Adventures in citizenship

I was getting ready to leave Iggy's, on Rampart Street, when the phone rang.  Someone had left their keys behind, and Lyle, the bartender had found them.  He asked if anyone was leaving, otherwise he would have sent the keys in a cab to the Bywater neighborhood to deliver them to their owner.  I was leaving.  Though the Bywater is in the opposite direction of my house, I volunteered.  It wasn't too far out of my way on the motorcycle, and I rarely travel down there, so this instantly qualified as a good deed and an adventure.

"Where is he?" I asked.  "At Markey's.  It's a block uptown from the corner of Desire and Royal Streets," was the answer.  I said I could find it, and I took the keys.  The whole errand took about twenty minutes out of my way, but it was in my way.  It was something I should do.

I went down St. Claude Avenue to Desire.  I turned right and crossed Bourbon, Burgundy (pronounced bur-GUN-dee) and Dauphine (doe-FEEN) Streets until I reached Royal.  I turned right again and found Markey's Bar, which is a long shotgun building that looks, to my eyes, like it should be condemned.  Inside, it was a spotlessly clean showplace that would be a welcome respite for the ruling class in a world-class city, like Indianapolis, or Des Moines, or Chicago.  Gritty on the outside, squeaky clean on the inside.  The kitchen smelled good, but I had already eaten.  I found the keys' owner and delivered them.  "Oh, man, they sent you!  You didn't have to to this, baby," he said.  "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.  I said no.  I was headed homeways, which is always bestways.

I would never have gone into the Bywater except for this errand.  I discovered this beautiful place, and I passed many that I've ignored in the daylight, but were hopping at night.  It was an adventure, and I saw New Orleans in all its pulsing glory.  I didn't stop for a drink.  I used the restroom, and then left, motorcycling homeways along unfamiliar streets whose names I know well from further uptown.  

A good deed is a good adventure.  That is what people should do every day.  When I got home my wife said I was smiling like a cat who swallowed a canary.  I was.  I still am.  I have been to Markey's.

A Secret Under Wraps

A Drinking Town. 2011.

“I know a secret,” the girl under the streetlight on North Rampart Street said.  She asked me if I wanted to learn it.  My curiosity was aroused.

Stopped in my tracks by this spontaneous, feminine apparition, I felt a fertile animal magnetism that made me think twice and then thrice, in quick succession, as to what course of action to take.  The dice rolled snake eyes, so I asked the young lady to show me her secret.  

Her long, bare legs started walking as she swept her head to indicate that I should follow her.  She led me to the Friendly Touch Bar on Touro Street.  She insisted she needed to wet her whistle before we got down to business. Six hours later, we left the Friendly Touch and parted company, exchanging business cards, followed by a handshake.   

A city that is alive is full of stories.  Some of them are told.  Most of them are secrets.  

Late nights and pillow fights

I'm a New Englander.  We still subscribe to wise Benjamin Franklin's advice that early to bed and early to rise make a man healthy, wealthy and wise.

Since I've moved to New Orleans, I've stayed out much too late twice this week.  Is past 5:30 PM already?  This is no time for breakfast.

Worse than the katzenjammers, is that I've had to engage in pillow fights each "morning," and I lost both times.  I was outnumbered in each encounter.  Tuesday was against two sisters, who I figure have had a lifetime developing teamwork and strategy.  This afternoon was two dames and cocker spaniel.  Oh the humanity!!

At least it wasn't as bad as a certain, regrettable, post midnight adventure last week.

Oh, the stories I could tell if I chose to.

Sleep tight, and keep your nose clean,
WK

Odometer Update: Day 5

You'll never guess who stopped by to lean against the fence in my back yard to discuss my driving and writing habits.   We retired to the Fixin's Bar on Saint Claude Avenue to go over the details.  He doesn't approve of my devil-may-care attitude.  I tried to convince him that my intentions are pure and justified.  We parted amicably enough, as gentlemen tend to do.

Nobody pulled a trigger.

