A Writer for a Day

I'm fairly certain I first knew I wanted to be a writer sometime during my sophomore year of high school. I had always enjoyed writing for fun, but it was a commendation report from my English teacher Ms. Zinck that made me think I might be sort of good at it. To have a teacher send a positive letter to my parents, not because she had to, but because she just wanted to, gave me the self confidence to consider writing as a career. At sixteen, I decided that after college, I would move to Paris and be a writer/photographer. (By the way, if any of you out there knows of any job openings for that type of position, please contact me immediately.) It sounded like a good, if not all that plausible, plan at the time. I even took French in college almost racking up enough hours for a minor. I received my degree in Journalism with a minor in English, then I got married. Although Paris wasn't meant to be, life looked promising. But I had a dark secret. While I had documentation in the form of a diploma from Texas A&M that claimed I was a writer, I was scared to write. Scared that no one would read my words. Or worse yet, scared that they would, in fact, read them, but would think that I wasn't any good...that they would figure out that I was a fraud. My solution to this problem was to immediately return to school and get my teaching certificate, which allowed me to avoid doing the thing I both loved and feared. 

Now before I offend anyone, let me quickly say, I am not one of those "those who can't, teach" people. I believe that teachers are the most under-appreciated and underpaid professionals out there, with the most difficult and important job on the planet. My children have had wonderful teachers in St. Tammany Parish, and I am very grateful for all that they do. It's just clear to me that I was never meant to be a teacher. I loved my students. I enjoyed the yearbook and newspaper especially, but I knew that teaching was not my calling. 

I left the teaching world when I had my children, and my writing remained on hold while I played mom.  Sure, I would occasionally bang something out on my Macintosh Classic, but the words would stay locked in that little machine where only I could read them. The old Mac was destroyed when we moved from Chicago back to New Orleans, and whatever I wrote during those years went with it to electronics heaven. I will always regret not printing out a copy of the story I wrote about our move from Mandeville to Chicago...a riveting tale of out-of-control pets, a raging blizzard, fireworks, and excessive vomit, among other treacherous and disgusting things. Not funny at the time, but hilarious in retrospect. 

As my children entered school and established little lives of their own, I still had the desire to write, but my fear got the best of me. I ignored the call and threw myself into my part-time jobs...teaching fitness classes and summarizing records for an attorney. Yes, the summarizing job was technically a writing job, but there was no creativity involved. It didn't scratch the writing itch, but it wasn't scary either, as I was simply making someone else's words sound a little more polished. No risk involved, whatsoever. Throughout the years, my husband and a few others would suggest that I try my hand at writing (pun intended), but I would dismiss them with a promise that I would give it a shot someday, even though I doubted that "someday" would ever come. It was a phone conversation with my dad a couple of years ago that finally got my attention. He told me that he knew I would write something someday, even if it wasn't in his lifetime. I looked at my situation from a parent's perspective, and I realized that it would break my heart a little if my children had dreams that died because they were too afraid to pursue them. For the first time, I actually began to give writing some serious thought. I still wasn't ready to put myself out there, but the wheels were turning.

With my dad

About six months ago, someone that didn't know me well but knew my story, fears included, told me, not that I should write, but that I needed to write. There was something about a virtual stranger, someone in no way connected to me or my issues, suggesting this that finally got through to me. She suggested that I start a blog. She got me to understand that it didn't really matter if two people or two thousand people read it...my writing would simply be an outlet for me. With her prodding and lots of  encouragement from my husband, I wrote my first article in April of this year. It was both exhilarating and terrifying when I clicked the "publish" icon. There was no turning back. Well, there was "delete," but I'm going for drama here. Much to my surprise, people aside from my immediate family actually read my story. I didn't have an enormous audience, but along with my family members, some friends and even a few strangers checked out that first entry. It was exciting, and it made me want to do it again. A few more articles followed, and after taking most of the summer off, I discovered that I missed it, and I was ready to make it a more regular part of my week. I had never reached quite as many readers as I had with my first article, but I continued to have a small but steady stream of people who checked out what I had to say, and that was good enough. I made a deal with myself that I would continue to write, even if the only readers I had were named Clements or Simons.

