NEW ORLEANS
FRIDAY 25TH SEPTEMBER 2015
Yet another sunny day and we are on our way early with just a few wispy clouds overhead. By midday the temperature is in the nineties. I take over the driving for a couple of hours and C fiddles with the radio trying to find something worth listening to.
Driving long distances in America is a doddle compared with home. The miles slide by in no time. The Interstate system is good; since we left Las Vegas we have only been held up once and that was in Jackson this morning, there were roadworks and traffic slowed down and came to a halt for a couple of minutes.
C finds a talk station. A chap is ranting about President Obama. He, the President, is apparently ruining the country with his 'socialist' policies. His 'Obama Care' is completely wrong and should be overturned as soon as possible, the recent deal with Syria over the production of A-bombs has put the American people in the gravest danger since nine-eleven. His verbal attack on the President is vitriolic. I assume he is a Republican politician but no, he is the talk shows host.
C twiddles the dial and finds an 'oldy' station and on comes 'Blueberry Hill,' Fats Domino. I've always liked that track.
We cross the State Line into Louisiana. The traffic becomes heavier and two lanes become three, then four. Baton Rouge passes by and now there is water on both sides of us; we turn east on to Interstate 10 and it doesn't seem long before we see tall buildings looming up over to our left; we cross over bridges and off-ramps are on our right. I study the street map of New Orleans in the Road Atlas trying to work out where we are, but I'm not able to and say, "Take the next ramp off."
C moves in to the right hand lane and we drop down to Street level where things are much quieter and less frantic, pull in to the curb and study the street map again. I have been to New Orleans before, with Heather in 1978, but that was 37 years ago so I don't recognise anything or anywhere. In the end we find our way to Canal Street and start to look for somewhere to stay. C stops near a likely looking place and I go in to get their rate. I come out again - much too high. But of course, we are in the city centre and on the edge of the French Quarter, it will be expensive here. We drive around. Some of the streets are narrow, one-way, heavy with traffic. There are trams running along Canal Street that I don't remember from 1978 but that must be a memory failure, they would have been here then, surely?
Eventually we book in to the 'Modern Hotel' at a reasonable rate for a reasonable room on the 7th floor with a good view across the north of the city, Opposite is a statue of a soldier - don't know who - on a column, much like Nelson's and below him are gardens set in a traffic circle around which cars and trams gyrate.
We both sleep for a couple of hours and then decide to walk to the French Quarter, the girl at the desk tells us it will take us twenty minutes or so. We find our way to Canal Street crossover and in to Bourbon Street: " The biggest disorganised street in the whole country," as it was once described. Much of it is shut off to traffic, it is narrow and crowded. It's the 'Marmite' of streets. You love it or you hate it. As someone who likes to observe other people - a people watcher, if you like - I love it. It's as good as Las Vegas for observing people at play, perhaps better; here there is a continuous party, no, dozens of continuous parties, every few yards, on both sides of the street there is a party going on. You peer into bars before walking on, music assails your ears, all types of music: jazz, pop, hip-hop, country, rap, in one a black woman stands on a small stage singing to the accompaniment of a trumpeter, in another a band plays dixieland, in another there is karaoke, in yet another a young blond girl, well built, energetic, stands in front of a band teaching a stag night group the steps of a line dance: "Now to the right! Dip to the left!"
Each bar is crammed full of people, black, white, creole, all enjoying the atmosphere, talking, laughing, shouting to be heard above the music. In the street there is more entertainment: A crowd gathers round a black woman, thin, fifty if she's a day, doing a complicated dance, to the accompaniment of a drum, her arms held high above her head, her feet banging on the road surface. The watching crowd claps, cheers. We move on. Two young boys, one about eight, the other ten, with soup can tops attached to the heels of their shoes tap dance to an amplified music player. Their feet in time to the beat, in time with each other. Fred Astaire would admire their skill. They smile as they dance, their white teeth flashing, their arms moving back and forth like the pistons on a locomotive. People throw money into the cap on the pavement in front of them, while nearby, a black woman, their mother I assume, watches.
We move further down the street, cross an intersection where a police car sits, two white policemen inside, wearing dark glasses observing the passing throng. The crowds are even thicker now, people stand in groups talking as others push past. We come to another intersection, here there are police both sides stopping the crowds from crossing. A police car comes slowly past followed by a procession of people - men, women, children, then a bride and groom, holding hands walking in front of a jazz band. A man walks slowly past holding a placard saying: "Choose a topic and talk to me, with a list to choose from.
