Taxis And Texans

After going to brunch and listening to the gospel choir on Sunday, I spent Monday vegging. I don’t know if it’s because I’m on the final leg of this trip now or whether its because I’m feeling a little travel weary but my drive to trawl through Downtown Austin somehow wasn’t there.

I think I was also dreading my plans for Tuesday: I was going to blitz shop. In my normal life I enjoy shopping. And, to be honest, I thought at the start of Plan B that as I travelled the world I would do clothes, shoe and handbag shopping as I went along. But even early on, in Italy, home of the lovely shoe shops, I found I really was not in the mood for much retail therapy. In fact, all the way up to this Tuesday I had bought a very limited number of items and several of these purchases were predicated by the weather i.e. I bought a coat because I was going to be wandering around in zero degrees Celsius! But I did want to do some shopping before returning home, including some of my Christmas presents.

I headed for a giant outdoor mall on Tuesday. I have to say the Americans know how to do a mall. The fact that I came away with the sense of having had a positive day possibly had a lot to do with the fact that the sun was shining brightly and so, even though it was rather brisk temperature wise, I didn’t feel too cold while wandering from shop to shop. And shop I did. I got most of my seasonal gifts and a few items for me, spent time at my favourite coffee shop in the world and ate Chinese food as an early dinner in a restaurant. The highlight of my day out though wasn’t a good deal or the perfect shoes (sadly, although I did buy a pair of quite lovely ankle boots they do not qualify as “perfect shoe” material) or a fabulous LBD (although I did buy one of these too). The highlight was the taxi ride back.

And here I have to raise a hand to just about every taxi driver I’ve met throughout this jaunt. I have had the funniest, most interesting, at times odd, down to earth conversations with them. From the guy who went into detail about how corrupt local government was in one of the towns I was in to another who explained to me, deadly serious, that the televising of football (American, that is) is one giant conspiracy because he’d worked out that the ball was in play only for something like eighteen minutes within the whole game, in every game, and the rest was just filler with “them” trying to brainwash the viewing public with ads and “messages”. Oh yes.

But the taxi driver who brought be back into Austin from the shopping was lovely. A musician, originally from California, who is part of a bluegrass band and with whom I had the loveliest conversation which turned into an attempted chat up by him. It was interesting to hear about the music scene in Austin from someone directly involved in it. Austin is famous for this and bands flock here to play at live venues – even the smallest bars and cafes have stages here – in the hope they’ll be discovered. My new friend Nate informed me that it’s become a highly cutthroat environment and that those who remember it from a few years ago say that it’s not a change for the better. But the opportunities are obviously here for young talent who wants to try and break into the world of music. He told me about his music and I told him about Plan B. I got out of the cab feeling quite good at having been told by a late twenty something that I was the most interesting woman he’d ever met. I can live with that 😉

Yesterday I did some sightseeing in Downtown Austin, namely around the Capitol. The building itself is quite striking but it’s the grounds that really made me smile. The gardens are large and dotted with sculptures and cannon and the loveliest foliage. I spent over an hour just wandering around snapping away. The building houses the Texas State Capitol – that is the Texas Legislature and the Office of the Governor. It is crowned by a statue of the Goddess of Liberty, a statue that originally was in the grounds before being placed at the top of the dome.

And then I returned to my hotel room and packed for the last time. Yes, Plan B is fast coming to its end. As I write this I’m in an airport hotel the night before I begin the long haul flight back to London and then onto Gibtaltar. I’m a little shell shocked that I’m here, at this point in time. But I’ll speak about that a little more in my next post.

For now I’m going to just say that I’ve enjoyed Texas a great deal more than I thought I would. The people I’ve chatted with and met have been charming and gracious. The cities have been lovely and the ranch will always stand out as an amazing experience. Doors have been opened for me, manners have been beautifully displayed and “Yes ma’am” grows on you when you realise it’s done naturally and not as a practised routine. This is not to say that everything here makes sense to me. Just about every Texan I’ve spoken to has been so far to the right in the political spectrum that the centre is but a faded spectre across the range. It obviously works for them but it doesn’t sit brilliantly with my own ideologies. But I can’t say conversations have been boring!

And then Texas has cowboys – I mean, who doesn’t love a cowboy who utters the words, “Yes ma’am” in his Texan drawl and tips his Stetson to you with a cheeky grin? 😉

E x

I Sing Because I’m Happy

On Saturday I left San Antonio for Austin.  I had looked into making the move by air but it was ridiculously convoluted and seriously expensive to boot when taking into account that it’s actually a really short journey between the two cities if you travel as the crow flies.  I thus had to investigate other alternatives so I ended up going for the bus.  The Greyhound, to be specific.  While in Italy I used the bus to get around quite a bit but here in the States I really haven’t done so.  Distance is one of the issues, of course.  Australia had similar problems with this means of transport.  While in Oz I looked up how long driving between Sydney and Ayer’s Rock would take and, discovered, that without making any stops you would have to drive for thirty-six hours!  The US’s size also needs such considerations and, although you certainly can travel between any of the cities in the country you have to be willing to give up huge amounts of time to do so.

But San Antonio to Austin is only an hour and a half by bus with a princely twenty six dollar price tag.  It was a no brainer.  I went and bought my ticket beforehand as the website did not have Gibraltar as a possible billing city for my credit card and therefore could not process my purchase!  I turned up on the day dragging my case behind me in minus one degree Celsius temperatures.  Upon entering the bus terminal I was assaulted (I use the term deliberately) by the eau d’humanite which was present in said building.  The place was obviously overheated and hermetically sealed and it really wasn’t pleasant.  Aroma notwithstanding, people were polite and helpful and I found myself waiting in a little seating area for the bus to board. Everything went without a hitch and a couple of hours later I found myself in Austin, capital of this state, hailing a cab and huddling from the cold.

Austin is renowned for its Capitol building, its trendy and young attitude and a very vibrant music scene.  It also has good shopping in its surroundings.  I will be doing the touristy sightseeing over the next few days as well as all my shopping (I’ll be blitzing this and packing it all into one day) – trying to get all my Christmas gifts here rather than back at home upon arrival.  But, one thing that I did want to do early on was recommended to me by a couple with whom I was speaking while at the ranch.  They were from Austin and when talking about things to do here they asked if I enjoyed gospel choirs.  I said I did and they suggested I visit, on the Sunday, a local well-known restaurant for their Sunday brunch and to listen to a gospel choir singing while I ate. I loved the idea and immediately booked myself in.

I arrived at the restaurant and was seated on the edge of a mezzanine level which overlooked the stage.  Brunch consisted of an enormous selection of breakfast goodies like scrambled eggs tossed with bacon, pancakes, waffles, grits and so forth as well as barbecqued meats and salads.  Different pies, muffins and fruit salads made up dessert.  I piled my plate – huge plates are given to guests – and promised myself I would not have to be rolled back to my hotel. Then I sat down to eat.  And shortly thereafter a group of people gathered on the stage and soon they began to play and sing.