My most recent entry was a little story about meeting Rick Springfield at the Joy Theater in New Orleans, a 30-years-in-the-making, dream-comes-true story. It was an extremely easy story to write because I was so passionate about the topic. At the suggestion of a friend, I sent the article to Rick Springfield's fan page on Facebook. Assuming that nothing would come of it, I sat down on my couch and looked at my blog stats, noting that roughly fifty people had viewed my story. No surprise there. The couch was pretty comfy, and an "accidental nap" ensued. (I'm not sure why I continue to call those little naps accidental because I'm very aware of what is going to happen when I sit still for any length of time...my daily 4:30 a.m. alarm is brutal.) When I woke up an hour later with my computer still next to me, I glanced at the stats. More than 1600 views? Something had to be wrong. There appeared to be comments, too, which was equally surprising. In all of my previous entries combined, I had a total of six comments, and half of those were responses from me! I read one comment from a lady who said she had been directed to my page through Rick Springfield's fan page. I had to look for myself, and there it was...the link to my blog. I went back to my stats...100 more views in just a matter of minutes. The story seemed to have struck a chord with fellow forty-somethings who shared my love for Rick. Throughout the evening the number of views continued to climb. By the time I went to bed, over 5000 Rick fanatics had checked out my blog.

While I realize 5000 views is small potatoes, for someone whose largest audience prior to this had been 183 readers (and let's face it, all but two or three of those were friends and family), it felt like the world. I had found a little audience that had connected with my story, several telling me it felt like they could have written it themselves. I had some haters, too. One reader told me I was full of myself and another called me mean. Real writers sometimes offend people...right? I read and answered every comment, and I am sure I will reread them many times. It meant a lot that someone took the time to write something in response. I even apologized to the woman who called me mean. (Not to the other one, though. I found her really uptight...and she made a crack about my shoes!) Overall, I was thrilled and completely overwhelmed by what had happened with my little blog.

The numbers continued to increase the following day, though at a much slower pace. When the article reached somewhere near 7000 readers, it appeared to have run its course. I knew my two minutes of fame (it wasn't even close to a being a big enough deal to call it fifteen) were up, and that was ok. It was enough that for 24 hours, people that didn't know me and who didn't feel obligated to read my work actually read it. For 24 hours I was a real writer. My daughter told me I might be a one-hit wonder, referencing a line from the Rick Springfield article. If that's what I am, I'll take it. I don't mind being Men Without Hats or The Knack, or even Dexy's Midnight Runners. (I really hope I'm slightly better than the Baha Men or Vanilla Ice, though.) And I'll continue to write for myself and for anyone else who chooses to stop by and read. I plan to get back to writing about New Orleans, the city I love more than any other. It's not Paris, but I think it's no coincidence that I'm just a bridge away from the French Quarter.

Cat on a French Quarter balcony

Royal Street

A Little Human Touch at the Joy Theater

For thirty years I had been telling my sad story...Rick Springfield, my obsession for most of the 1980s, almost touched my hand at his 1983 concert at the Civic Center in Amarillo, Texas. The song was "Human Touch." He was bringing it to life, and there I was, (and I know y'all will find this shocking) right by the stage. He reached down. I reached up. Our fingertips almost touched. Almost. So close, but then close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, right? It would forever be a disappointing, missed opportunity. At least it appeared that way.

Fast forward 30 years, almost to the day. I arrived home from the gym on a Friday morning to learn that Brett had not only purchased tickets for the two of us to see Rick Springfield at the beautifully renovated Joy Theater thejoytheater.com (and there's my NOLA tie in), but he had gone a step beyond, getting the VIP tickets, complete with the after-the-show meet and greet with Rick. And the show was a mere 12 hours away! I could not stop smiling...or talking...or, quite literally, jumping up and down. Brett's not a fan, but he was happy to see me so excited about our night.

I knew I would want an autograph, so I made a beeline for the attic, where I knew I had some Rick memorabilia. I'm not sure how your high school bedroom was decorated, but mine was done strictly in the decorative style of Springfield. Posters, pictures from magazines, ticket stubs, song lyrics I had written on pretty paper...all of this covered the cork wall in my hot pink, floral bedroom and spilled over onto at least one more wall. I had every one of his cassette tapes. I knew every word to every song...even the less than stellar ones. I even saw his movie "Hard to Hold," and yes, it got two thumbs down, and no, it wasn't much of a stretch for him to play a rockstar, but I liked it. Wonder if you can find it on Netflix... 

Check out the price of that first ticket!

