So, New Orleans. Great cosmopolitan city, the birthplace of Jazz, the home of the Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau, above ground cemeteries and the mighty Mississippi and, more recently, the scars of Hurricane Katrina. Did we survive? Was it worth the trip? Well, yes, we did survive and yes, it was worth the trip, but maybe next time we visit it won't be in high summer and we'll travel without the Tadpoles.
Mrs T had gleaned enough from the locals to assure us that a drive into the French Quarter would be OK and that off-road parking would be available, so we set off in confident mood, peeling off the I10 onto a boulevard called Elysian Fields, which would take us right to where we needed to be. To look down the boulevard was lovely with the wide spreading Live Oaks forming a long archway into the distance. This is one of the older, and poorer, parts of town so a glance sideways showed dilapidated wooden buildings close to collapse and dereliction all around. Quite a few of the houses still bore the Katrina markings, the crosses with numbers around left there by the emergency services six years ago. Of course, this being the poor district, nearly every face was black.
We ended up on Decatur Street on the south side of the French Quarter and found parking near Jackson Square. We stood on the levee and watched the river roll by for a while, then descended into the old grid of Creole two story houses, their second floor balconies making shade for people on the sidewalk below. This all sounds good but the place was blisteringly hot and humid. So many of the houses are given over to shops selling New Orleans tat and on Bourbon Street, the hub of the district, competing bars tried to outdo one another with live music spilling out of their doors, making an unbearable and chaotic din. I didn't hear any jazz at all! There were also the guys on the street with placards offering cheap drinks and trying to get you into their bar; not good with two Tadpoles in tow.
We decided on a Cafe au lait and a plate of beignets, Acadian fritters/doughnuts, hidden under a mound of icing sugar. We sat under the stone pillars in the hot and crowded cafe, watching the people in Decatur Street ambling by and I thought how fabulous it was just to be there, despite the chaos and the heat.
We'd opted for a coach tour of the city, primarily because it would be in air conditioned comfort, but that way we'd be guided by someone who knew where they were going. As it turned out, the coach tour was a bit of a damp squib with our driver/guide boring the pants off everyone with very slowly told but long-winded anecdotes. We did see the whole gamut of New Orleans architecture, the street cars, the water pumping gear and the remnants of the hurricane damage, but stuck on the bus for two hours with Bob the boring busman was very wearing.
Back in the French Quarter we spent an age buying a Mardi Gras mask for the small Tadpole and a Saints hat for the big Tadpole; many pints of sweat were lost on that jaunt, I can tell you. We were wilting when we fell into an Italian restaurant (allowed because there's a big Italian influence in the town) for our supper. Before we ordered, Mrs T dragged me out to buy a gris-gris bag and looked more than a little surprised that we didn't have enough dollars left (see shopping trip above) to buy it (cue Amex). On returning to the restaurant, we indulged in Po' Boys, fries and pasta, which was a good fusion of local tastes, believe it or not. N returning to the campground, we dropped the Tadpoles off, bought gas, went to Walmart then did a ton of washing (three machines at once, which I liked); no wonder I fell asleep in front of the TV.
Friday was set for a travelling day, so an early start was required and bed was needed urgently. Not, though, until I'd brought the bloody awning in again!
