Adventures In The South - New Orleans, Part 3

Our final day in New Orleans, and the rain poured down.
No, I’m kidding.  Once again, it was wall to wall sunshine, with added humidity.  Taking a break from hiking around, we decided to saunter down to Canal Street, and catch a hop-on, hop-off bus tour around the Garden District.
This was another side to the city, where once upon a time wealthy types had moved from the French Quarter – though Garden District is a misnomer, because the gardens of the early nineteenth-century mansions were gradually sold off to provide plots for new houses in the later

A Canal St streetcar, on our way to the Garden District

 years of the century.  Still, the architecture was impressive, in that typically Southern white-painted fashion.  But although our open-topped bus created its own light breeze, the heat was still oppressive as we tootled around.
We hopped off the bus as it approached the Warehouse District, and ducked out of the heat into the National World War II Museum, where a diner offered an option for lunch – and where all the accumulated heat of the bus tour was suddenly blast-frozen beneath our clothing by the air-conditioning.  Suitably cooled off, we then took in the Museum itself, founded by the war historian Stephen Ambrose – the guy who wrote the book Band Of Brothers.
If you think New Orleans seems an odd location for America’s National World War II Museum, there is a pretext of sorts.  NOLA is the home of Higgins Industries, which manufactured a variety of naval equipment during the war, including the landing craft – or “Higgins Boats” – used during the D-Day landings.  In any event it’s an impressive and interactive collection, with a number of World War II veterans acting as guides at different points, and a collection of genuine aircraft suspended from the ceiling.  During our visit it also included the temporary exhibit “Final Mission: The USS Tang Submarine Experience” – which included a number of alarms and excursions reflective of the “Final Mission” tag.

Everyday Bourbon Street traffic

Having completed our tour of duty, we headed back towards the French Quarter, and took another wander up Bourbon Street to take in one more tourist attraction, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop – the oldest building in the French Quarter, dating back to 1772.  But no, it’s not actually a blacksmith’s forge.  More prosaically, it’s a pub, and has been for a very long time.  It’s still lit by candlelight, and has pretty basic wooden furnishings, creating an overall effect that is – well, dingy, to be honest.  So after a quick beer we headed back to the hotel, and had a spell in the outdoor pool, cocktails in hand, to chill out for a while.
Refreshed, we set off for a nearby eaterie and our most upmarket dinner in about a week.  Sadly I can’t now recall the restaurant’s name – Antoine’s, possibly – but it was smart and airy, with an acoustic jazz trio to keep us entertained as we ate.  Nothing fried, for a change  but instead some light and elegant fish.
Fortified, we strolled on to our entertainment for the night, at d.b.a., a bar and club in Frenchmen Street.  After a warm-up drink in the welcoming bar - where I was amused to find McEwan's Wee Heavy, a resolutely old man's tipple back in Scotland, listed among the imported British beers - we headed to the adjoining room, and were treated to some genuine funky blues from local legend and recording artist Walter ‘Wolfman’ Washington.  This, I’m pleased to say, was the real deal for the final night of our odyssey, with Walter singing and

The Wolfman gets funky!

playing classy guitar in front of an impressive, grooving band.  (A year and a bit later I came across Walter's sax player appearing with Mike Zito, at a gig back home in Edinburgh.  After the show I accosted Jimmy Carpenter – for it was none other – and, showing him a pic from the Wolfman show, said I was amazed to have encountered him again.  “Yeah, you look kinda familiar too,” he deadpanned in response.  He has a dry sense of humour, does Jimmy.)
Walter’s set was so good that a guy and a woman suddenly got together and started dancing – a real jiving display, with overhead lifts and all sorts, that earned applause and whoops of appreciation from the audience.  Remarkably, it turned out that they weren’t even a couple, and had just spontaneously hooked up together and done their thing.
And on that high note we stepped out into the still warm night air, and ambled back to Hotel Le Marais for a final nightcap and debrief.  Our adventures in the South were over, and the next day we’d be making the long haul back home to Scotland.