Anyway I digress. And frankly I could digress all day. I loved him, in the "wow, looking back, I was really kind of a stalker" type of way. In the attic I found the "collector's program" I had bought when I saw Rick the second time in 1984, and I came across a photograph I had taken on my old disc camera. (Google it if you're not familiar with this little antique.) I determined that these were the two items I would have him autograph. Memorabilia mission accomplished! Now, I still have all of Rick's cassette tapes, but with no cassette player and only a few of his songs on my computer where I can actually listen to them, I immediately began downloading songs, both old and from his brand new album, which I thought was really good. Sure, my 12-year-old came in to the kitchen and told me the music I was listening to was "quite cheesy" but I disagreed. As a matter of fact, I'm listening to it as I write this...with no shame whatsoever. 

After getting everyone off to school, I carefully picked out my outfit for the concert...this was a big deal because it would be the outfit that I would forever remember as the one I wore when I met Rick Springfield. (I really picked out two so I would have choices come concert time...a woman's got to have options, you know.) While I had toyed with the idea of an 80s look (and some at the show went with this attire), I remembered just how ridiculous I actually looked in the 80s and rejected the hairspray and lace gloves. I finished packing my bag for our night in New Orleans, and we were off. After a late lunch and some time celebrating Steve Gleason at the Superdome, we headed to our hotel room to get ready for the show. 

I chose outfit number one, grabbed my old photograph, my collector's program, and a brand new Sharpie, and we were off to the theater just a few blocks away. I was so giddy, I might have skipped there had I not been wearing 5-inch heels. I was a little surprised when we took our seats in the theater. While scanning the crowd, I felt, well, young, compared to most of the other concert-goers. A large group of ladies were there celebrating a 50th birthday. There were a couple of OLD looking rocker chicks, and two intoxicated grandmotherly types. There were more than a few of us mid-40s folks there, but we seemed to be in the minority.

The 8:00 show began with a comedian. A not-at-all-funny comedian, I should add. She spent about twenty minutes telling "jokes" and maybe she was actually funnier than I'm giving her credit for being, but I was impatient, and I just wanted her to be done. She was just another obstacle between Rick and me. She finished her act, and I began mentally preparing for the main act. I assumed he would be out shortly, but there was still some equipment set-up to be done. And a marriage proposal to be extended! So, ok, you first met your girlfriend at the Joy Theater and wanted to propose to her here. That's sweet. And you've been together for 20 years. Ok, that's a really long time, but better late than never, right? And you have two kids together? Alrighty...absolutely no judgment here. But really, you chose this moment to propose?  Ok...whatever. We're happy for you. Go have a wonderful life. But go now! Some of us have dreams to live out! :)

Rick finally made his way on to the stage at 9:00. And did he ever look great?! Yeah, he's 64, but he doesn't look it. Not even close. We were seated on the second row, but as soon as he appeared, everyone stood and moved toward the front. Not wasting any time, I grabbed a spot next to the stage and spent the next two hours singing loudly and smiling so much my face hurt. He opened with a new song...not what I was there for but good, nonetheless. This led into "I've Done Everything for You" and "I Get Excited," two of my old favs. He sang almost all of his old hits. (And to those of you who think he was a one hit wonder with Jesse's Girl, he had many songs that received lots of airplay!) He sang several more songs from his new album, which the lady next to me knew by heart...guess I'm not his biggest fan. He even threw in a few covers, including the Beatles "When I'm 64." It was cute. I was amazed at his energy. I was completely impressed with his guitar skills. I loved that he seemed to be enjoying himself, and I thought about how fortunate he was to be able to continue to earn a living and make people happy with his music, decades after he became a star. 

Somewhere late in the set, he sang "Human Touch." I reached up and he grabbed my hand...held it for probably five seconds. Sad, missed opportunity memory erased! If the night had ended there, I would have considered it a gigantic win. If it had been over after he came out for the encore and did the Beatles "All My Loving" and his hit "Kristina," I would gone back to the hotel thinking that it had been an absolutely perfect night. But it wasn't over. The meet and greet awaited!