More tomorrow!

Telling what is open and closed in New Orleans

I was getting a tire plugged the other day.  While I was waiting, I walked around the block and discovered this nightclub.

The man who plugged the tire was done in about 5 minutes.  I asked him if the L&R is still open for business.  "Of course it is," he said.

I explained that I'm fairly new here and I still have a hard time recognizing buildings that are abandoned from ones that are still viable.  "You'll get used to it," he said.

I'm thinking about going on Monday for the red beans.  This is a traditional Monday dish, hereabouts.  A lot of bars offer it.

Tip Top Voodoo New Orleans

There's no beach in New Orleans.  The cityscape is entirely manmade, raised from the swamp with little evidence of it's prior existence.  It is paved over and impermeable.  When I saw the above object on the sidewalk, I thought it was a crab claw like I would find every few feet scattered in the dried seaweed that makes up the tideline on a New England beach.  I was on Canal Street though.

While Lake Pontchartrain crabs are reputed to be the best in the world (I discussed this in the past for a few days but don't have the patience to look up the links), I rarely see the remnants of these crabs that get boiled and devoured by the kilo.  I paused to take a closer look.  Crab claw?  No.

Look closely.  One end is covered with feathers.  It is a severed bird beak.  I didn't touch it but I let my camera record it so I could mull it over.  Why?  Why would a bird's beak be so cleanly removed and left to languish on the sidewalk.  I don't know.  Maybe it's a voodoo talisman.

New Orleans is famous for being a home to voodoo but, truth be told, I've seen evidence outside of tourist traps.  Not that I don't wish it were true.  I love drama and mystery.  New Orleans is full enough of mystery though without a layer of voodoo being overlaid on its mojo.

Soon after passing this avian remnant, I came across this storefront...

You can't read in the shadow in this photo so I'll tell you:  Tip Top is gone.  Tip Top is closed.  If you were thinking of going to Tip Top on the ground floor of the Iberville Street Garage between Rampart and Bourbon, forget it.  No dice.  No Tip Top.

There are plenty of other places, a whole city full in fact.  There's no curse, only business cycles.  Spoken like a dry economist.  When I find a severed bird beak on my front stoop and trip down the stairs, I may think differently.  New Orleans is full of surprises.

Ms. Mae's Mondays

Are you busy at midnight next Monday or any Monday?  I happen to know where something happening is going on, Daddy-o.

Garden District Pub, New Orleans.

Garden District Pub, Magazine Street, New Orleans.  A nice place.

Within a block of each other, the Garden District Pub, The Saint, and the Half Moon, all offer enticing drinking experiences.  I tend to cotton more to the GDP.  It's a no frills place, basically a hallway with a bar in it and two rest rooms at the farthest point from the front door.  The conversation is good and there's no overloud music.  It's a talking bar and a sipping bar.  Nothing fancy, just a comfortable place to cool your heels at day's end.

“I never changed anything, except my socks and my underwear.  And I never did anything to glorify myself or improve my lot.  I took what came and did the best I could with it.”

–Robert Mitchum

Garden District Pub has a website.  Read the history page on their site.  If you find yourself in the neighborhood, succumb to temptation and pop in.  This is what a bar should be.  It's old school like a cable-knit cardigan you can't bear to toss because it has served you well for decades no matter how many times the styles have changed since your grandmother gave it to you. 

I'm not a regular patron and no money exchanged hands to post this review.  They don't know I'm doing it and I doubt anyone there would know me from Adam or Caesar if I walked in tonight.  I just like it.  A tip of the fedora to Dianne and Veronica.

Cheers!

WK

The Whalehead Pledge

A mural on Magazine Street.  The top was painted by convicts under the supervision of the Sheriff.

I'm recently moved to New Orleans, just this past June, and I really have no knowledge of this wonderful city I now call home.  

This blog used to be called just "Whalehead King," my nom-de-guerre, when I lived in New London, Conn., a place I called home for twelve years.  I'm from Connecticut originally, a state with roughly the same population as Louisiana packed into an area that has less square footage than Jefferson Parish.