You can find New Orleans, Part 1 here.

You can read Adventures In The South from the start by going to the Prologue, here.

Adventures in the South - New Orleans, Part 2

It was a lazy start to our first morning in New Orleans.  We’d promised ourselves that after driving all the way from Nashville over the last ten days or so, we were going to kick back and take it easy in the Big Easy.  So we took a leisurely breakfast in the dining room of the hotel before setting out to explore.
We sauntered down to the wide boulevard of Canal Street and then towards the Mississippi Riverfront.  Passing by the hulking mass of Harrah’s Casino, we made our way to the stop for the Riverfront Streetcar – never can resist a historic streetcar.  And there we waited  in the

That there is Satchmo's cornet, on display at the Jazz Museum

sweltering mid-morning heat.  For quite some time.  Early August, it has to be said, ain’t the most comfortable time to visit New Orleans, but other commitments had dictated our holiday period.  Even wearing a hat it helps to find any scrap of shade you can – and have a bottle of water to hand.  Eventually though, the streetcar arrived, and pulling away towards the Lower French Quarter we could immediately feel the movement creating a blissful breeze through the streetcar.
Getting off at the French Market, we had a stroll through the (thankfully covered) Flea Market.  Chatting with a local artist from whom we picked up a couple of pictures capturing the colour of the French Quarter, we mentioned our interest in music and asked if he had any tips.  Nearby Frenchman Street was the locale to aim for, he reckoned, and added that we should try to catch local legend Walter ‘Wolfman’ Washington playing in a club there the following night.
From there we headed for the Old US Mint in Barracks Street.  Now a museum, the Mint neatly tells the story of New Orleans’ chequered history through its frequently changing currency, as it changed hands from one “occupying power” to another – French, Spanish, then French again before the United States acquired it through the Louisiana Purchase of 1803.  It also houses the excellent New Orleans Jazz Museum, during our visit including a temporary exhibition about the historic venue Preservation Hall, which can be found in nearby St Peter Street.  For some reason we didn’t cotton on to the Louisiana State Museum, so the Mint was the closest we got to exploring the history of New Orleans.
Having done the culture vulture bit, we returned to the French Market for a spot of street food

There's always a gig somewhere in New Orleans

lunch – gumbo for me and a po’ boy for Jill, and very tasty it was too.  Much more satisfying, for my money, than the much-vaunted but disappointing beignets we sampled at Café Du Monde, the “Original French Market Coffee Stand” since 1862.  I mean, I like a good doughnut now and then - and that's all beignets are - but these didn't strike me as anything special.  What’s more, much of the icing sugar in which the doughnuts were swimming ended up on the tiled floor, turning it into a skating rink.
Meandering back towards our hotel, we passed through Jackson Square, with its statue of former president Andrew Jackson, and took in some jazz musicians playing al fresco, in relaxed but still impressive style.  And so back to the hotel, and some reading and cooling off around the outdoor pool.
 
That evening we set off for Mulate’s Cajun Restaurant and Dance Hall in the Warehouse district, where cajun music is played every night.  Having failed to score any cajun music a couple of nights earlier in its heartland of Lafayette, we were intent on making up for it now.  Mulate’s is a large and airy, pleasant room, but on this Tuesday evening customers were sparse.  Maybe we’d arrived too early, but while we did get a band knocking out some cajun stuff on the stage, the atmosphere was far from energising.  The food seemed uninspired too – or perhaps I’d had just had a surfeit of fried stuff after nearly three weeks on the road in the States.
Somewhat deflated, we walked back to the hotel in the decidedly warm and humid night air.  On the way, rather surreally, we passed two police horses tied up next to a multi-storey car park, their riders nowhere to be seen.  The horses seemed entirely unconcerned.  Taking a leaf out of their Big Easy nonchalance, we spent the rest of the night chilling out over cocktails in the cool of the hotel.