Ok, let me admit something here: I love to sing and, generally, can carry a tune.  I say this so you know that I’m predisposed to love anyone singing.  I’ve spent large parts of my life in choirs and I now am part of the music team at school which prepares our choir for performances of all kinds.  I love the joy that singing brings to me.  I have been known to go into the chapel at school, close the door and sing a hymn or two when no one’s around.  It brings me peace and happiness when I sing.  My mum used to say that she knew, when I was little, when I was unwell because I’d stop belting out tunes and that she could map my feeling better by the return of my singing and the volume applied to the task.  I love to hear others sing.  Children and adults, soloists and bands, classic and rock, gospel and traditional hymns, opera and blues and so on.  I feel uplifted when I hear voices sing.  And, on Sunday I was truly lucky to listen to this group sing. They filled the restaurant with their voices and their faith, but most especially with their joy.  For it was joy that they radiated as they sang.  It was a truly beautiful few hours.

I am not an envious person.  I don’t walk around (thankfully) begrudging anyone their possessions or good fortune.  But, I do envy the talent that some individuals have to create something beautiful.  Be it someone who picks up a paintbrush and produces a stunning piece of art, or someone who lifts an instrument and turns the object into the means of bringing forth a haunting melody, or someone who sits and ponders about numbers and begins to work out something that my brain cannot begin to comprehend.  No doubt, many of these people work hard to perfect their talents but, these talents begin as gifts which are then nurtured and polished.

When these guys sang to us I did indeed, feel that they had a gift.  And, as all gifts should, they brought joy and pleasure with theirs.

E x

The Alamo, Freedom and Fighting

So, we were about to do battle at the Alamo.

I didn’t know much about the Alamo before arriving in San Antonio.  I had amassed some titbits about it but the run up to the battle and the details of the battle itself were not something I was clear about.  So, learning about it all made it a highly interesting visit for me.

The first lesson came with its location.  In my head, the Alamo was in a field somewhere. Out there beyond the city centre, in the vastness that is Texas!  But no.  It is actually located bang in the middle of San Antonio.  Next to other tourist sites and very close to the Riverwalk.  It was a ten minute walk from my hotel, in fact.  Upon arriving at its perimeter I was also struck by the fact that it’s not very large.  It covered a larger space in the past. But what remains today is quite contained.  The whole visit took me less than an hour and that included the museum type spaces with artefacts and information posters.

For those of you who do not know about the Alamo’s history, this was first a mission where missionaries and their converts lived (it began to be built around 1724).  Then the Spanish changed the nature of the building from a religious to a secular one.  The lands were given to remaining Indian residents of the area.  Early in the nineteenth century the Spanish stationed a cavalry unit there and it was from them that the name “Alamo” was derived – they called it that after their hometown, Alamo de Parras, Coahuila.  The former mission would be occupied by military forces of Spain, Mexico and Rebels until the Texan Revolution.

In December of 1835 during the Texan Revolution the Texian (revolutionaries) forces defeated the Mexican troops stationed in the city of San Antonio and the rebels occupied the Alamo. In February 1836 fresh Mexican forces arrived and the rebels had to begin a defence of the Alamo.  The most notable names from within the ranks of the rebels in the Alamo were its commander, William B. Travis, David Crockett and Jim Bowie.  The Alamo was under siege for thirteen days.  Before dawn on 6th March, 1836, Mexican forces pushed forward and set their final assault on the post.  The defenders were seriously outnumbered and by dawn of the next day the battle was over.  All of the rebels were killed.

The Battle of the Alamo and how the rebels were seen to have been slaughtered by a force majeure (1500 Mexicans to 189 Rebels) is considered the driving force behind the final Texian victory against the Mexicans in April 1836 via which the Texan Revolution ended with the rebels emerging, finally, victorious.

I entered the precinct not too sure of what I was going to find.  It is a small compound with a pretty garden and lovely archways.  The buildings that remain are stone and slightly crumbled with bells over their doorways.  You can see the Catholic mission still as you look around.  Upon entering the Shrine you find yourself having to stop and let your eyes readjust.  It’s quite dark inside with the large overhead lamps casting a pale glow over the whole interior.  There’s a definite mood to the place – reverent, sombre.  I walked around, reading the information stands and looking at the primary sources held here.  To someone who loves studying history this is as good as it gets: an original building with original materials to look at.  It was quite poignant to walk into an area and see flags from the different states to whom the defenders of the Alamo belonged framing the perimeter with the number of dead from that state sewn on the flags.  David Crockett’s rifle was also there.  I have to say it was a moving exhibit.

In the US the Alamo symbolises a heroic struggle against enormous odds.  It is not just the building and the history specific to it that is remembered within the refrain: “Remember the Alamo”.  It is the struggle for freedom, the willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice for it, on any stage.  In a letter Travis wrote while besieged he penned the following:  “If this call is neglected [his call for fellow Americans to come to their aid], I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor and that of his country – Victory or Death.”  It is understandable why here it is the Shrine of Texas Liberty, as one leaflet describes it.

As I walked out of the compound thinking about all I’d seen and read, I crossed the road and suddenly looked up.  There was a giant Christmas tree with giant decorations just in front of me. And, if after visiting the Alamo I had any doubt about which state I was in and just how Texan Texas is, well that tree cleared my mind of it.  I leave you with the image.

Well, it is the Lone Star State; it really couldn’t be decorated differently, could it?  🙂

E x

Cowboys And Canals

My most profuse apologies for the silence but my arrival in San Antonio, Texas, did not agree with me.  I left the ranch on Monday and arrived mid-afternoon in the hotel here in San Antonio.  After checking in I decided I’d spend the rest of the day doing laundry and ironing etc.  I did all this and so spent a relatively boring but quietly productive afternoon. I felt fine at this point.  By late evening I found I had a bad headache that was growing worse by the minute.  At bedtime I was in the throes of a full blown migraine.  Tablets and sleep followed but on waking on Tuesday – and if I’m honest, all the way into Wednesday – I was plagued with the migraine.  I spent most of Tuesday in bed and then went out on Wednesday because I started to panic that I was running out of time to see stuff here but had to return to my hotel room and the dark because my head was killing me.  All in all, I’ve been on migraine meds since Monday evening and even now I’m not totally clear of it 😦

As I said, I did force myself out of the door for some sightseeing on Wednesday.  I made my way to what is called “The Riverwalk”.  It does what it says on the can.  The river runs through Downtown San Antonio and its banks are surrounded by hotels, bars and restaurants, all prettily clad in awnings and sun umbrellas.  It is very much postcard like. And here, although it’s been cold the last couple of days, the weather is milder than in other parts of the US so the trees still hold some of their autumn leaves blazing in reds and golds.  Quite stunning.

