At last–more about New Orleans

 

I can’t believe I still haven’t finished the travelogue, what with all the writing news, guest bloggers, etc. Bear with me, though. I’m burdening you with the rest of the trip because I want to remember every wonderful moment, every note of music, and every succulent morsel of Creole food.

On Wednesday, of our trip to New Orleans, we started the day by making reservations to take a jazz dinner cruise on a paddlewheel river boat. How could we not? It’s a touristy cliché, but it’s become one for a reason. Seeing the city from a different vantage point, enjoying the relative cool of being on the river, hearing (more) Dixieland jazz, and getting to check out the antique steam engines—how could we resist? (The boat didn’t date back to the steam era, but it had the old engines from an earlier incarnation.)

Then we began our morning wander. Our ultimate goal was the Ursuline convent at the far end of the French Quarter.

Suhayma in the convent garden

I was hoping it would be moody and atmospheric, like the ruined monasteries I’ve visited in France and the UK, a good setting for a night fight in my New Orleans witches-shapeshifters-and-voodoo book. Alas for that idea. The convent was bright and pleasantly cool, with neat, whitewashed walls and dark woodwork, and well maintained, having been taken over as a school and then diocese offices after the nuns moved out, and still in use by the diocese today. Interesting from a historical point of view, since it’s one of the oldest surviving structures in New Orleans, important to the history of the city, and, among other things, boasts the oldest free-standing staircase in the country. But the part I liked best was the gardens. The gardens underscored how far we were from home, with citrus trees, and raised vegetable beds that held artichokes and okra, which I’d never seen growing, and ripe tomatoes in early June.

The rest of the day, we devoted to a much less elevated pastime than history: shopping. I’m not a sport shopper as a rule, but the boutiques in the quarter were intriguing. We hit bookstores, perfume shops (embarrassingly, I found fragrances and bath goodies, not at the local shop that had been making perfume since the late 1800s, but at Lush, which is a chain, but not one I’d visited before), art galleries, hat shops, tacky-tourist shops…. We’d been in a few clothing stores during our meander, but I hadn’t tried anything on. I was in the perverse mood that I wanted to find something sexy and pretty, but after a few days of outrageous eating I was convinced I’d look like a sausage in a slinky dress.

Then we walked into Trashy Diva, which I’d learned of from friends in the Boston Babydolls burlesque troupe, and I knew we’d come to the right place. The styles, inspired by the ’40s and ’50s, were sexy and body conscious in a way that would suit the kind of  curvier figures my friend and I both have. We commenced shopping with our husbands egging us on. (We married the right guys, ladies. Sorry, they have no single brothers, but I’ll let you know once I perfect my cloning technique.)

The first thing I fell in love with was a simple bright red dress in a late 50s cut, something I could conceivably wear to work. Then we found the blue and white polka dots. Suhayma and I both have a weakness for polka dots, so we grabbed different dresses and tried them on. We came out of the dressing rooms, looked at each other, and started laughing, because it was immediately obvious we’d tried on “each other’s” dresses. We traded and sure enough, the one with the lower neckline decorated with simple pearl beading suited me perfectly and the one with the cute sailor collar, which had been borderline dorky on me, was ideal on Suhayma. I was torn, not sure whether to get the blue polka dots or the red…

I ended up with both. Suhayma got her polka dot dress and we agreed to be the Trashy Diva twins that night on the dinner cruise.

Then we went to the Trashy Diva lingerie outpost next door and spent way too much money on frivolities that amused our husbands greatly. Definitely a vacation thing, because while Suhayma and I like pretty things as much as the next girl, neither of us like to spend money on ourselves. But apparently in New Orleans, it’s all right.

Walking from the hotel to the riverboat dock in our not-quite-matching dresses was a hoot. The double takes and compliments quite went to our heads, and I, at least, felt like a supermodel. (You’ll see from the picture I don’t exactly look like a supermodel, but I look pretty damn fine for a middle-aged lady with a desk job and a fondness for good food.)

The polka-dot twins. I’m the one on the right with the vast expanse of cleavage and the fixed expression

The cruise itself is definitely worth doing if you’re in New Orleans. Sitting on deck as the sun sets, listening to jazz, is a beautiful thing, especially if you’re holding hands with someone you love. One thing that the trip impressed on me was the sense of New Orleans as a working city. We’d seen its playful side up until now, but New Orleans is one of the largest and busiest commercial ports in the US, and evidence of that stretched for miles along the Mississippi. Warehouses, docks, freighters and tankers…it wasn’t exactly scenic, but it was definitely worth seeing.

 

On the way back, we got a bonus natural sound and light show. Violent thunderstorms were playing themselves out over the delta, against a purple sky. Magnificent! I have quite a thing for storms and was hoping one would hit New Orleans, but they skirted the city. We did decide, seeing the storms approach, to hurry back to the hotel after the cruise instead of going for a long wander. Of course, we passed an intriguing bar on the way and made a detour to grab a drink or two. The bar was almost empty—turned out to be a local hangout and since it was a week night, most of the locals had wandered home. One of the few people in there, amusingly, turned out to be from Providence originally, though he now lives in New Orleans and works for the resort chain where we were staying. Apparently this happens to Suhayma all the time, but I blame our matching dresses for encouraging him to strike up a conversation.

 

The next day, we followed the advice of our airport shuttle driver and took the St. Charles streetcar (which is not named Desire) out through the Garden District. We’d hoped to get off and walk around, maybe check out the zoo, maybe find Anne Rice’s house, certainly drink in the atmosphere and beauty of the old neighborhood. However, the rain from the night before had settled in and there were some strong feelings against getting soaked. The Garden District is lovely and if we go back, I’ll look forward to exploring more. But the day turned into one of looking at the sights from the streetcar, and eating round after round of oysters at a bar at the end of the streetcar line that Periac found online. Oh yes, more oysters—and they were amazingly good and cheap.

After that low-key day, we were ready for an adventure at night. We’d heard that Frenchman Street was hopping with jazz and other live music, so we headed there. First stop was dinner at The Three Muses, a funky restaurant that applied the tapas concept to more eclectic fare—lots of small plates, which we sampled avidly. I had my first and only Sazerac of the trip and discovered to my sorrow that I didn’t like it! I adore bourbon and like rye, but the anise component didn’t work for me at all. The restaurant had a trio playing, two guys and a woman, doing kind of honky-tonk, old-timey music. One of the guys, a vocalist, was attractive in that weird lanky Lyle Lovett way, and obviously enamored of the woman. The other guy, who played piano, was young and intense and very, very talented. In my opinion, he and not Lyle-lookalike should have been fronting the band, but I suppose LL’s confidence and quirky good looks made him better for the job.

There was a long line waiting to get into the restaurant, so instead of hanging out, we left to go on to the next venue.

And we couldn’t find one! There were plenty of clubs that advertised live music, but none of them were actually open yet. Found out later that performances in this neighborhood usually start at 10 PM and we were too early, but instead of waiting around, we went back to our reliable Maison Bourbon to hear Jamil Sharif again, resolving to try Frenchman Street again the next night.

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