We waited for him to come out, about ten deep in a well-behaved little single file line, for probably 30 minutes. One good thing about being with an old crowd is that everyone is pretty mannerly...maybe not the drunk old ladies, but they staggered out after the show. With my photo and 30-year-old program in hand, I waited, terrified that I would become so nervous that my mind would go utterly blank and I wouldn't be able to speak when my turn came. Then suddenly, they called me, and as I walked up next to the man I had idolized for all of my teen years, my anxiousness ended. I stood next to him and told him of the near hand touching incident in 1983. He commented on the pristine condition of my program. We laughed at the terrible quality of the old photograph and how bad technology was back then. He was extremely nice. After he signed my treasures, he put his arm around me, a photographer took our photo, and then it was some other lucky middle-aged lady's turn. Just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. I was a little sad that it had to end, but the entire night had completely lived up to the self-created hype. 

Still pretty doggone cute.

My program is much more valuable now. :)
And that's my photo at the bottom.

I had been standing for two and a half hours in those five-inch heels, but as we made our way back to the hotel, I felt like I was walking on a cloud. My husband had made a 30-year dream of mine come true in that little theater on Canal Street. And "What Kind of Fool Am I?" if I don't tell him how much it meant to me every day for the next three decades? :) 

Me and my date. 

Be Like Steve...and his friends

Steve Gleason is a hero. No doubt about it. No true Saints fan will ever forget his blocked punt in 2006, when the Saints returned to the Dome for the first time post-Katrina. A year after the storm, we were still more than a little broken, but in those few seconds it took #37 to get his hands on the ball, New Orleans was rejuvenated. I will never forget watching that game unfold, alone in my kitchen in my Joe Horn jersey. Brett was out of town, and the kids were too young to understand the significance of the game or care about football, so I jumped up and down, whooped it up, and just basically made a fool out of myself...all by myself. And I didn't care. The game was magical, and Steve Gleason forever secured a spot in Saints fans' hearts. (If you haven't seen the sculpture depicting the blocked punt outside the Dome, check it out.)  And I know football isn't life, but for that one night, for a battle scarred WhoDat Nation, it was. And I continue to get chills and a pretty significant lump in my throat when I watch the video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSsfA7W7Y8A

We were a city, really an entire region, that needed a hero, and Steve Gleason had a big red "S" on his chest. He still wears that "S" seven years later...it's just a size or two smaller.

Since his ALS diagnosis in early 2011, Steve has been the poster boy for living life to the fullest. With his "No White Flags" approach to life, he continues to travel the world and make appearances for his charitable organization Team Gleason teamgleason.org, even though he is wheelchair-bound and uses eye-tracking software to communicate. As inspirational as he was in black and gold, he is even more so today. He has brought awareness to a devastating disease that had not previously received the attention it deserved. He is ALS's pink ribbon.

My initial reaction when I began seeing Steve's physical changes when he would appear on tv, or on rare occasions when I would see him out in the community, was to pity him. How cruel it seemed to have been so strong and athletic and to have had had such fame and success, only to have it all taken away. But watching him live life, really live it, has completely changed my perception. He is obviously not interested in being pitied, as one can see by watching him squeeze every last drop out of life. I saw him at Jazzfest watching the Foo Fighters in 2012. He was smiling, maybe even more than I was. He was recently in Seattle interviewing Pearl Jam. The man seriously lives. But I think the adventure that moved me the most was his recent hiking trip through the Inca Trail, eventually making his way to the top of Machu Picchu. Photos show him surrounded by his wife Michele and a group of friends who, quite literally, did all the heavy lifting. It was an amazing show of determination, but it was an even more amazing show of friendship.

I have watched Steve conquer mountains, jump out of airplanes, ride in Mardi Gras parades, and do lots of other exciting things since his diagnosis two and a half years ago, and I have thought to myself on many occasions that he's got it all figured out. That he lives his life the way I want to live mine, making the most of each numbered day because the truth is, all of ours are numbered. Who knows...he may have more time left on this planet than I do. But I realized something else as I reflected on all of this. Maybe it's not Steve's lifestyle that I need to be emulating. Maybe it's the friends of Steve Gleason that I should aspire to be more like. The Scott Fujita's, who struggle and sweat for a friend whose body won't cooperate, but whose mind still wants to fulfill a few more dreams. Who take time out of their lives to help a friend achieve a smile and a lasting memory. And while the red "S" on their chests may not be as obvious, it's there. I think maybe we don't see it because it's stitched on their hearts.