The river meanders through the city centre and has pretty bridges crossing it.  It is, to use a comparison, an American Venice of sorts.  To its credit San Antonio has not tried to make this area into a Venice of the Americas by putting in twee gondolas or such.  Instead, there are small river boats making their way through the waterways.  No stripy red and white t-shirts in sight, thank goodness.  It’s a more robust type of Venice, if you will.  And it works, is charming, because of it.  So I walked the whole of the Riverwalk, stopping for food in one restaurant and for a cup of tea in another.  There are small areas to wander in like La Villita which is a small arts and crafts zone with interesting and unique examples of artisans’ work.

When I originally looked into which Texan cities I wanted to visit I found out about the Riverwalk and San Antonio’s sites.  And it’s funny how the brain works.  I pictured this quaint and small city, almost a tiny hub completely walkable.  It was only while at the ranch and speaking to some folks from Austin that I was explaining that I was heading to their city but passing through San Antonio first that I was informed that Austin is, in fact, smaller than San Antonio and that the latter is the seventh most populous city in the USA.  This is not a small city at all.  And after wandering around here you realise that fact quickly.  Yes, the area around Riverwalk and Downtown isn’t huge but the city spreads far out. Remarkably though, on going out onto the streets I found the whole city to be very quiet in both terms of noise and movement.  On the first day out I actually thought it might be a public holiday that had passed me by.  But it wasn’t. The streets have remained equally sedate on all the days after that first foray.

As I walked around and moved upwards from the river bank I soon arrived at the city’s most famous landmark: The Alamo.  That story, that battle, is for tomorrow, though.

E x

Whatcha Gonna Do With A Cowboy?

I went on a hayride this morning.  Very early.  I woke up, threw some clothes on and headed out in the very cold damp air to the corral.  Oh yes, it’s called the “corral”.  The hayride consists of a truck pulling a long flatbed behind it, laden with hay stacks, and those of us who want to join in hop on and are taken to the middle of nowhere (here read somewhere on the over 300 acres that this ranch consists of) where breakfast has been set up al fresco by a few cowboys and where the guests who chose to go out riding on the earliest slot also gather at.

So, there I was on this flat bed being driven through dusty, potholey trails, to the Cowboy Breakfast site, as it is called.  I put myself down for it because, speaking to one of the younger cowboys yesterday night I was telling him, in the midst of having the most interesting conversation about good governance, that I’d seen three deer round the front of my cabin but did not have time to grab the camera before they disappeared.  He then told me that I should go on the hayride because the deer would follow the truck.  I thought he was exaggerating a little but, since I was going to go riding at ten o’clock anyway I put my name down for this too.  And he was right.  As we travelled down the sketchy paths the deer appeared from behind the bushes to the sides and began to chase us.  It was stunning.  I had to stop myself from pointing and squealing, “Bambi!”  It made the bouncing and jostling of the flat bed worth it but my tush may never be the same again 😉

Upon arrival at the Cowboy Breakfast I was met with the sight of a full breakfast buffet, juices and hot drinks ready to be dished up as well as an old cowboy singing while strumming his guitar.  The riders were already there, their horses loosely tied to nearby posts, and we proceeded to eat our bacon, eggs, grits and biscuits listening to old country songs I’d never heard before.  Trust me when I tell you it was a little surreal.

Later, at ten, I saddled up and went up into the hills of the property.  Texas has been suffering from drought for the last couple of years and everything looked very stark and dry. The horses moved around rocky paths and the lead cowboy chatted to us as we went.  The most remarkable thing of the ride was the quiet.  There is absolutely nothing out there.  You just hear the hooves and the creaking of the saddles under the different riders’ weights. There is a beauty to be found in places like these that is hard to explain.  Its vastness and emptiness made me feel rather insignificant in the big scheme of things.  As it should. The horse was great and the experience wonderful.

I loved the saddles; these are works of art and I photographed a few.  I found myself smiling at odd moments as I looked down on the horse imagining my best friend’s face at the sight – the look of abject horror that would be displayed on her face clear in my mind’s eye.  Let me tell you, though, there’s something just a little bit appealing about a cowboy on a horse 😉

Dinner this evening was as lovely as every other night has been.  Travelling alone as I am, it is quite lovely to either, be asked to join a group as has happened on most nights here, or just approach a table and ask if I could sit with them, knowing that the answer would be a very gracious and genuine, “Yes”.  The majority of people staying here are Texans from all over this huge state.  And Texans are hospitable and charming and chatty.  It’s been great to meet different people from different parts of the state.  Tonight I sat with a couple from Dallas and we chatted about anything and everything with their natural curiosity being focused on where I come from.  I have become an ambassador of one, with a practiced and polished spiel about my hometown.  I’m positive Google has never had so many hits on the place before!

As we ate we had a wizened, ex-cowboy singing in the dining room. He played some country classics and some of his own compositions.  I was especially taken with one particular number which had a line in it that went something like, “I ain’t old….I’ve just been used rough,”  and I found myself laughing at the whole song’s tenet.  I really like that idea. There’s a quote that I love and which I think may be by Hunter Thompson (but there is some confusion about this online) which says:

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”

The singing cowboy had the right idea as far as I’m concerned.  So my tush may be sore tomorrow and I froze for the first hour and a half of being out and about.  I may have to wash clothes because they smell of horse and I now know that I can’t throw a cowboy hat and make it land on a post.  I am now that much wiser about how Texans see Texas: Texas, I have been duly informed, is not “The South”.  Texas is Texas.  And I have argued and laughed with the cowboys here about life, politics, taxes and guns.

Oh yes….the time here definitely goes in the “What a ride!” column 😉

E x

Something To Be Thankful For

Yesterday I told you that I had left Canada for Texas.  I arrived in San Antonio on Tuesday afternoon and was collected from the airport and driven to Bandera.  This is a small town just below the centre of Texas and it calls itself the Cowboy Capital of the World.  I was heading for a Texan Dude Ranch, one of the oldest in the area.  And why (I can hear you laughing, you know!) would I be heading this way, I hear you ask?

Well, for some reason that I can’t quite explain, I’ve always wanted to visit a dude ranch  .If I’m honest, maybe it’s because of the cowboys 😉  The only time to be able to do this without cramming it into a short week’s stay for me during my normal work schedule would be the summer months and it is suffocatingly hot here in Texas in July or August. So, up till now I’ve never quite organised myself to come to one because I was pretty sure that however appealing the cowboys might be, desert like conditions in soaring summer heat might not be for me.  But the Universe had other plans during this trip.