I lived in Boston, Mass. for three years prior to moving to New Orleans.  During that time, this blog was called "The Dot Matrix!" because I lived in Dorchester, Boston's biggest neighborhood which is commonly referred to as "Dot."  I was a'swim in the matrix of events and trends and local politics around a few square blocks of my home where I spent much of my time.

This blog is now called "Excelsior! New Orleans!"  Moving here, I feel like I am trading up from Boston.  Bean Town and I haven't lost any love on each other.  It is a beautiful city and a pleasure to stroll around in warm months.  I was never a good fit there, however, for reasons described in this blog's archives for those who choose to trawl through them.

I don't have a trademark unless you count my rambling prose and the image of Yippee the Whale who appears in the upper right of this blog: A Five-Star Whale Production.  Whalehead King, however, does have a pledge.

This blog will contain only clean and wholesome, if idiosyncratic, information.  Even when it deals with adult or distasteful subjects, you will never read anything that would make your great-grandmother blush.  I neither regulate nor eliminate whatever subject happens to catch my fancy on any given day but I do ensure that it is fit for public consumption.  The goriest and hoariest details are included by implication and no parent need worry that Junior will be learning how harsh the real world is by visiting these pages.  I call it as I see it and live it, and I generally have a sunny, if jaundiced, disposition.

My New Orleans experience may not be yours.  I am a Nutmeg Yankee (which means a born and bred Connecticut native) and my presuppositions are probably very different from those of someone from elsewhere in America or the world, even someone from Rhode Island, which is Connecticut's tinier neighbor.

In all, I am enjoying being a citizen of this wonderful city or New Orleans.  I cannot and will not choose to live anywhere else.  I made the right choice when I saddled my motorcycle and took the back roads from Boston to New Orleans to make a good life worth living.  If my observations seem askew, they are.  I am a stranger in a strange city that speaks a different dialect and has customs that leave me blinkered about what just happened.  I am enchanted, enthralled, and feeling effervescent every morning I leave my apartment.

The Whalehead Pledge:  To be true to one's roots while adapting to one's surroundings is the best a person can do.  Connecticut's official state motto is: "Qui Transtulit Sustinet."  You know what that means?  "He (or she) Who Transplants, Sustains."  It pairs up nicely with Louisiana's motto: "Union, Justice, Confidence."  I weld my identity to New Orleans'.  I treat everything I contact with an open mind and wait long, scratching my head in puzzlement sometimes, before I pass fair judgement.  I seek to understand rather than dismiss.  I am confident that moving here was the best decision I have made in the four-plus decades I have been alive and I am sure tomorrow will be better than yesterday.  I believe in New Orleans' promise.

'Nuff said for one day.  It may be enough said on this subject for the rest of this blog unless I think of a better way to say it.  Words are tricky things, describing as much as they leave out.

Cheers! and with a handshake,
WK
Thank you for making me feel like I am home.

Dixie Beer

Not seen at the WalMart on Tchoupitoulas Street.  In New Orleans, this would be a fleur-de-lis.

I ride my bicycle down Tulane Avenue fairly frequently and it always fills my heart with sorrow when I pass the abandoned Dixie Brewery.  If the view from the front isn't painful enough, I often take Banks Street because it has less traffic and the view the back is even more forlorn.

According to Wikipedia, the damage was done after the levees broke in 2005 and the brewery was flooded and then looted of equipment and scrap metal.  I haven't looked into the history that deeply but I believe the scrap metal theory more than the equipment one.  I can't see a pawn shop fencing industrial-grade brewing vats.

Dixie is still around.  It's brewed by contract now apparently.  It isn't the best beer in town but it's an honest beer and it's a New Orleans beer.  Drinking Dixie is like being in Pennsylvania and drinking Yuengling, which was a pleasure to sip while I was passing through PA.  Drinking Dixie in New Orleans is like living in southeastern New England and drinking The Official Beer of the Clam.  Like the folks at Narragansett Brewery say, "You're not from New England if you're not drinking Narragansett."    

