Silversprite

Rolled in to New Orleans on Saturday afternoon. The Amtrak station is off the centre of a town, and I had to get a taxi to the hotel (which I would come to despise) on the south of the river. The hotel turned out to be a converted motel. Partially converted. My room was on the ground floor, literally next to the street parking lot. No other rooms available (allegedly). Various signs warn guests to use “Every available security device”. Hmmm. It was also a non-smoking room that had been used by smokers and not renovated, and so it stank.

Determined to get my money’s worth, I went to inspect the hotel pool. Noticed “New Orleans Police” tape around part of it. Decide to give it a miss. Inspected laundry room. Washing machines very rusty, so looks like the next laundry will be in California. Or Mexico if plans go awry.

Thankfully, the hotel runs a shuttle bus through the Algiers district to the short hop ferry across the Mississippi. The Algiers district has bags of interesting architecture; lo-rise detached houses that are found across Louisiana, but with lots of flourishes and individual touches. That doesn’t detract from the poverty, which is obvious. Though many of the cars seemed of a shiny and expensive nature.

My first evening in New Orleans was spent wandering. I’d had a shave (this is rare), put on a clean shirt and shoes. It was good; I wandered through the French Quarter and found my kinda bar. Low-lit, quiet, subtle attentive barman, no-one under age of 25 or so, napkins, well-mixed drinks. The place where you can watch and think and no-one hassles you.

Sated, I returned to the hotel and went online for rather too long. Much to write, think and do.

Somewhere around 2am I fell asleep. At 2:19 according to the room clock, am woken by several people hammering on my door. Regretted handing back Grizzly Bear Repellant in Montana. After a few seconds, someone shouts “Wrong room, he on the upper floor.” The hammering stops and I listen to footsteps running away. Exchanged tweets with several people for a while, carefully double checked the locks on the door, then fell asleep again.

Woke up alive. Bonus!

Sunday morning. After last night’s excitement, I fancy a quiet morning. Actually after the last, intense, week I fancy a quiet year. The hotel had stopped doing breakfast at a time before that stated, so I got the bus and ferry and wandered into the first nice restaurant I found in the French Quarter. Breakfast tea. It’s in a scenic spot, opposite a white walled church, trees, and foilage.

A couple amble past. Suddenly he stops, gets down on one knee and does the whole ring and proposal thing. She has her hands to her face going OH MY GOD OH MY GOD and is jumping up and down in little hops. Says “Yes.” He twirls her around, possibly out of relief. I wonder how frequently this kind of thing happens. They come in; I offer him tea (he looks like he needed it) and he, and eventually she, tell their story.

[Side point: Why me? Why do I keep ending up in these situations? Is it the blessing/curse of being born in 1968, or some other reason?]

I start twittering as it seems best way to try and get an instant record of it (though I didn’t really think about this much). And it’s one hell of a story and on every other sentence I’m saying “What?!” or “Really?”. In the remote chance that Simon Bates reads this – it topped anything on “Our Tune”. I’ve thought of replicating it here on this blog but that doesn’t seem right. The moment has passed now, and in fairness I only got his permission to twitter it anyway. So it stays in the Twittersphere; twitter followers seemed to like it, even though I didn’t do a great job of it, which was pleasing.

I paid for my breakfast, thought about their financial situation (really, really bad) and gave money to the manager for theirs. Shades on, and out into the Louisiana sunshine.

I felt like a God, while at the same time felt humble about what the couple had gone through and what they were doing. As I type this a few days later, am still thinking about them, as I will for a long time. And I’m looking forward to the wedding invitation.

I wandered through the French Quarter and back towards the Mississippi, discovering lots of interesting little bookshops on the way. Wished I had more time to spend there. Sat on the river bank; a paddle steamer thingie chundered by; life was good. A family sat down nearby; “Where you from?” I told them. They were from Georgia, and I ended up sharing their picnic meal, while they talked about how the economic collapse was affecting their village.

More wandering, through streets lined with balconied buildings, some draped with ferns and foilage. Street musicians were out in force, and they were of a consistently high standard, as pompous reviewers would say. I found several t-shirt shops and the items I was looking for. Then I found the cafe recommended to me by the chef I met on the train out of Memphis, and had the seafood gumbo (a large pot of, well, stuff) and the three-piece fried chicken.

The clientele was rather diverse. Students, tourists, locals, local performers. Including a quartet of transvestite strippers who I made possibly the mistake of batting back some general smut to. An adolescence spent watching Carry On films (Sid James’s laugh is, for me, the sound that defines Britain) held me in good stead for a while. But they ratcheted it up, and as my meal was over anyway, and they were hitting the cocktails, I left.

I wandered back to the ferry, through the bawdy part of New Orleans. And possibly the smell of a hundred passing cigarettes of dubious origin had an effect as I felt quite relaxed and floaty. People were dancing on balconies. Colours were bright. I wandered, stopping for the occasional drink and tweet (Samantha is so easy to take out, tweet, then put away). Vendors offered various services and facilities that I suspect would not get trading licences in the UK. I refused them all, unlike several groups of male students who I observed being led into various clubs of an adult and intimate nature, I suspect to emerge a little later much lighter of wallet.

I get back to the hotel. Online activities occupy me till the early hours; packing left to next morning. Didn’t really look around the room at all before going to sleep. BAD THING NOT TO DO.

Monday morning and it was time to check out of Hotel du Crappy. I tottered into the dining room at 8:50 to find all the breakfast had been put away. A member of staff informed me that due to a lack of interest they’d stopped early. Okay, then due to lack of riches they won’t mind if I stop paying that part of the bill. Attempt to shower; two cochroaches in the bathroom. Open shower curtain. Huge cochroach in bath tub that would be a match for Cletus and Bubba back in the Hebrides. Remove cochroach with the aid of an ice bucket. Shower. Notice several bite marks on me. Pull back curtain. Nasty looking spider (black with red markings) falls off it into bath. Accelerated drying and packing. Open door. Another spider scuttles into room. Really getting fed up at this point. Stamp on it. Stamp out of room. Stomp to reception.

The receptionist asks “Did you enjoy your stay with us, sir?” and probably quietly regrets asking, for the next 15 minutes.

Taxi to the Amtrak station; plenty of time, as it turned out, and added bonus was that the Post Office was next door. Wondered if any employees would look like Seinfeld from Newman. They don’t. Attempt to figure out priority and express delivery to send things to the east coast of the USA; give up and let the staff do it. Very happy people. Am asked (yet again) what I think of New Orleans. Reply honestly in the positive, but don’t mention the hotel. They seem pleased.

Amtrak station; train time. No country for old men next…

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