Brett and I saw Steve pass by at Gleason Gras gleasongras.org last weekend. He looked much thinner than the last time I had seen him, but he was there, raising money for those traveling the same road that he travels and raising awareness for a disease that deserves our complete attention. He was there in the Dome last Sunday, helping Sean Payton lead the WhoDat chant. And while I wasn't there, I understand there weren't many dry eyes in the place. I hope he realizes (and I'm sure he does) the impact he has made on the people of New Orleans and all over the world. I hope to be more like him...and his friends. I hope you will too. :)

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Gleason Gras crowd picked up after the rain cleared out.

Brett with the "Datadors" 

With Saints punter Thomas Morstead

A Look Back at Katrina

Eight years ago today, Katrina made her unwelcome appearance in New Orleans and along the Mississippi Gulf Coast, leaving unimaginable destruction in her wake. In some ways, it seems like a  lifetime ago, but my memories of the days leading up to the storm and the weeks after are as clear as if it happened yesterday. 

Katrina was a bizarre storm from the start. When she made landfall in Florida on Friday, August 26, we thought we were in the clear. It wasn't until later that night at a church function with the kids that I began to hear the buzz about the storm regrouping and changing direction. In the seven years we had lived in South Louisiana, I had evacuated for a few hurricanes and tropical storms, but none had ever amounted to much. I assumed this one would be no different. Brett was in Vegas for his fantasy football draft, and I didn't relish the idea of evacuating alone with an eight-year-old, a four-year-old, and two eighty-plus pound dogs, so I dismissed the idea of leaving pretty quickly. It wasn't until the next morning that a little fear began to set in. Kyndall was competing in a triathlon at UNO (which took a fairly substantial hit just two days later) and everyone at the race was talking about getting out of town. I was still in denial, but I decided that filling my gas tank couldn't hurt. My concern grew when I saw the lines of cars at the gas pumps, and later at the ATM. It appeared that the Northshore was getting out of Dodge, as well. I called Brett (who was not even aware that there was a storm!) and told him I was considering leaving. I did not want to evacuate. Not at all. I really tried to convince myself that tens of thousands of people were overreacting, but I knew that a responsible parent would ensure that her kids were safe, and I do try to play that role from time to time. My decision was made, and with the help of a good friend, I brought in the patio furniture, took down the basketball goal, and made sure there weren't any objects outside the house that could become projectiles. (I did, unfortunately, forget to turn the trampoline upside down, which led to its demise.) 

I packed a bag with three or four changes of clothes for each of us, threw in a few photo albums, and we set off for Beaumont, Texas, on Sunday morning. Thinking I was outsmarting the rest of Mandeville, I avoided my normal route and headed out of town by way of Madisonville. We "drove" for two hours before we got to the Tchefuncte River, less than five miles from our house! A woman walking down the street carrying a parrot got there before we did. To say that it was a frustrating and stressful drive would be like calling Katrina a little rain event. With bumper-to-bumper traffic and numerous pit stops, we made it to Beaumont in eight hours...twice the usual time for that drive. But we were there, and we were safe. I truly felt that I might have seen my house and my things for the last time. And I realized that of the three tops I packed for myself, two were black tank tops that looked exactly the same. Surely I could have done better than that!

In the midst of my travels with the kids, Brett discovered that he would not be able to fly back to New Orleans, and the seriousness of the situation became more apparent. He flew into Beaumont Sunday night, and we waited out the storm together. I remember staying up all night watching it approach and then make landfall around 6 a.m. It was spooky and surreal watching our little town being beaten up on national TV. We saw buildings ripped apart by hurricane force winds and Lake Pontchartrain surging into the city and over the seawall in Mandeville. Of course, it wasn't until hours later when the levees broke that the worst of the devastation in New Orleans occurred. We did not see many of those images until much later, since we had no way of watching TV during that time and were relying on radio for our information.

Brett and I started back toward Mandeville just twenty-four hours after the storm moved out. Armed with a chainsaw and bottled water, we headed east, stopping at every open gas station along the way in case gas became unavailable at some point. When we arrived in Mandeville, it looked more like a war zone than our sleepy little town. Many roads were impassable because of downed trees and power lines. Tornados had torn through our neighborhood, and we were only able to get to our house because neighbors who had stayed behind had cleared a path the width of a single car. Our house was surrounded by 100-foot pine trees, and I could not stop shaking as we worked our way to our house in the back of the neighborhood. We had seen some very severe damage, and I was imagining the worst. What we found were a dozen giant uprooted pine trees, none of which had landed on our house. Out of sheer relief, I cried. And then, completely overwhelmed by the whole situation, I cried some more. 