Turning right off Bourbon Street the crowds thin out for a while and it becomes quieter; then we are in Jackson Square, the centre of the French Quarter and originally a military parade ground. Built 1721 and originally known as Place d'Armes it was renamed in honour of President Andrew Jackson in 1852. Facing the square is St Louis Cathedral, the oldest active Catholic cathedral in the country. Opposite the Cathedral and all around the square there are vendors selling souvenirs, paintings, drawing portraits; somebody plays a trumpet, we walk on and pass somebody else playing a trombone. We decide to make for the hotel, we have done a lot of walking and I am beginning to tire. It takes us twenty minutes to get back to the hotel and we have a drink in the bar before going to bed.
SATURDAY 26TH SEPTEMBER 2015
Another fine day. I can't believe how lucky we have been with the weather, it's been warm and mostly sunny since we arrived in New York. I look out of the window and watch a tram (trolley, as they call them) make its way round the traffic circle below and suggest to C we should see if we can ride on one down to Canal Street.
I love riding on trams. A left-over from childhood I think. When I visited my granny during the war, in Leicester, she would sometimes give me threepence and I would ride on the trams all over the city for hours. (they had halfpenny fares.) I loved the way they bumped and swayed and clicked and clanged along.
The Leicester trams were double deckers but the these in New Orleans are single but just as much fun. We board one near to the hotel, the fare just $1.50. It bangs and sways and grinds along the rails, the driver/conductor turning the driving handles this way and that, speeding up, slowing down, the bell clanging. We stop every now and then to pick up passengers and drop them off, mostly locals but tourists too. We reach Canal Street, the terminus, alight and make our way along the pavement looking for somewhere to have breakfast, cross the road and stroll through a Mall. The food hall is not appealing and we walk outside again, down the street toward Jackson Square and then make our way up to the river. There is a walkway running alongside and benches. We sit down and spend forty minutes or so watching the passing scene. Ships sailing past on the Mississippi; a cargo ship, a stern wheeler. We take more photographs. A middle aged couple sits down next to us and we talk.
They come from Denver, they tell us, here for the weekend. The conversation moves on to politics, something we usually avoid - together with religion - as we know such subjects can cause temperatures to rise and tempers to shorten, and we are in a country where 283 million firearms are in civilian hands (according to Wikipedia). In Florida I can obtain a 'concealed gun permit' for just over $100 and walk around with a loaded gun in my pocket. Crazy. Frightening.
Anyway, we get on to politics with this couple from Denver. I think he asked about the recent general election at home and we told him the result was a right wing government and that moved us on to Donald Trump, whom, clearly, this man and woman from Denver did not like at all and, in fact, were strong supporters of Obama and the Democrats. "So what if he's black - what difference does that make for Christ's sake?" The man said, "He got my vote and if it were possible he would get it again."
They said goodbye: "Good to have met you."
We wandered down through Jackson Square, along various streets, taking photo's, of some of the buildings, and then we were stopped at an intersection and another procession walks by. I'm not sure what this one is all about but it has police looking on and straggle of people following a couple with a jazz band following them.
We haven't eaten so we go in to a place called Johnny Whites, up the narrow stairs and through a room and on to the balcony. A good view of Bourbon Street here and we study the menu, order two beers, watch the passing parade below us.
After eating we walk back to Canal Street and catch the tram back to the hotel, have a sleep and decide to visit the French Quarter again this evening.
Later we catch the tram (trolley) and make our way in to the French Quarter again. We call in to a couple of bars; in one we stand watching the band and the antics on the dance floor. In another we walk through the bar to a rear courtyard, where people are sitting and standing around talking and drinking. There is a bar at one end, and two girls stand behind an additional make-shift bar selling $5 bottles of beer that are floating in front of them in a sea of ice. I buy two and we sit down.
There are one or two stag parties going on - hen parties too. It reminds me a little of Brighton on a Saturday night, only Americans are more uninhibited than the Brits, they make more noise, shout, stamp their feet, wave their arms and if they draw attention - which they do - they don't care. We're here to have a good time and 'aint nobody goin' to stop us!
After a while we leave the courtyard and walk further down the street taking in the atmosphere. It's just as crowded as last night - more so, perhaps. It is decided to have another drink and this time we find a quiet place, just street noise and music from other nearby bars filtering through the open door.
Cyril orders beers and we start a conversation with a blond girl and her husband sitting next to us. The husband is a M.U. fan it turns out, his daughter sits next to him and another girl, a friend I guess, next to her. The daughter looks nearly as old as the blond and I decide she must be a step-daughter. The blond, attractive, friendly, nice smile, tells me her name: "Melissa," she says, "We're from Arkansas. It's her daughter's birthday, she tells us. and her friend's too. I tell her we drove through Arkansas just a day or two ago, we passed the town where Bill Clinton was born, 'Hope' I think it was called. She asks how long we have been in America and I tell her about our trip - east to west on the train and then west to east by bus and car back to our place in Florida. She seems quite interested so I mention this journal and give her the address.
As usual I send an email to Heather before turning in.