I think Dixie needs to print rebuses and trivia on the underside of their bottle caps.  That would be icing on the cake or head on the pint, as it were.

Cheers!
WK

You can't do wrong doing right.

Art as advertisement.  Magazine Street. New Orleans.

Not every night on the town in New Orleans ends in a dance.  There's plenty of song and syncopation, and sometimes even some tap dancing.  New Orleans isn't synchronized though.  It moves by serendipity.


While in Houston last week, I visited a bar called Sherlock's that the hotel staff recommended.  "They have three floors and it's always busy."  It was a long room in the strip mall that did, in fact, have three rooms connected by a step or two between each.  The music was a combination of canned top 40 hits from the 80s and 90s.  The clientele was a bunch of blowhards in chinos with their oxford shirts unbuttoned and tie-less.  Nobody danced, nobody mingled.  Groups sat at tables to see who could talk the loudest.

There was no there there, just a collection of warm bodies going through the motions and paying their tab as they went.  Houston really put me in a funk that I haven't shaken yet, five days later.

I'm not a talker by nature.  I keep to myself though I love to go out.  The day after I arrived in New Orleans, I went to my usual watering hole and everyone asked where I had been.  I answered simply, "Houston."  Everyone commiserated.  I didn't buy a drink all day.  Sympathetic souls took up a collection.  "This guy just got back from Houston, can you chip into the pool so that he forget the past week?"

It didn't work.  I'm not one to overindulge in Dixie beer or sympathy.  A man's got to do what a man's got to do.  Before last week, the last time I was in Houston was 15 years ago.  I hope it will be more than 15 till I go back.  I'll take New Orleans any day.  Houston may be the 4th biggest city in America in population but it is last in appeal in my book.

If Houston is for you, and no offense to Houstonians, especially those I ran into at Sherlocks, more power to you.  You have more thickly skinned souls than I do.

Thanks to the Institute of Official Cheer for our footage today of what an ideal New Orleans night is like when the stars are aligned.  You won't find that in Space City, Houston's official, apt nickname.

Say yes to beets!

Heaven knows how I get involved in some things or why, but for some reason I've become chummy with Aunt Nellie.  Who?  You know, Aunt Nellie the pickled beet lady.

Aunt Nellie is holding some kind of beet appreciation contest.  I'll paste the details at the bottom.  What caught my eye is that she is looking for possible cocktail recipes.  While very little surprises me, I can't recall anyone concocting a borscht based cocktail, let alone one with the beet syrup Aunt Nellie uses.  I'm not suggesting I wouldn't try it.  On the contrary, I would probably be the first in line.  It can be any worse than the Igor's bloody marys that the 24 hour bars serve on St. Charles Avenue.  In fact, I should suggest the bartenders enter this contest.

As for Aunt Nellie's parent company, I've only heard of three of their brands.  Aunt Nellie's beets, of course, and Libby's canned vegetables.  I remember Libby's from their annoying jingle so it served its purpose.  I thought Seneca made applesauce but apparently they've scaled back to the snack chip business.  Time marches on.

If you are interested in saying Yes! to beets, feel free to read below and enter.  What have you got to lose?

CONTEST BASICS:  Aunt Nellie's "Say Yes! To Beets" Recipe Contest June 15 - August 13, 2010 Submit all recipes to auntnellies@mpfood.com before 11:59 EST on 8/13/10 Recipe categories: Beverages/Smoothies: Includes cocktails, juice blends and smoothies Everyday Quick: Includes easy, everyday dishes for any occasion Special: Includes special occasion and holiday favorites Prizes include: $2,500 Grand Prize: One winner $1,000 First Prize: Three winners $500 Second Prize: Three winners

Click here or visit www.AuntNellies.com for Official Rules

   Aunt Nellie, you owe me a sawbuck.