The next few days were a complete blur. While our damage was minimal compared to those who lost so much, we did have some roof damage, which had allowed water to leak in and stain some areas of our ceiling. Our fence was down, our trampoline was wrapped around a tree, and pine trees and debris littered the front and back yard. We spent the first two days working alone...Brett cutting the trees up into manageable pieces, while I hauled every single piece to the curb. It was miserably hot and humid. We heard nothing for two days but the constant buzz of chainsaws and the steady whir of helicopters flying overhead. While we were making progress with our cleanup, rescues were (and were not) being made in the city. With no electricity and the Causeway bridge closed, we had no way of knowing the horrors that were taking place just twenty-five miles away. 

Mandeville was basically a ghost town during those first few days. Only a handful of businesses were open, and options were few. We made a trip to a local hardware store for nails to repair the fence. Employees led us around the store using flashlights to find what we needed. Burger King was the only food we could find (I loathe Burger King), and they had a sign posted stating that they had hamburgers and water. That was it. Most of the other signs in town were of the "Looters Will Be Shot" variety. Like I said before...surreal. On our third and final day of yard cleanup, friends showed up with extra chainsaws and refreshments. This was my first experience with Delaware Punch, and eight years later, I think I'm still feeling the sugar buzz. :)

While we wrapped things up as much as we could in Mandeville, the kids remained in Texas. We enrolled them in school since we really had no idea how long it would be before power returned and our schools reopened. They were treated like royalty (or maybe refugees) at their temporary school, and everyone tried to make them feel at home. A woman we didn't know made them blankets. Children would bring them little gifts. One little boy even tried to give Griffen a dollar. People just wanted to do whatever they could to help, and we appreciated it, even if we didn't really lose anything at home. I spent three weeks in Texas, distracting myself with Janet Evanovich books and wondering when we could go home and whether or not life would ever be normal again. It was a strange and unsettling time. New Orleans remained paralyzed, and many people we knew who worked there were opting to take jobs in other cities. One thing we knew for certain was that it would take New Orleans a long time to return to "normal". The Northshore, on the other hand, was up and running within about a month. Things may not have been completely normal, but we were all making an effort, and we realized how lucky we were.

Mandeville today basically looks like it did eight years and one day ago. Some houses on the lakefront were destroyed and rebuilt. Some are just gone. But an outsider would see very little evidence of Katrina's visit. We gained lots of Southshore folks in those months after the storm, most of whom stayed around even after New Orleans began to rebuild. 

New Orleans still has many Katrina-shaped scars. Tourists may not see much evidence of her wrath, but one doesn't have to get far off the beaten path to find abandoned homes or those with that haunting x-code painted on them, indicating when and by whom the house was searched, and if any contamination or bodies were found inside. I still see those houses from time to time, and I shiver a little thinking about what really took place during those late-August/early-September days. 

As I reflect on Katrina eight years later, I realize how fortunate we were. We know many people who lost everything they owned. Outsiders will tell you that it's just stuff, but when it's your stuff and your sentimental treasures, it's tough. Every now and then when I hear about activity in the Gulf, I think about what I would pack if it happened again. With most of my pictures stored digitally now (heck, most of them are on Facebook!), the photo albums would not be as crucial. Still, there are definitely things that would break my heart if they were lost. Things that belonged to my mom. Some special items from when my kids were babies. A box of letters Brett wrote to me in college. Those are the real treasures. I wonder where all those things are? Looks like I just found today's project. 

*Most of my Katrina pics are missing, but I came across a few last year.

100-foot pine tree that landed on our neighbors' house. Sorry Lisa! 

This was the house behind ours. Not our trees on this one, though. The back was pretty thoroughly crushed .

Some of the pines broke in the wind, and some, like this one, were just completely uprooted. 

This was what the neighborhood looked like when we drove in.

I saw this New Orleans house this year at Mardi Gras. It's not hard to find abandoned homes
that were never demolished or rebuilt.

Strolling On Royal

Ask anyone from outside the area what they picture when they think of New Orleans, and chances are their answer will have something to do with crazy parties on Bourbon Street. I think this is unfortunate because, for me, Bourbon Street is the least interesting part of the city. Of course, when visiting New Orleans, you have to experience Bourbon, and it's not unlikely that you will leave there with a great story or two, but to really get a feel for the charm and culture of New Orleans, you have to branch out. 