FRIDAY 25TH SEPTEMBER 2015
Yet another sunny day and we are on our way early with just a few wispy clouds overhead. By midday the temperature is in the nineties. I take over the driving for a couple of hours and C fiddles with the radio trying to find something worth listening to.
Driving long distances in America is a doddle compared with home. The miles slide by in no time. The Interstate system is good; since we left Las Vegas we have only been held up once and that was in Jackson this morning, there were roadworks and traffic slowed down and came to a halt for a couple of minutes.
C finds a talk station. A chap is ranting about President Obama. He, the President, is apparently ruining the country with his 'socialist' policies. His 'Obama Care' is completely wrong and should be overturned as soon as possible, the recent deal with Syria over the production of A-bombs has put the American people in the gravest danger since nine-eleven. His verbal attack on the President is vitriolic. I assume he is a Republican politician but no, he is the talk shows host.
C twiddles the dial and finds an 'oldy' station and on comes 'Blueberry Hill,' Fats Domino. I've always liked that track.
We cross the State Line into Louisiana. The traffic becomes heavier and two lanes become three, then four. Baton Rouge passes by and now there is water on both sides of us; we turn east on to Interstate 10 and it doesn't seem long before we see tall buildings looming up over to our left; we cross over bridges and off-ramps are on our right. I study the street map of New Orleans in the Road Atlas trying to work out where we are, but I'm not able to and say, "Take the next ramp off."
C moves in to the right hand lane and we drop down to Street level where things are much quieter and less frantic, pull in to the curb and study the street map again. I have been to New Orleans before, with Heather in 1978, but that was 37 years ago so I don't recognise anything or anywhere. In the end we find our way to Canal Street and start to look for somewhere to stay. C stops near a likely looking place and I go in to get their rate. I come out again - much too high. But of course, we are in the city centre and on the edge of the French Quarter, it will be expensive here. We drive around. Some of the streets are narrow, one-way, heavy with traffic. There are trams running along Canal Street that I don't remember from 1978 but that must be a memory failure, they would have been here then, surely?
Eventually we book in to the 'Modern Hotel' at a reasonable rate for a reasonable room on the 7th floor with a good view across the north of the city, Opposite is a statue of a soldier - don't know who - on a column, much like Nelson's and below him are gardens set in a traffic circle around which cars and trams gyrate.
We both sleep for a couple of hours and then decide to walk to the French Quarter, the girl at the desk tells us it will take us twenty minutes or so. We find our way to Canal Street crossover and in to Bourbon Street: " The biggest disorganised street in the whole country," as it was once described. Much of it is shut off to traffic, it is narrow and crowded. It's the 'Marmite' of streets. You love it or you hate it. As someone who likes to observe other people - a people watcher, if you like - I love it. It's as good as Las Vegas for observing people at play, perhaps better; here there is a continuous party, no, dozens of continuous parties, every few yards, on both sides of the street there is a party going on. You peer into bars before walking on, music assails your ears, all types of music: jazz, pop, hip-hop, country, rap, in one a black woman stands on a small stage singing to the accompaniment of a trumpeter, in another a band plays dixieland, in another there is karaoke, in yet another a young blond girl, well built, energetic, stands in front of a band teaching a stag night group the steps of a line dance: "Now to the right! Dip to the left!"
Each bar is crammed full of people, black, white, creole, all enjoying the atmosphere, talking, laughing, shouting to be heard above the music. In the street there is more entertainment: A crowd gathers round a black woman, thin, fifty if she's a day, doing a complicated dance, to the accompaniment of a drum, her arms held high above her head, her feet banging on the road surface. The watching crowd claps, cheers. We move on. Two young boys, one about eight, the other ten, with soup can tops attached to the heels of their shoes tap dance to an amplified music player. Their feet in time to the beat, in time with each other. Fred Astaire would admire their skill. They smile as they dance, their white teeth flashing, their arms moving back and forth like the pistons on a locomotive. People throw money into the cap on the pavement in front of them, while nearby, a black woman, their mother I assume, watches.
We move further down the street, cross an intersection where a police car sits, two white policemen inside, wearing dark glasses observing the passing throng. The crowds are even thicker now, people stand in groups talking as others push past. We come to another intersection, here there are police both sides stopping the crowds from crossing. A police car comes slowly past followed by a procession of people - men, women, children, then a bride and groom, holding hands walking in front of a jazz band. A man walks slowly past holding a placard saying: "Choose a topic and talk to me, with a list to choose from.