The world's most beautiful urinal

Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to the most majestic men's room I have ever had the pleasure to patronize.  Ladies, you'll have to take my word for it.

We went to Deutsches Haus at 200 S. Galvez Street last night to catch a showing of the 1970s classic movie 'Cabaret' starring Michael York and Liza Minelli (with a z) and, of course, Joel Grey.  The film was projected on a big screen in the main bar room.  One other couple was tempted to sit at the center table in front of the screen.  One of the bar televisions was dedicated to screening the film as well and several people gathered at the bar to watch it there.  Though the TV screen was smaller, the picture was crisper and the colors clearer.  I'm old fashioned and I still believe that movies should be bigger than life rather than smaller.  We saw Toy Story 3 recently at the Prytania Theater and I can't imagine that on a small screen.

Anyhow, mid-film, I heard nature calling me so I excused myself to visit the Little Herren Room.  The men's room at Deutsches Haus contains wood paneled stalls that guarantee privacy for private business as well as a shower.  I had no need for these facilities but the room's other fixture was what set this lavatory in a class by itself.

Upon entering, there is a pink marble-lined section of wall.  A gentleman mounts a step and faces the marble to do what that thing people do after they drink a few glasses of beer.  A pipe punctured by downward facing pinholes runs along the top rim of the marble and it's connected to an old fashioned spigot handle shaped like a chrome-plated ship's helm.  A turn of this wheel releases the thinnest stream of pure New Orleans tap water that runs down the wall and down the drain in the floor.

It is a sanitary and elegant operation with more than a touch of class.  Apparently someone in the haus had asparagus for dinner but otherwise this was a most stately setting for satisfying one of life's most basic functions.  There is room for two gentleman to stand side by side, modesty be damned.

Free movies are screened at Deutsches Haus most Wednesday evenings, the Thursday Cabaret was an exception to the schedule.  There is an ample selection of both bottled German beer and select brews on tap.  All in all, a great place to visit while they are still at their original location.  Whether you are German by birth, heritage or inclination, we recommend a trip on the Canal Street streetcar to Deutsches Haus.

If it's too early in the day to be visiting this New Orleans institution, we suggest a walk down the Magnolia Grandiflora Grove.

Dueling clarinets

Well, they weren't really dueling so much as complimenting each other, each clarinetist egging the other on.  I always associate wind instruments with traditional jazz and usually the brass ones more often than not.  This isn't being fair to Benny Goodman and it certainly isn't fair to the two clarinetists we watched the other night at Fritzl's.

We've taken our bikes and the Ninja through the French Quarter but haven't really spent any time there until Thursday night.  Bourbon Street lived up to its reputation with music pouring out windows and doorways.  While it is packed with people, most of them are harmless.  Yes, it's full of tourists but so what?  Tourism is New Orleans' main industry at the moment.  

The band enjoyed themselves and so did everyone who listened.  It was a very diverse crowd and I was intrigued by the twenty-somethings enjoying this music.  A piano, a drum kit, a bass, two clarinets.  A simple set up for some very intricate and sophisticated syncopation.  While the band stuck to what I assume are Dixieland standards meant for the tourists, their artistry was impeccable and they certainly know how to put on a show.

I've been to Fritzl's before.  I like the stained wood ambience and the benches arranged into a small auditorium.  Are there better venues?  Probably.  I'm certainly interested in finding them.  The level of New Orleans musicianship is first rate whether in the clubs or on the street.  Jazz really is the pulse of New Orleans and I'm glad I'm hear to listen to it.

This afternoon, I learned who Gen. Albert Pike was.

Legal seafood

I've only eaten at Legal Sea Foods twice.  One of those times was last night.  While one of my companions went on record saying he preferred the Legal Sea Foods at the Aquarium to the Gaslight on Harrison Ave, I think this is an apples-to-oranges comparison.  I like Gaslight too, but I've also only eaten there twice.