In all my planning for Plan B visiting a ranch had never really entered my head.  The only reason it materialised as a possibility was because when chatting with some of the people on the photography course they asked me what I was organising for Thanksgiving.  Now, I had thought of going to New York to see the Macy Parade but, to be honest, what I really wanted was to experience Thanksgiving in as real a setting as possible.  Being in New York to view a parade meant me on my own seeing the parade and then going to a restaurant, table for one, after.  It was hardly the stereotypical family round the table carving the turkey and passing the yams scenario.  When I explained this to the group on the course one of the ladies suggested I go to a dude ranch and it was a light bulb moment.  She explained that on ranches people ate together and spent their time after dinner in the communal areas of the lodges, chatting and having a drink.  And it suddenly made sense.  I could combine the visit to the dude ranch that I’d always wanted to do with having a “ready made family” to spend Thanksgiving with.

After much googling I found the ranch I’m staying at and after a flurry of emails, answered by the loveliest of people who were almost rolling out the welcome wagon as they typed, I booked myself in for a week.  And so, here I am.  Happily ensconced in my little cabin in the middle of Bandera, Texas.  This is not a posh establishment but it has everything you might need.  And what it lacks in sophistication it makes up for in charm, hospitality and a genuine warmth from the people who run it.  It is owned and operated by a large family and they make you feel like part of their clan.  There are guests staying here who have been coming here for years, are on first name terms with the owners and who move about the place as if they were at home.

And today, Thanksgiving, I sat down with a family who I met at breakfast and who spontaneously and graciously invited me to join them at their table for dinner.  The whole dining room was full of both guests and the family who own the place and we ate together. The food was delicious home fare, especially the sweet potatoes and the cranberry relish and the pumpkin pie.  But even better than the food was the atmosphere in that dining room.  It was relaxed and there was the buzz of conversation and squeals of delight from children who were playing around the tables.  A sudden cheer went up for the chef with the family chanting her name until she appeared, blushing at the applause and obviously happy at seeing us all enjoying her work.  It was such an inspired decision to be here for this holiday.

And it’s a holiday that the rest of the world doesn’t really understand, I suppose, because the rest of the western world doesn’t celebrate it.  But there’s a lot to be said for it.  It’s a celebration that is relatively stress free from what I can see.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love Christmas and I organise myself so that I’m not running round like a headless chicken as it nears so that I can enjoy the preparations.  But it’s a lot of work and I’m not speaking about food here but about presents: thinking of what to buy, finding where to buy them and shopping for them.  And the longer you’ve been buying gifts for the same people the harder it becomes.  Thanksgiving has all the joys of family gatherings and lovely food without the mayhem of gift shopping!

And then the idea of stopping to give thanks in a conscious and deliberate manner appeals to me.  In the busy world which we all inhabit and try to survive in, where we run from one thing to the next trying not to disappoint or fail to carry out our responsibilities, it is easy to move into automatic pilot and stop seeing what’s important.  It is very easy to do.  So, to make the world slow down, almost stop, and to actively and purposely gather with the people who matter and give thanks – and I don’t mean in a religious sense, necessarily – makes good sense to me.  It fills me with a sense of well-being and warmth.

At school, Catholic as it is, we begin the day with prayers in chapel and we sing many hymns.  As I sat to dinner tonight one particular one kept running through my mind.  It has a line which says, “Give thanks with a grateful heart.”  As I sat there tonight I felt thankful, because I am blessed: with family, friends, health, a good life and many possibilities and beautiful plans ahead of me.

I gave thanks with a very grateful heart.

E x

The Land Of The Maple Leaf

Hello my lovelies….I’m back! Yes, that’s right your peace is over! Once more you’ll have the link to this popping up on your Facebook newsfeed or on Twitter or, if you’re following you’ll start being emailed with the latest pourings from my brain. Scary thought. RUN!

Let me explain why I’ve been so quiet. When I originally set myself the idea of writing this blog I had to decide whether to write a short entry every day or a longer entry every few days. I put myself in the shoes of a reader receiving these and I knew that I, at least, would prefer a short entry daily rather than having to read through a very long missive twice or thrice a week. So I chose the former system. And it worked very well as my travels meant that, on the whole, I was doing different things daily or had something to discuss that wasn’t necessarily travel related but which I thought was interesting to comment on. If I remember correctly, in my very first blog entry I told you all that I was aware of the possibility of boring you with every new keystroke and that has been true throughout the course of this escapade. I, once again in the reader’s shoes, have a low boredom threshold so I fully understand the horror of being faced with something to read where there’s no grip on me.

When I decided to visit Canada, and Toronto in particular, I knew that I would be spending most, if not all, of my time with family. I would be living in the suburbs for a change and not in the city centre as I had being doing in other cities visited. This would mean that my adventures we going to be more limited than they had been up to that point. In all fairness, I had also already visited Toronto before and had done the CN Tower, the ice hockey games, Downtown, the McMichaels Gallery, Niagara and Niagara on the Lake, so I had no major impetus to see these again. So I knew that it was mainly a family holiday and was more than happy with that idea. But this meant that from a reader’s perspective I wasn’t going to have the most interesting of moments and experiences to write about, I mean detailed reviews of sofa chats with my aunt, which were lovely for me, were not likely to have you all riveted to the edge of your seats!

So I took the decision to not write daily and, in fact, took it further and decided to not write at all. Instead, I thought, at the end of the Canada stretch I’d write a slightly longer entry and so bring you up to date with the exciting bits of my time there but avoiding boring you all out of your minds with my recounting the numerous cups of tea and lounging that I have experienced.

There are four main highlights to the time there. Two of them involve road trips. The first road trip was to Huntsville, to a resort called Deerhurst, to which I was taken by one set of cousins. This is a two hour drive from Toronto and the drive there gave me a glimpse into the vastness of this area, let alone this country. My cousins were very concerned that we were going at a time when all I would see was twigs; a couple of weeks earlier I would have seen the fall foliage in all its glory and in a few weeks time it would all be a winter wonderland, with snow and ice covering said twigs. But I loved it anyway. My point was that it’s all new territory for me and the landscape is so beautiful whatever the trees state of deshabille might be. And twigs are good for photographs.

The whole town was picturesque and had small corners with pretty lake views and stunning sunset moments. The resort was almost entirely ours and the quiet there was consuming. I loved it. And it was cold. To my hardened Canadian cousins this was mild winter weather. Not so for me. We wandered around there and drove into small pockets just around the town. I was quite taken by the bareness of the trees and by the scraggly silver birches which look ghostly in their rows. But I do take their point that seeing it in full winter dress must be unbelievable. I will return to see this at some point in the future.