My two favorite streets in the French Quarter are Chartres, where you can dine at K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen http://www.chefpaul.com/kpaul, browse in some cute boutiques, and catch a glimpse of St. Louis Cathedral, and Royal Street, an art and antique lover's paradise with amazing shops and some fantastic little street bands, including my favorite duo, Tanya and Dorise. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KOJAAvLT5YI

I've spent a great deal of time on Royal, but until a few days ago, I had never experienced the Royal Street Stroll, an event that brings together wines from all over the world, some great New Orleans food, jazz music, and, of course, a parade...because nothing in New Orleans is complete without one. My friend Tiffoney and I decided to go, as our husbands were both occupied with other things. At $89 per ticket in advance, and $109 at the gate, it's not an inexpensive event, but the price of entry gets you a wine glass and all the wine samples and food you care to consume. 

We arrived when the event began at 5:30, with our tickets in hand. Although it did move quickly, the line for wristbands was incredibly long, which allowed some time for people-watching. One of my favorite things about New Orleans is the bizarre mix of people that you encounter when you're there, and I immediately noticed while waiting that this crowd was different...different in that we were all kind of the same, that is. While that is the norm on the Northshore where I live, it was a little surprising to me in a city where weird is, well, normal. I missed the weird.

Once we were in and wearing our official bracelets, we made our way down Royal, taking advantage of the fans we were given, which not only served as a map for food and beverage stops, but also helped cool us off on this warm, sticky, South Louisiana night. We sampled several wines and checked out some local art...we even met Michael Mondavi, who was pouring samples of his wine. The lines for wine were fairly short, however, the majority of the food lines were quite long...a dangerous combination. :) Because of this, we missed out on some of the more popular food items but still found some great stuff without enduring long waits.  

While the wine was good, and the food that we did consume was tasty, the highlight for this parade lover was the Krewe of Cork http://www.kreweofcork.com. Decked out in wine and grape costumes, they paraded alongside a jazz band, handing out wine-themed beads and other assorted goodies. The parade route was short, with members basically walking down Royal Street, then meandering back up again. We even heard one krewe member ask someone if he could have his beads back so he would have something to throw when they turned around! The parade was cute and low-key, and everyone in attendance seemed to enjoy the fun. 

The stroll was over at 8:30, although attendees could stick around for as long as they wanted to after it ended. There would just be no more "freebies." As someone who looks for any excuse to hang out in the city, I found this to be a very enjoyable way to spend a Thursday evening. I showed some restraint and didn't buy any artwork, and I was home early enough that my 4:30 a.m. alarm was no more painful than the roundhouse kick to the ribs it normally is on a Friday.  

While the Royal Street Stroll won't be back until next May, there are always plenty of things to do in this quaint and beautiful area of the Quarter. If you come to town, make sure you spend some time exploring the galleries and antique shops on Royal and getting to know some of the local artists. And don't worry...if you have a hankering for a hurricane, an offensive t-shirt, or bad karaoke, Bourbon Street will still be there when you're done.

Krewe of Corks

Tap dancing, banjo playing street performer. 

Post-Fest Blues

Ever get the holiday blues? You've wrapped up the Thanksgiving and Christmas festivities, and while there are exciting possibilities for the new year, there's that inevitable letdown. The "what now?" lull. I used to fall victim to this...then I moved to New Orleans. It's difficult to be too blue with King cakes filling every grocery store, bakery, and even some boutiques beginning the 6th of January, Mardi Gras parades rolling in February, and French Quarter Fest and Jazz Fest brightening our (sometimes rainy) days just a few weeks later. I come alive during the first few months of each year. Last Sunday evening, I stood in the front row at the Acura Stage, while the incredibly talented Trombone Shorty (go see him if you can!) brought the most wonderful time of the year to a close for me and thousands of other festers. And for me, it is now that the funk creeps in. The "now what?" begins. I start feeling a little blue...not navy or even royal, but at least a little aquamarine. Sky? Maybe baby blue. I try to cheer myself up with thoughts of crawfish and po-boy festivals, hanging out on Royal Street, crazy races, and other enjoyable events that are certain to take place. It is New Orleans, after all, and there's always something entertaining, if not completely bizarre, going on somewhere. But my two main events are over for the year, and yes, I'm a little sad. I've decided to focus on experiencing some things I haven't tried in my fifteen years here. Checking out some restaurants where I have yet to dine...and there are many. Grabbing my camera and checking out a crazy swamp or voodoo tour. Maybe even exploring a museum or two, although I'm not very museum-y. (Ask me how to see The Louvre in under 30 minutes.) I am sure I will discover some new gems in the city that I love, but for now I'm just going to spend a few days mourning the end of the season that brings me so much joy...those four months that make me absolutely certain I will never want to live anywhere else. I think it's time to go hunt for a meat pie or some crawfish bread. Or maybe there's a stray King cake out there somewhere. A little comfort food couldn't hurt, right? And hey, if I strike out, Fat Tuesday is just a short 300 days away. 