I've heard Legal Sea Foods described as being an expensive 99.  I don't exactly agree with that either.  While both may be New England chains, everything about Legal is geometrically better than whatever is offered at 99.  Legal doesn't necessarily feel like a chain.  99 can't help but seem like anything else.

I pinched a placemat last night and was reminded that since 1981 serving Legal clam chowder at Presidential inaugurations is a tested, bipartisan tradition.  I'm not going to rave about the restaurant.  As much as it's good, it also tends to be very crowded.  It isn't the cheapest seafood in Boston but it has a reputation for being reliable and, as the marketing will tell you in the T and on the sides of buses, the fish is fresh.

The collection of various fish sculptures in front of the restaurants is a testament to good taste and they enliven the streetscape.

You can learn all the facts here, if you are so inclined.  If you want to check them out the old fashioned way, their phone number really is 1-800-EAT-FISH.

The Legal cod are for eating, unlike this chap we discussed yesterday.

Publish Post

The Last Hurrah

The Last Hurrah is the name of a movie starring Spencer Tracy (not pictured above) detailing the life of Boston's notorious Mayor Curley.  It is also the name of the bar located in the Omni Parker House Hotel.  Yes, that Parker House.  The one where Parker House rolls were invented.  Boston cream pie was also invented there.  Emerson and Oliver Wendell Holmes dined there regularly.  It's quite the hangout.

We stopped for drinks at the Last Hurrah last night.  It was nice but if you are stopping for cocktails in downtown Boston, may I recommend the Marliave.  While it is difficult to find, once you know the way, you'll kick yourself for not figuring it out.  It is easy to reach the Granary Burial Ground (essentially across the street) and also from Bromfield Street (which could be its address, but it isn't).  The cocktails are at Marliave, like the decor, is old school.  The Molasses Flood is a favorite and I recommend it for anyone.  The Warren Harding, is a gentleman's drink that shouldn't be wasted on anyone under the age of 35.

We were at Marliave last Thursday and oysters were for sale a dollar apiece.  I had six Wellfleets and they were delicious.  They were a perfect match for my Warren Harding.

The drink menu for anyone interested.  I also like the W.C. Fields.

Goodbye Jacob Wirth

 Boston isn't known for it's cuisine.  Please don't send me emails about baked beans, toll house cookies, parker house rolls, boiled pot roast, cod or white clam chowder.  I'm from around here and I know all of these things but except for the clam chowder, none of these things is really succulent.  There are good restaurants in Boston but, needless to say, most of them don't capitalize on the "New England" aspect of their kitchen.  Durgin Park is an exception, but they are in the middle of a tourist destination (the soundtrack of their website is worth the click).

Jake's Black Label Sausage.   This should be the title of this post because this is what I ordered at Jacob Wirth for lunch.  Whatta wurst!  The sausage and a pint of Narragansett left me full as a tick the rest of the day.  This was one nice grilled sausage served on a toasted bun with sauerkraut but I don't go to Jacob Wirth for the food.  I go for the atmosphere.  The place has changed little over a century.  I like that.  I like looking over bygone momentos and looking at the scrollwork that supports a pressed tin ceiling.

I like it as much as I like my 'Gansett, Neighbor.  I wholeheartedly agree that you're not from New England if you aren't drinking the Official Beer of the Clam (this digression, including illustration, is copyright Narragansett Brewing Co. PR)

I love old things that have withstood the test of time.  I'm no Renaissance Faire aficionado or colonial re-enactor but I like anachronisms.  I liked the Dutch Tavern in New London.  I love Boston's landscape and I look forward to participating in the ongoing traditions that make up New Orleans.

Better living through Kumtek

I was at Euromart at 808 Dot Ave to pick up some smoked trout from the cooler but as I was entering, I ran into John Kumbalowski who was carrying out a six pack of Zywiec, the beer of choice in the Polish Triangle.  We got to talking and he suggested we head over to Cafe Polonia for some kishka and cherry brandy.  An order of kishka only goes for eight bucks and we were splitting a plate so I agreed.

