all freakin' big.
I got whistled at by a construction worker inside the cathedral. WTH? That's just wrong, or sacrilegious, or something. Maybe he thought he was in tight enough with the Big Guy that he could get away with lascivious thoughts in a holy place.
Me, outside the cathedral. Aren't I cute, despite my lack of makeup? I love those earrings too. My sunglasses make me look like an insect-superhero though.
Approaching Alcázar, the big-ass castle in Segovia. If you were here for a history lesson, I'd tell you it was an Arab fort back in the 12th century, and a Roman one way before then (or so one infers), until it became a favorite place for royalty to chill.
But you're not here for a history lesson, so I'll tell you that there was a lot white fluffy stuff floating in the air. Pollen, anyone? And the moat was empty—I was minorly disappointed by that, but the suits of armor they had standing all over the place made up for it a little.
For two euros extra, you could climb up 152 steps to the top of Juan II's tower (hidden behind the trees). And to think I was paying eighty bucks a month to go to the gym to use the StairMaster.
The restaurant where I had my two hour lunch. Although the sign is false advertisement, because my fork was never lonely. It was always accompanied with at least a knife and sometimes a spoon.
New friends! I was sitting at the bus kiosk, waiting to go back to the train station, when this blonde accosted me. It turned out they were awesome, and fun, and from New York. So we met up for tapas and drinks later that night in Madrid. Craziness ensued, as it does when I'm involved. Sorry—can't give you details, because what happens in Spain stays in Spain. Let's just say it involved peanuts, Mui Mui slippers, and a very cute Argentinian guy.
Stay tuned for my next adventure, which may or may not include flamenco dancing and pigs. See you next week.