My other road trip happened with my other set of cousins who took me to Niagara Falls but at night. I had seen the Falls during the day on my previous visit and was blown away by the views and the power of the water. But, seeing them at night, illuminated and with no people around (this might have had to do with the fact that it was so cold that no sensible human would have been out there by choice) was magical. Now, imagine the scene: we arrive and I get out with my cousin with tripod and camera looking like Michelin girl because of all the layers I was wearing. The gloves had to come off because there was no way I could handle the equipment with them on. Setting up the tripod – a quick and easy thing to do in normal temperatures – became difficult because this is a very lightweight version, good for travelling, but it means it gets cold very, very quickly. And once it’s very cold the metal burns to the touch. I am not joking people. It burns your hands. So after much fumbling I took some lovely photos and had some taken of me (- a rare occurrence) before the Falls. And then I almost ran back to the car where my hands warmed up but then felt like they were on fire and twice their normal size.

From the Falls we went to one of the casinos there – it is one of the few places where it’s legal to gamble and many Americans cross the border just for this. We had drinks and tried our luck and eventually made our way back to Toronto. It was a fabulous evening.

A third highlight involved one of my cousins and a godson. My cousin and I met up downtown and visited the Bata Shoe Museum (I am shoe crazy and of all the museums and galleries in Toronto this was the one I couldn’t not visit while here) and had the place to ourselves as we viewed some interesting examples of how shoes have developed geographically and stylistically throughout time. It was very interesting but we were both a tad disappointed by the fact that there were far too few stilettos in the collection. Thus, upon departure, we walked into a sumptuous shoe establishment and spent a long while gazing adoringly at all their offerings. My idea of heaven.

From there we met up with my godson who had picked a lovely bar set on the fifty second floor of a building in Downtown for us to sit and have a cocktail and admire the view. And it is an amazing view of the city skyline with the iconic CN Tower surrounded by other skyscrapers. To be able to photograph the view I had to ask for the terrace to be unlocked. Upon asking the lady there if I could go out onto the terrace, her reply was a mystified, “Sure. Why would you?” It was cold out there. The wind was blowing and it’s the wind chill factor that gets you there. Ambient temperature must have been just below zero but the wind chill puts it in the minus teens. Suffice it to say that you can’t stay out there too long.

The remaining highlight has to do purely with family. Over the course of the twelve days there were several family get togethers for meals and this was wonderful. Because of distance I do not see this arm of my family often but when we come together it’s truly as if we haven’t had a gap in our time together. After the initial catchup at speed we revert to a situation where we sit in kitchens and drink tea and nibble on snacks and just chat as if we were all in Gib and seeing each other several times a week there. It is the most normal thing in the world.

And so, my time in Canada came to an end remarkably quickly and I found myself at Pearson Airport on Tuesday setting off back to the USA. And I did so with a twinge – I suffered one earlier in the morning kissing my aunt goodbye while feeling rather teary eyed and then again when hugging my cousin at the door to security. I boarded a flight bound for Texas.

To all my Canadian clan, thank you. I am very blessed to have you. You know who you are.

E x

Who’s Afraid Of The Great White North?

My travels yesterday were non-eventful and for those of us who have travelled extensively there is no better statement that can be afforded to a day of planes, trains and automobiles.  Uneventful means no hiccups, no sweating in a cab stuck in a traffic jam, no missing reservation upon arrival at the check in counter, no AWOL suitcase on the carousel at destination.  Uneventful, in terms of travel, is about the only time I like deploying the word.  Well, maybe that and after a doctor’s checkup when the results are being perused.

It was a very early start as I needed to be at Louis Armstrong International Airport by seven and I flew to Dallas, had a two hour layover and then onto Toronto.  The airline was punctual and efficient but the service on board was, frankly, crap.  When asked if I would like a refreshment (purchasable on board, of course, no freebies and this wasn’t a low cost airline, by the way) I asked for a cup of tea to warm the system up after it had been assaulted by the freezer like conditions in the cabin.  I was succinctly  informed, “Well, I have no tea bags so there is no tea!”  Mmmm.   I asked for apple juice instead (I know, I’m five years old at heart) and a fruit and nut mix as a snack – no sandwiches or anything really of any substance which was rather strange for a flight that flew from about one in the afternoon onwards – and proceeded to block the world out with my music and wrote for a long stretch.  The one positive on this flight was the fact that there was wifi on board.  I still can’t get over that.  I switched the iPad off from flight mode with trepidation almost expecting the aircraft to go into immediate nosedive as the little aeroplane icon vanished on my screen.  But, no.  We did not plummet.

The highlight of the flight was the descent into, and flight over, the centre of Toronto. Looking out of the window the city below could be seen in clear detail.  By the time we were coming in for the approach to land it was dark and the city was twinkling away beneath us. I’ve seen many cities from aeroplanes during night flights but obviously the air was super clean above the skyline because the view was sharp, pristine, almost as if I could have reached out and touched it, I kid you not. It was almost as if someone had given it all a good scrubbing and every structure and light bulb was glistening.  I could see the CN Tower and the skyscrapers that circle it as well as the shoreline of the lake and the roads and cars shimmering under me in HD.  Stunning.  I was, though, seriously miffed that at this point neither the iPhone or the iPad could be used to take a photograph because I would have truly loved to have captured that moment.

Arriving in Toronto was smooth and easy.  What a joy to go through an immigration entry system that doesn’t treat you like sheep and by officers who actually engage with you and look you in the eye as they speak with you.  I am infinitely more convinced that they would be likely to spot anyone meaning harm precisely because they take the time to engage with the person before them than the more aloof and officious atttitude found in other entry points in the world.  And, happily, my case was there immediately so I had clothes, and, more importantly, my straighteners.  Every woman with frizzy hair is nodding violently, in complete understanding of this sentiment.

Upon exiting I was met by one of my lovely cousins (I am lucky, I have many, we are a large extended family) who had come to collect me from Pearson. And being enveloped in the hug made the time since I’d seen him last slip away and we chatted as if we’d just left the conversation the day before.  We made our way to the car and drove into the Toronto suburbs and, upon getting out of the car, snow flurries began to fall.  Yes, it’s rather cold here.  I know you’re waiting for me to complain so you can innundate me with ruler slaps across the virtual knuckles for complaining about it.  But I’m not complaining….yet.  It was rather lovely and I really liked the startling difference in temperature.

I’m staying not with my cousin and his family but with my aunt and uncle.  And, in effect, what this means is that it’s like being at home with my mum and dad but with the difference that I need to wear six more layers of clothing the minute I step outdoors.  It’s the strangest thing: their home feels and smells exactly like my parents’.  My aunt dished out a plate of chicken fricasse for my dinner which is identical to my mum’s.  Copious cups of tea and many of hours of conversation later I finally crashed into bed.

I slept little and am a tad tired but today’s not going to be a killer by any means.  I’m heading out shortly to a nearby shopping mall to find some thick tights and a hat.  I am going to need a hat.  A friend of mine who lives in Toronto has kindly told me that my ears may drop off if I don’t wear one.  I’m not taking any chances….I need my ears.  And, I like hats.  So, it’s a win-win if I find one I like.  He also commented on my facebook post which advised of my imminent arrival here in Canada, “Welcome to the great, white north!”

