Hot, child! Summer in the City

Lisa thought I should include “beer” in the title of this one, but 12 hours later I cannot remember why or what the other words should be. So, I am left to my own invention.

Yesterday was a day in New Orleans. I would like to write this as if I had spent most of the days of my life, since moving to Louisiana, prowling the streets of N’Awlins - but that is not the case. For some years I was intimidated by not knowing where anything is and the aggravation of not being able to get there from here, or vice versa.

The powers that be in “the City” don’t believe in the efficacy of communication. Or perhaps they feel if you don’t know where you are, how you got there and how to get back again, you should stay at home. And for years I mostly did, venturing forth only when I had someone with me who knew more than I did, or when I had detailed, foolproof directions. Until my husband died, I went mostly only as far as the airport and the Esplanade Mall, both really in Kenner, to the west of New Orleans and just as you enter the greater New Orleans area.

A time or two I ventured to the French Quarter with one or the other of my daughters, or One Canal Place or the New Orleans Museum of Art. But most ventures were accompanied by high anxiety and one or two panic attacks when I would discover - to my considerable chagrin - that the roads are not labeled or the signs indicating where one thinks she should be are ambiguous at best.

However, I have, in the last 6 years, made it my goal to overcome the anxiety and panic and venture forth more often. In doing so, I am discovering, in spite of the City fathers’ attempts to lose and confuse me, I can eventually find my way out again. And life is an adventure to be lived and not just read about.

Yesterday was a most pleasant afternoon of bookshops and window shopping. My friend, Lisa, and I began at the signing of a trite mystery novel by one of my favorite fluff mystery writers, Julie Smith. I say that with respect. After a stressful day of teaching and working with teachers or a tiring day of cutting too much grass, I enjoy nothing better than settling against several pillows with a glass or cup of tea nearby - cold in the summer, hot in the winter - and reading a fluff mystery. But even in my choice of fluff, I want something that is well written, with well presented, original characters. Julie provides this for me, most recently in her delightful character Talba Wallis - detective by day who becomes the notable poet, Baroness Pontalba by night.

This is made more enjoyable, to me, as Julie Smith, fair-skinned and red-haired, attempts the dialect of her major character, an outspoken Black female.

From the bookstore, Lisa and I walked the four blocks over to Magazine Street and proceeded to work our way from one end to the other. At least, that appeared to be Lisa’s plan. She was not a bit daunted by the mention of six miles of antique stores and boutiques - which translates to 71 city blocks. I think she seriously thought we could do all 71 in the heat of the day. It was 95 degrees, Fahrenheit, for most of the afternoon. In reality, we walked the nine or ten of those, in what is known as the Garden District, in one direction before crossing the street to return.

I think if we had not noticed “The Bulldog” - “Uptown’s International Tavern,”  we might be walking, yet. But in that moment the temptation of a cold, wet beer was overwhelming. We crossed at the light, headed back in the direction we had come and slipped into the dimly lit tavern. Perching on stools at the bar we each ordered a half-pint of Abita Purple Haze. We were conscious of the many blocks we had yet to walk to where the car was parked and thought to make the journey more enjoyable by frequent stops along the way - to slake our thirst and refresh our demeanor. So, we started slowly.

We were met with disappointment, however, finding that the one block where the tavern is located is the only one in the whole of that section of the Garden District offering a beer break. Not being male in the least, we finally stopped and asked a stranger for directions to the nearest bar. Then returned to the car and drove there, parking within easy crawling distance.

Again we sat at the bar, quickly noting we were the only ones present not showing vast expanses of flesh graced with tattoos of varying quality. Some were quite detailed and ornate and others appeared to have been done on the street - or in prison, perhaps. Feeling conspicuous and a bit over-dressed, in conservative linen pants and blouse, I ordered a pint, this time, of Abita Wheat. (Abita Springs boasts a Louisiana brewery which produces a pleasant variety of beer. I am most familiar with their lighter versions, which are often my reward for a yard well cut.) Lisa went for a Hurricane, having never had one. I advised her to drink it slowly - which she did.

So, there we sat, two schoolteacher types in the midst. One fellow was having a birthday it appeared - as he sailed many times around the room singing, “It’s my birthday! It’s my birthday!” A couple of finer folk who were familiar with local traditions pinned a couple of dollar bills to what there was of his shirt.

By this time, I suppose, Lisa was beginning to feel too conspicuous, as she began to invite strangers in from the street. She said it was because they were dressed more conservatively and would make us look less out of place. I think it was the Hurricane.

Whatever it was, in came Susan and Sandy, who proceeded to talk to us as if we knew why they were there. It seems the ASPCA -American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals - was sponsoring a fund-raiser that very evening in that very bar - Igor’s, by the way. We had happened into a Christmas in July celebration. As if on cue, the stereo began playing Christmas songs of the lesser know variety - “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” for example. Soon after we were offered a Chocolate Santa - the Godiva Santa. He was about six feet tall, wearing a Santa suit, with just a smidgeon of Black nose, cheeks and eyes showing.

He didn’t offer a single “Ho!Ho!Ho!” but he did steer us in the direction of the free Christmas dinner. Of which we partook. We chatted the evening with Susan and Sandy, she who rescues unwanted pets and he who tears down and rebuilds housing projects into something more desirable and sustainable - a mixture of subsidized and non-subsidized housing. We drank our beer and hurricane and sang along with the songs of Christmas.

Best of all we totally forgot, as I often do in my wanderings through life, of the many apparent differences in and among people. We are all pretty much the same - especially with a beer in our hands.

Now if this all sounds too surreal to you, the reader, I assure you it was not. It was and is New Orleans.