Turning right off Bourbon Street the crowds thin out for a while and it becomes quieter; then we are in Jackson Square, the centre of the French Quarter and originally a military parade ground. Built 1721 and originally known as Place d'Armes it was renamed in honour of President Andrew Jackson in 1852. Facing the square is St Louis Cathedral, the oldest active Catholic cathedral in the country. Opposite the Cathedral and all around the square there are vendors selling souvenirs, paintings, drawing portraits; somebody plays a trumpet, we walk on and pass somebody else playing a trombone. We decide to make for the hotel, we have done a lot of walking and I am beginning to tire. It takes us twenty minutes to get back to the hotel and we have a drink in the bar before going to bed.
SATURDAY 26TH SEPTEMBER 2015
Another fine day. I can't believe how lucky we have been with the weather, it's been warm and mostly sunny since we arrived in New York. I look out of the window and watch a tram (trolley, as they call them) make its way round the traffic circle below and suggest to C we should see if we can ride on one down to Canal Street.
I love riding on trams. A left-over from childhood I think. When I visited my granny during the war, in Leicester, she would sometimes give me threepence and I would ride on the trams all over the city for hours. (they had halfpenny fares.) I loved the way they bumped and swayed and clicked and clanged along.
The Leicester trams were double deckers but the these in New Orleans are single but just as much fun. We board one near to the hotel, the fare just $1.50. It bangs and sways and grinds along the rails, the driver/conductor turning the driving handles this way and that, speeding up, slowing down, the bell clanging. We stop every now and then to pick up passengers and drop them off, mostly locals but tourists too. We reach Canal Street, the terminus, alight and make our way along the pavement looking for somewhere to have breakfast, cross the road and stroll through a Mall. The food hall is not appealing and we walk outside again, down the street toward Jackson Square and then make our way up to the river. There is a walkway running alongside and benches. We sit down and spend forty minutes or so watching the passing scene. Ships sailing past on the Mississippi; a cargo ship, a stern wheeler. We take more photographs. A middle aged couple sits down next to us and we talk.
They come from Denver, they tell us, here for the weekend. The conversation moves on to politics, something we usually avoid - together with religion - as we know such subjects can cause temperatures to rise and tempers to shorten, and we are in a country where 283 million firearms are in civilian hands (according to Wikipedia). In Florida I can obtain a 'concealed gun permit' for just over $100 and walk around with a loaded gun in my pocket. Crazy. Frightening.
Anyway, we get on to politics with this couple from Denver. I think he asked about the recent general election at home and we told him the result was a right wing government and that moved us on to Donald Trump, whom, clearly, this man and woman from Denver did not like at all and, in fact, were strong supporters of Obama and the Democrats. "So what if he's black - what difference does that make for Christ's sake?" The man said, "He got my vote and if it were possible he would get it again."
They said goodbye: "Good to have met you."
We wandered down through Jackson Square, along various streets, taking photo's, of some of the buildings, and then we were stopped at an intersection and another procession walks by. I'm not sure what this one is all about but it has police looking on and straggle of people following a couple with a jazz band following them.
We haven't eaten so we go in to a place called Johnny Whites, up the narrow stairs and through a room and on to the balcony. A good view of Bourbon Street here and we study the menu, order two beers, watch the passing parade below us.
After eating we walk back to Canal Street and catch the tram back to the hotel, have a sleep and decide to visit the French Quarter again this evening.
Later we catch the tram (trolley) and make our way in to the French Quarter again. We call in to a couple of bars; in one we stand watching the band and the antics on the dance floor. In another we walk through the bar to a rear courtyard, where people are sitting and standing around talking and drinking. There is a bar at one end, and two girls stand behind an additional make-shift bar selling $5 bottles of beer that are floating in front of them in a sea of ice. I buy two and we sit down.
There are one or two stag parties going on - hen parties too. It reminds me a little of Brighton on a Saturday night, only Americans are more uninhibited than the Brits, they make more noise, shout, stamp their feet, wave their arms and if they draw attention - which they do - they don't care. We're here to have a good time and 'aint nobody goin' to stop us!
After a while we leave the courtyard and walk further down the street taking in the atmosphere. It's just as crowded as last night - more so, perhaps. It is decided to have another drink and this time we find a quiet place, just street noise and music from other nearby bars filtering through the open door.
Cyril orders beers and we start a conversation with a blond girl and her husband sitting next to us. The husband is a M.U. fan it turns out, his daughter sits next to him and another girl, a friend I guess, next to her. The daughter looks nearly as old as the blond and I decide she must be a step-daughter. The blond, attractive, friendly, nice smile, tells me her name: "Melissa," she says, "We're from Arkansas. It's her daughter's birthday, she tells us. and her friend's too. I tell her we drove through Arkansas just a day or two ago, we passed the town where Bill Clinton was born, 'Hope' I think it was called. She asks how long we have been in America and I tell her about our trip - east to west on the train and then west to east by bus and car back to our place in Florida. She seems quite interested so I mention this journal and give her the address.
As usual I send an email to Heather before turning in.