And you know what I say, once I’m in possession of a hat, of course?  Bring it on, oh great, white north.  Do your worst.  I’m ready for you!  Question is, though, is the great, white north ready for me?

E x

Au Revoir NOLA, It’s Been Grand

And here I am again…deja vu central.  I have a gapingly empty suitcase against one wall of Matchbox 3.0’s sitting room and am ready to begin repacking it to move on tomorrow.  It is now devoid of all things summery – well, except for a bikini (you never know when you might need one and those are hard to buy in a panic) – as I visited the post office late last week with all my summer dresses, trousers and flip flops in a paper bag (almost vagabondish) and proceeded to buy a box, packing tape and postage and pile the summer stuff into it to send home to my mother.  I have to say I was blessed with finding the loveliest and most efficient member of staff at this post office who whizzed me through the whole thing and was, to her credit, in no way stumped by seeing me arrive at her place of work with two bags filled with clothing to forward on.

So now it’s all warmer clothing with the exception of two t-shirts.  And it’s all sitting here, on various surfaces, waiting to be put in the case.  I’ll get to it as soon as I finish my visit with you.

I spent yesterday doing laundry and then went out for a walk to the centre, trying to take in my last few days’ worth of New Orleans, enjoying the spots I’ve most liked.  You’ve heard about them before so I won’t go on about them but it was, just like in Florence at the end, wonderful to just walk and admire and almost breathe it in with a sense of familiarity.  And, just like Florence at the end, I have had the same restlessness that comes with knowing that you’re moving on.  Do you know what I mean?  It happens to me when I’m in a place a while and I know I’m going to be moving on.  Once the time to leave is perilously close it’s almost like, “Ok, let’s go already!”  But there’s also a tad of melancholy attached to leaving, of course.  I have really loved this city.  Its startling differences between genteel and brash. The people have been warm and friendly and engaging.  I have felt quite the local while here.  But, like Florence, I know it’s time to go.  New places beckon, new faces, new potential adventures. And new thoughts that come with all of these things.

Tomorrow I start out early – I leave Matchbox 3.0 at seven in the morning and won’t be at my destination till quite late in the evening.  I have a layover in Dallas.  I will leave the apartment wearing more clothing than I have worn since around May.  I am heading North, to the cold, to snow and a biting wind chill factor.  And I’m looking forward to it as I feel summer has lasted an inordinately long time this year.  I want to feel the bite of the weather on my face for a change (please watch this space as I’m certain I will bitch about the fact that it is very cold once I’m there – you have permission to remind me of my aforementioned statement about looking forward to it and tell me to shut up).

I am, in fact, leaving the USA for a bit.  I’m going to Canada.  To Toronto, specifically. Hopefully I will be allowed back in after my visit to the land of the Maple Leaf so I can continue with my trek in the States.  I have been to Toronto before.  But this time I’m really going to get to grips with the city.  Perhaps I should have issued a warning to them?  That I’m on my way!

Once I’ve finished my packing I’m going out for my last wander.  I’m going to sit in Cafe du Monde and eat my last serving of beignets with orange juice (no tea, remember?) and watch the world go by and then play the rest of the day by ear.  And that’s been very much the whole attitude to my time here, engendered by the city’s own attitude.  Having visited many of the main cities of the USA, I can say that New Orleans is very different.  It is more relaxed, more sure of itself (here New York would also qualify)…like a woman who knows herself and isn’t thrown or swayed by what others may think of her and her choices.  New Orleans does not care what we think of her.  She just keeps letting things roll by.  Her terms, her way.  Those who visit can move to her rhythm or leave.  It’s mightily easy to adapt to her rhythm, let me tell you.

I read some lines written by Jordan Flaherty who said, “Those who have not lived in New Orleans have missed an incredible, glorious, vital city….from jazz, blues, and and hip-hop to secondlines, Mardi Gras Indians, jazz funerals….New Orleans is a place of art and music and food and traditions and sexuality and liberation.”  It is easy to feel free here. The city almost demands it of you.

I’m going to miss this place but I’ll be back….I have to come to Mardi Gras, remember?

E x

Mardi Gras Mambo

I had always wanted to visit New Orleans and that is why it was included in this escapade. It overlapped, of course, with the photography course so that just made it convenient.  And I have loved it here.  But I will be left with one sadness which is that I didn’t make it to New Orleans during Mardi Gras. My best friend and I have always wanted to come to New Orleans during those days in the run up to Shrove Tuesday to experience this town in fullest revelry mode.  As teachers it is an impossibility – our schedule simply does not allow us to have free time during that period so it hasn’t happened so far.

Yesterday I visited a warehouse here which houses, and within which are built, many of the floats that are displayed during the parades at Mardi Gras.  This company doesn’t just build for the New Orleans festivities but for major hotels, casinos, Disney and Universal Studios.  It was incredible to view their hundreds of props and characters as well as seeing pieces in the making and floats in the process of being constructed and assembled.  If thinking along practical lines, and after listening to facts and figures, you could conclude that this is just one big business.  But, even accepting this, the whole visit allowed me to see incredible craft work being done on a mega scale and to let the imagination wander a little into flights of fancy.
Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday, is, of course, Shrove Tuesday.  It is the day before Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent.  In Christian terms Lent is a period of fasting and reflection, a period when festivities and revelry are not acceptable.  Pope Gregory XIII in 1582 put Mardi Gras into the calendar the day before Ash Wednesday to mark the ending of all celebrations in preparation for Lent.  Celebrations would have begun, nominally, on the feast of the Epiphany, 6th January, and theoretically could continue from there indefinitely. But, as he wanted to ensure that Lent was respected with a sombre propriety, he gave the celebratory period a definite end with Shrove Tuesday.

The whole idea of Mardi Gras was brought to the Louisiana area by the French. Supposedly, they found the mouth of the Mississippi on Shrove Tuesday of 1699 and had a spontaneous party to celebrate the fact.  This is referred to as America’s first Mardi Gras.  Nowadays, Mardi Gras celebrations here in New Orleans begin a couple of weeks before the actual Fat Tuesday with there being parades held every day where giant floats and bands wander down the main streets of the city throwing beads, cups, dolls and small trinkets to the crowds.  Spectators often dress up in their own costumes and the city just erupts in carnival mode.  

The floats do not, however, travel down the French Quarter as these streets are just too small for the enormous floats to get through.  They flaunt themselves on Canal Street and St. Charles Avenue instead, wide thoroughfares that can take the large mobile displays – and some are huge with bed after bed of trucks linked to one another creating trains or steamboats which can carry hundreds of people on board.