Unfortunately, Cafe Polonia looked a bit too crowded for our tastes so we headed across Andrew Square to the Aces High Tavern.  Since we were now on the Irish side of Andrew, we ordered two Budweisers on tap and John proceeded to catch me up on what's going on his life.

Though he works as a installer at Yale Appliance and Electric, John graduated from MIT in the Class of '91.   He hasn't forgotten anything that he learned as a student and, in fact, he has been pursuing his own interests while off the clock at Yale.   He told me he was starting up his own company in order to manufacture jet engines he's designed and patented on weekends and during vacations.  He asked me if I'd be interested in investing.

I answered that I would be interested and I asked the name of the new company.  John replied, "Kumtek.  It's a combination of Kumbalowski and Technology but I spell technology with a 'k' because it looks more futuristic."

I agreed that the k was cutting edge but I advised him he might want to pick a different name.  I suppose there's nothing wrong with the name Kumtek but it's not the kind of name I'd like to drop in polite conversation.  He said he'd think about it and he did seem thoughtful as we finished our beers.  When we parted company, John asked, "What do you think about Baltek?"

I told him it would depend on the pronunciation and we shook hands.  I headed over to Euromart to pick up my smoked trout.  John headed back to the drawing board with his six pack of Zywiec under his arm.

Let the good times pour

Time got away from me this afternoon so there aren't enough minutes left for me to report today's adventures.  I've got to spruce myself for Dorchester's favorite Saturday night pastime.

That's right.  Saturday is the liveliest night of the week.  The root beer will be flowing while no roots are showing.  That's the Dorchester way.

So tomorrow, instead of reporting on today's adventures, maybe tonight's will prove more interesting...if I can remember.

Anyone coming to Dorchester tonight should remember though, Dot hates a sloppy drunk and don't drink and drive.  Take the T, that way you'll be forced to get home at a decent hour.

Cheers!

Thanks to the Funky Junk Trunk for today's swipe art.  It came from a photo album found in a closet in Upham's Corner.  The picture is dated June 2002 on the back.

1000 miles away

So I'm sitting in Bruno's Tavern, 7538 Maple Street in New Orleans' Carrolton neighborhood.  "An Uptown drinking place since 1934."  The sky is partly cloudy.  The Times-Picayune says the high temperature today is 65 but it feels like its in the 70s when the sun shines down, especially after the abrupt transition from Boston this morning to New Orleans this afternoon.

Carrolton is a beautiful neighborhood on the end of the St. Charles streetcar line.  No building is taller than two stories.  Unlike Dorchester, the homes are not repetitions of the same style repeated ad infinitum.  Each small lot has its own personality.  There aren't any leaves on many of the trees yet, the broad, ancient oaks that shade the streets.  There are leaves on the palm trees and banana trees.

The sidewalks are rough in patches.  Some of the homes are in picturesque disrepair.  It is beautiful and alive here, with people moving at a pace very dissimilar to what I'm accustomed to in Boston.  Everyone says hello.  Everyone.

The St. Charles Avenue streetcars most resemble Mattapan High Speed trolleys but people open the windows and catch the breeze.  After I unpacked I bought a five day pass for $20 and walked down St. Charles Ave to Lafayette Square.  After so many days of Boston March rain and so many weeks of Boston winter chill, I couldn't resist a half mile stroll in nothing more than a sports coat over a tee shirt.  The first street car was full and I was standing with a gaggle of people dressed for St. Patrick's day also wanting to jump on.  No problem: three more cars were visible behind.  Everyone eventually got on within five minutes wait.

There is something different about New Orleans time.  There is never a need to rush.  Good things happen no matter where you are.  The party starts when you arrive.  Something pleasant is always unfolding, little or large, on the streets, in the parks, in the bars, in the clubs, on the streetcar.

From a thousand miles away, in a very different city, I tip my fedora and bid my fellow Dorchesterites Hello.  I hope you are enjoying your day as much as I am enjoying mine.