To read Adventures in the South from the beginning, go to the Prologue.

Adventures in the South - New Orleans, Part 1

It was the morning after the night before in Lafayette, Louisiana, and we were up and about and ready to hit the road for New Orleans.  If you want to read about our Lafayette layover, you’ll find that episode here.  Or if you don’t know what this Adventues In The South business is all about, you can go right back to the beginning here.
We headed back along Highway 10, and the 18 mile long, stilts-over-gator-country Atchafalaya Basin Bridge towards Baton Rouge.  But from there we didn’t take the direct route to New Orleans.  Our plan instead was to take the scenic route, and approach New Orleans via the Lake

The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway

Pontchartrain Causeway – the longest continuous bridge in the world, at nearly 24 miles.  This detour wouldn’t take us much longer – or at least wouldn’t have done if a landmark like this was clearly signposted.  But no – here’s the longest continuous bridge in the world, which is even name-checked in John Hiatt’s much-loved, much-covered song ‘Feels Like Rain’, and you’d scarcely know it existed from the road signs.  Bizarre.  So we managed to plough on across the state line into Mississippi, where we had to make an impromptu pit stop at a State Park or some such to do an about turn.
Second time lucky, we found the turn-off, and then the bridge.  And it is remarkable, arrowing south across the lake, and over the horizon to N’Awlins – not jaw-dropping, but worth the diversion.
We dropped our hire car at the airport, as we wouldn’t need it for the remaining few days of our trip, and took a cab to our lodgings.  For New Orleans my other half Jill had selected the Hotel le Marais in the French Quarter, just a few steps from Bourbon Street.  Very nice it was too, as we chilled out after the drive (during which we had blessed the aircon as the temperature hit new heights) and the cab ride, by sinking into the pool in the rear courtyard with a couple of cocktails

Hotel le Marais hangs out the flags for us

– Strawberry Mimosas being the order of the day.
Later, in the course of a first wander around, we enjoyed some grilled oysters in one of the numerous local oyster bars.  Then we took the very warm evening air in Bourbon Street, and ended up in one of its well-known music haunts, the Famous Door.  Here we were treated to a soul and R’n’B, so cool one of them was wearing wraparound shades, whipping through a set of classic covers in most satisfying style.  The audience – a decent number for midweek – was rather less cool mind you, as it included a high proportion of Elks.  No, not the big beasts with coatrack antlers, of course.  These middle-aged folks were members of the Order of Elks, one of those fraternal societies so popular in the States, and their bright yellow t-shirts announced they were in town for a Convention.  The Order of Elks is very keen on God, the Flag and the Constitution – but less keen on black members until the 70s, and still not wild about women members.  That

One of the more genteel Bourbon St buildings

evening though, the Elk types – of both sexes – seemed mostly intent on having a few beers and shaking their booty to the band.
When the band took a break we spread our wings and found a bar further up the road where a jazz quartet was in action.  Rather good they were too, with an exuberant drummer who was really throwing himself into it, and a trumpet player who in my recollection bore a startling resemblance to the actor Chiwetel Ejiofor.  What was most noticeable though, was that they were competing with some rock bar across the street, which was blasting out the likes of Bon Jovi with the volume turned up to 11.  If this was the cause of the slightly pained expression that often crossed the face of our trumpeter, then I sympathised.
That trumpeter’s expression, I have to say, sums up my abiding impression of Bourbon Street.  It’s tacky.  People wander up and down it carrying large, garishly designed plastic vessels filled with high voltage concoctions named “Hurricanes”, “Hand Grenades” and such like.  Here and there along the way they pass by a selection of strip joints, with window displays that make their repertoire clear – even to the pre-teens dutifully trailing along in the company of Mom and Pop.  It smells a bit too, like once a week the whole avenue gets sluiced down with slops from the beer.
Appealing, huh?  Well, it still has some plus points.  And there’s more to New Orleans than Bourbon Street!