Walking through the warehouse being shown how the giant props are constructed was very interesting.  I cannot paint, as I’ve mentioned to you before, but I love arts and crafts and I would have happily joined in with the artists in their “sculpting” the most enormous pieces of styrofoam into faces, figures and otherworldly creatures.  Here you see papier-mache on a grand scale, paint equipment that makes you want to grab the spray gun and fire wildly and…and here’s the biggie…glitter….so much glitter that I would have happily thrown myself into the containers and emerged covered in the stuff.  Let’s face it, glitter is a wonder drug – it can make anyone smile 🙂

I snapped madly while I was there.  It’s all larger than life and the level of imagination evident in the pieces was wonderful to see.  Here is a place where reality can be left at the door, if only for a little while.  I texted my friend from the warehouse yesterday and repeated that we need to get here during Mardi Gras.  She, of course, agreed and replied, “But HOW?”  She pointed out we’ll have to wait till we retire.  I’m not ok with that.  There has to be a way.  I don’t want to do Mardi Gras when I’m old.

I’m trying to think of a cunning plan… 😉

E x

Just Add A Little More Water To The Glass, Please

Alert: Highly random musings today!

Over the last day I’ve been chatting with a friend about cynicism. I know, why would we? It just came up while nattering about less highbrow matters but it got me thinking. He sent me an article which praised the state of cynicism in people, claiming that it is a sign of questioning, analytical and insightful humans. The author makes statements which rather starkly assume that unless people are full blown cynics they somewhat fall short of being able to improve their environment, society or themselves because, he argues, if you’re not cynical, then you must be a cockeyed optimist and then, you either don’t believe anything is wrong or you believe everything will get better by miracle.

I read the piece and enjoyed it. Thought it was well written and thought provoking and for that I applaud the author. But I vehemently disagree with his fundamental premise that people who don’t see the world with cynical eyes are wandering along almost like sheep. You see, I do not believe that, as he presents in the article, only cynics strive to see things as they are or that they are the only type of person who want to see beyond the superficial gloss of a situation or of a person. I can only use myself as a case study as I would be loathe to speak for anyone else but I am not, by nature, a cynic. Having said this, I do not walk through my life expecting flowers to spring where I step or see sparkles shimmering around me as I glide along (though that would be amazing). I do strive to see things as they are and I do question much of what I encounter.

Questioning doesn’t make us cynical it makes us cognisant and active in our own and our society’s development (both material and pastoral) and its governance. Asking questions sees me gathering information to make informed conclusions but it does not drop me into the cynical box unless I am asking the questions less as knowledge seeking and more as potential accusations. Seeing things for what they are does not automatically classify me a cynic, instead just someone who can take a situation such as it is and not judge it. Cynicism would imply, for me at least, an expectation of negative, a permanent slant towards that outcome or intent, a pair of anti-rose tinted glasses which one would wear at all times which would cast a dull pallor over even the most beautiful and true moments that do exist and that you can miss if you expect the worst.

The author was offended by the prejudice against cynics held by the optimistic that they are the doomsayers of our societies. My argument would be that he displayed exactly the same prejudice in reverse, standing by the view that anyone who is optimistically minded must be, by inference, vacant of logical thinking. He basically qualifies anyone who is not deconstructing every moment to see if there’s something bad lurking beneath it as verging on being inhabitants of La-La Land.

After all this swam round in my mind I realised I was left with the sense that I’m happy where I am. I would rather have cynicism as a tool in my arsenal, available for deployment when required rather than let it be WHO I am or it being HOW I operate all the time. I do not feel that my world is less “real” or “valid” just because I refuse to walk around permanently imagining that everything is mired in quicksand.

I don’t want to walk around expecting the worst. Goodness that must be exhausting. I mean, life can be difficult even for us glass half full folk so, for anyone who sees the world in terms where goodness or positives are immediately determined to be not only in less supply but probably absent in much of what they experience simply because their point of departure has already predisposed them to think like that, life must be very stark.

But, wait, that sounds too much like a cynic speaking 😉

E x

Ol’ Man River

New Orleans is known by several names: The Big Easy, NOLA and the Crescent City. This last title is linked to its location as the city sits along a very sharp bend in the Mississippi River giving it a crescent like shape.

If you’ve watched the musical “Showboat” then you’ll have a picture in your mind of what life was like aboard and around a Mississippi steam boat in the late nineteenth century.  As someone who has seen this classic movie, coming to New Orleans meant being able to go aboard a steam boat and cruise down the Mississippi.  I did this yesterday.

I boarded the steamboat at eleven and settled into a space on the top deck, camera at the ready, and zippy top zipped all the way to the top because the weather was grey and rather breezy and thus, not overly inviting.  Jazz music piped through the speakers and the messages that interrupted this informed the passengers of where you could get refreshments of the mild and not so mild variety.  We were also given some history about the boat itself as we waited to depart.

This particular vessel is one of only two “true steam powered” wheelers on the Mississippi at the moment.  Her engine, in particular, dates from the 1920s even though the ship itself is newer.  Her copper and steel steam whistle is considered an antique and her bell was made from two hundred and fifty silver dollars which were smelted to create the clearest note.  It is the genuine article.  This was apparent as soon as we began to pull away from the dock when the captain moved to a corner near to where i was sitting, climbed aboard small platform and began to issue his instructions using an old fashioned, hand held megaphone.  The boat executed a graceful departure from its moorings and exclaimed to the world we were on our way with a peal from its whistle and a giant puff of steam.

Now, in my head we were going to “cruise” down the Mississippi and I was going to see beautiful landscapes and romantic settings before me.  But, had I thought it through in advance, I would have realised that this was not likely.  Why so?  Because I knew that New Orleans has one of the busiest ports in the whole of the US so it was always more probable that its whole coastline along the river was going to be industrial.  I looked it up before writing this and the port is the first in the US based on volume of cargo handled. So, there were no “pretty” views other than in the first few minutes of sailing where you can look into Jackson Square and have the view of the Cathedral before you.

The moment we pulled away from the French Quarter vicinity the scenery changed to one of an industrial, very busy, harbour/port.  It was very interesting though.  Along the banks are several buildings one of which is the second largest sugar refinery in the world and, even before the information was piped out at us, you could actually smell the brown sugar on the wind.  There were hundreds of barges being unloaded of their sweet cargo before this was taken to the refinery.  There were also reminders of the damage caused by Katrina with wooden pier-type structures showing how they’d been attacked by the storm and how they’ve since been left as they ended up.  Also, it is striking as you travel along that there are no bridges spanning the river – well, there is one main one in the centre of New Orleans and it’s an impressive one.  This is due to the fact that the water here moves incredibly fast (something like six hundred thousand cubic feet per second) and the bed of the river and the ground beneath it is not the strongest thus, building a bridge presents great difficulties.  Instead they run ferries at different spots to cross the river.