What I think is the most beautiful of all the Mardi Gras floats.

Fat Tuesday with my fellow parade lover...and boy, do I look tired!

Willie Nelson on a rainy day at Jazzfest...still sounded great at 80!

Trombone Shorty. He really puts on a fantastic show.

Ben Harper...one of my favorites.

Festin' in the Rain

When you live in South Louisiana in early May, your two weather choices are basically hot and sunny or rainy, which can turn into hot and sunny (and steamy) in an instant. We've been lucky the past few Jazzfests. I really only remember one rainy day in the three years prior to this one. Sunday, however, was a different story. I had told myself I would stay home and catch up on all the things I had ignored while I was gone all day Friday and Saturday if the forecast for rain turned out to be accurate. But the music called my name, and my 15-year-old and I donned our cute rain boots, threw some trash bags in my "festival bag" in case we chose to sit, grabbed some new rain ponchos from Walgreen's, and headed across the bridge. It was pouring when we arrived at the fairgrounds, so, forgoing fashion, we put on our yellow ponchos, even utilizing the very unattractive hoods, and headed in. The silver linings...no line at the gate and the very nice man who gave us his extra ticket, saving us $65.

The grounds were wet when we arrived...not as wet as they would be later in the day, but wet enough for us to give ourselves a good pat on the back for wearing our boots. I would guess that perhaps 10% of the crowd had on boots. The rest were wearing sneakers, flip-flops, or (gasp) nothing at all on their feet! Truthfully, if you're wearing flip-flops, you may as well just go barefoot, and most flip-flop wearers ended up that way, with shoes sunk so deeply into the mud that they could hardly lift their feet.

We did have some sun during the middle of the day, but the rains returned just as Dave Matthews began playing. It wasn't a rain for sissies, and it seemed to gain momentum each time he sang a hit song. The amount of mud increased, but so did the fun. I won't lie and say we stayed until the end. We became a little cold, then a little miserable, then we just wanted to be home. We had a great rainy day, and we were glad we went, but washing off Jazzfest in a hot bath was pretty good too. 

It's supposed to rain Thursday and Friday of weekend #2. And even though Saturday and Sunday look like sunny days, the grounds are going to be a sloppy mess. Here are a few tips for those of you heading out this weekend. 

Rainy Fest Do's
Pack a poncho.
Bring trash bags or a tarp to sit on.
Bring a Ziploc bag for your cell phone
Don't forget about sunscreen...we only had two hours of sunshine in between rains, yet we both ended up with a mild sunburn.
Bring your sunglasses for the same reason.
Invest in some boots!  *Ladies, a cute pair will make your plastic poncho a little less awful.
If you opt to not wear boots, try to find a grassy spot early in the day so you're not standing barefoot in a mud pit.
Ignore the rain and enjoy some great music. You did pay $65, after all.

Rainy Fest Don'ts
Don't wear white!
Don't wring out your skirt in front of a crowd if it's very short and you have on a thong.  Or do if you want to...it's Jazzfest. :)
Don't bring your infant! (Seems like common sense, I know.)
Don't go in a port-o-potty barefoot! Just eew!
Don't bust out a giant umbrella when you're in the middle of a large crowd.
*On a related note, umbrella hats...not a good look. Don't buy one.
Don't assume the people around you will think kicking mud all over your friend is funny. It gets on us too, and we just think you're kind of a jerk.
Don't bail too early. Watching Dave Matthews play while thousands of people danced in sideways rain was really pretty darn fun.

*With regard to plastic bags over shoes...I'm not sure whether that's a do or a don't, but it reminds me of the kids who wore bread sacks over their shoes when I was in elementary school...and it makes me giggle a little. 

Happy Festing!