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.
International Intrigue
I’ve embarked on a journey full of mystery, laced with a soupçon of danger. To Johannesburg.
Yeah—that Johannesburg, in South Africa. All the way on the other side of the world.
What the heck? you wonder. Why South Africa??
Frankly, I’m not sure why South Africa. That’s where the mystery comes into play. I’m remarkably short on the backstory of this tale. I’m not even certain I know all the characters involved.
Not having all the details makes me uncomfortable, which means I’ve had a bad attitude regarding this sudden trip from the beginning. (Insert sigh here.) But as I’ve been sitting here on the first leg of my trip (to Atlanta, if you need to know), I’ve decided I’m going to change my outlook on this whole thing. I am Joan Wilder, gone off to help a family member. This is an adventure, where I’ll get to see a land I normally wouldn’t have and order room service from my cushy hotel room. If anything, it’s given me good fodder for a future book.
Always look the bright side, my friends.
And to those of you who have recently commented about how my life is becoming more and more like a novel: you’re right. I’ve become one of my own heroines—earnest but slightly clueless, wandering through the maze of life and men, trying to find my place in the world, ready to kick ass. Who knows—maybe I’ll meet a deliciously accented tycoon who’ll whisk me off in his private plane to an exotic destination.
Stranger things have happened, right?
Homeless
I'm on my way to Spain. Literally, if you're reading the blog on Tuesday the 18th.
Being an organized person, I set up everything a couple weeks ago. Originally, I thought I'd arrive in Madrid and then spend a week in Granada and another week somewhere like Malaga, but I decided against that. Instead I'm going to stay in Madrid and do day trips to other cities. Why? Because it's easier writing when you're settled in one place, and I have quite a bit of work to do. Also, apparently Madrid has awesome tango, and I want to take advantage of that.
Except a few days ago the apartment I'd rented fell through, so suddenly I have no place to stay. Bummer, I know. But it'll all work out. Worst case, I'll stay in a sterile, Hilton-esque hotel for a night and then take a train south. Or go to some beach town on the Mediterranean.
It's a tough life, but someone has to live it.
If you guys were headed to someplace without any plans, what would you do? How would you feel? (Yes, I'm taking notes, because wouldn't this be a good conflict for a control freak?)
A few things I'm going to do while I'm in Madrid (if that's where I actually end up):
- go to the Prado, and the Reina Sofia.
- eat paella.
- drink thick red wine.
Next question: is there anything you guys want me to experience in Madrid (or wherever I end up)? Because I'm happy to do things and then report back for your vicarious pleasure.
Hey—thanks, everyone, for the birthday wishes! I had an awesome, whiskey-soaked birthday week. Or perhaps awesomely whiskey-soaked would be a more accurate description. The only thing I'd change is the number of cupcakes I ate. Next year, I'm going to make sure I have cake on every day of my birthday week instead of just once. It's good to have goals.
Something Borrowed, Something Black
My friend Dawn loaned me a suitcase.
No, it's not pretty. Or stylish. Or hip in any way. But Dawn did a pilgrimage similar to the one I'm doing, only to Great Britain, and this was the luggage she took. It seemed fitting that the bag should accompany me on my sojourn to Argentina. Plus, it's tropical looking.
My entire life is packed in this one bag. Minus ten small boxes of books I have stored in a friend's garage. Impressive or depressing—you decide.
As I packed, I realized there was a big, gaping hole in my wardrobe: a little black dress.
Don't get me wrong—I have some kick-ass dresses. But a simple black dress that says hi there, fellow? Nope. But I packed my big-girl shoes in hopes that in Buenos Aires the perfect little dress waits for me.