While on board, and dying a death from the cold as the wind was nasty and I wasn’t wearing anywhere near enough clothing, I met the most amazing family.  Two brothers from New York who were funny and engaging and who invited me to join them and their mum in the dining room for tea and bread pudding.  What can I say?  They were wonderful and their mum, it turns out, is a kindred spirit of mine. While we had our sit down, and I thawed out, I looked around the dining room.  It is a throwback to a time gone by.  Lamps and carpets and wallpaper.  You could almost imagine it being just like this at the time that Showboat was set.

The views from the boat were not the picturesque ones my romanticised projection expected but it was still an interesting few hours.  It is the boat itself that captures the imagination with time almost seemingly having halted aboard it.  And, when you’re on board and steaming down the powerful Mississippi, if you closed your eyes until only a sliver remained open, you could almost imagine hearing a deep, bass voice singing out the lines,

O’ man river,
Dat ol’ man river,
He mus’ know sumpin’
But don’t say nuthin’
He jes’ keeps rollin’
He keeps on rollin’ along.
Long ol’ river forever keeps rollin’ on…

E x

Would You Like Your Receipt In The Bag?

After Sunday’s tour of the Katrina stricken districts here in New Orleans, yesterday I moved onto something much more mundane.  I think it was on Friday’s, or was it Saturday’s, post that I told you I needed to go shopping but had not wanted to do so over the weekend?  Well, I pencilled the shopping day for yesterday and so headed out mid morning to the closest, large shopping mall here.  It involved a taxi ride there and back.

It was a very nice mall – not huge but big enough to carry many of the most recognisable US names – and, the nicest part was that it was practically empty.  Empty is how it remained until I left which begged the question, how on earth do they survive financially?  I mean, each of the small stores had, on average, three assistants and in the large department store “anchors” there would have been many, many more.  And yet, there were, in the whole mall, around fifty people that I could see!  I have to assume that late evenings and weekends are ridiculously busy to make up for it because it was a ghost mall yesterday.

Now, I went shopping with a list of urgently required items.  This is the worst way to go shopping – every woman out there will be nodding her head in agreement.  This is when you know you HAVE to leave with your purchases made but the Retail Department of the Universe decides to have a huge laugh at your expense, watching you have to visit every store and try on three trillion examples of what you’re looking for, and you still aren’t sure you want any of them.  Yep, that was me yesterday.  I love to shop but really not with the pressures of a list and no spare time to go elsewhere to search for the wanted items.

Thus, I launched into every shop – I am not joking here – on a quest for a coat or jacket that would work as both a casual piece at home in rough terrain and yet not out of place in a city of an evening.  Also, I needed some flat black boots and a zippy sweatshirt.  These were the minimum requirements.  I came away with the minimum requirements plus one. It took three hours!  I harrumphed my way through the mall, found a very limited number of coats/jackets (obviously coats aren’t high on the essential list here in New Orleans), stood horrified in front of a mirror as I viewed myself modelling a puffy jacket thing as these were more readily available.  To my mind I resembled the Michelin man and that is SO never going to happen.  Finally, I found a coat.  It is a plain coat.  It doesn’t puff out.  It doesn’t have fur trimmings (oh yes, there were quite a few of those) or other bits of animal on it.  I finally relaxed.

The boots were much easier and, shoes being my weakness, I walked away with flat boots and little ankle boots (all will be revealed when I tell you what I’m doing over Thanksgiving) and the zippy sweatshirt top was purchased at one of the two current meccas for very young folk, specifically the one where your whole system reverts to experiencing a Pavlov dog response as you begin to approach their doors and are within olfactory range. I am certain someone stands just inside the door waving a big piece of cardboard to waft the perfume out and they only stop when a customer approaches.  Someone in their marketing department minored in classic conditioning.  It really does work!

I left the mall as soon as I had all my items ticked off the list.  I still only have one long sleeved top to wear under said coat so I will have to buy something else but that I can do within the centre of New Orleans or as soon as I arrive at my next stop.

For now I’m just pleased that I could bin the list and that shopping can revert to being something I enjoy doing as I browse randomly and find unexpected treasures rather than having to rummage with a sense of being in a pressure cooker.

And now I’m heading out and will be wearing the zippy sweatshirt as it’s a little cooler here this week.  Any excuse to wear the new stuff, let’s face it.

E x

Scars And Stories

When most of us go on holiday we aim for places of natural beauty, iconic landmarks, trendy cities, shopping valhallas or cultural meccas.  New Orleans certainly ticks many of those boxes, throwing in the extra “party-central” tag for good measure.  But, this city also wears scars.

Sculpture reminding about Hurricane Katrina – the eye is the centre of the circle.

In late August of 2005 the state of Louisiana was hit by Hurricane Katrina.  The city of New Orleans and its parishes were severely affected by this natural disaster.  At the time I was travelling in New Zealand and I remember watching it all on the news from there.  And you can apply any of the words that any of us would have felt at that time while viewing the scenes transmitted by the many news channels: horror, sadness, angst, helplessness and so on. But, there’s an inevitable detachment, however empathic you are, when you see these events from the comfort of your dry, living room.

When I originally planned to come to New Orleans it was clear in my mind that I wanted to find out more about how the city had been affected by Katrina and try and see the areas hit by it as I had no real sense of the area damaged either in severity, its location or its size.  I did my usual reading and found where the worst areas were and was all set to go out there and wander, as I usually do.  However, last week I was chatting to a guy in a restaurant and we were talking about interesting things to see and I mentioned wanting to go to the ninth ward (one of the seriously affected areas).  His eyebrows effected an instant lift and he told me I should not, under any circumstances, venture that way alone to “wander”.  He was very informative and was telling me that when Katrina struck his firm sent him and six other guys down driving huge fuel trucks into the area – there was no petrol of any kind in the city available for use – under a full military escort!  He gave me a pretty clear view of how dire the whole situation was on the ground.

Once I’d spoken to this man it became clear that common sense should prevail and I began looking into organised tours to take me.  I found several and booked myself on one. And so, yesterday, I made my way down to the Mississippi river bank and boarded by coach for the tour.  It was a very small bus with a maximum of twenty tourists.  In the midst of all my searching for a tour I came across the fact that the authorities have been clamping down on what is permissible with regards to tours looking into areas hit by the hurricane.  Local people living in these areas have found footage of themselves on youtube and the like.  So numbers are now kept small and fines are readily dished out to companies that don’t follow the rules.  When I read this I nearly didn’t go on the tour.  The thought of being perceived as a “gawker” didn’t sit well with me.  I emailed the company and they said we would not be allowed off the coach and we didn’t stop anywhere for people to have a long look at any specific homes/characters.  It assuaged my guilt enough for me to pay up.

The tour was eye opening as you come away realising that yes, the hurricane was awful and caused a great deal of destruction with the high winds and so on.  But, the true disaster came about because of the failure of the water/levee systems in New Orleans. Nearly every levee in the area of New Orleans was breached! Now, logically I understood what this meant.  But it was only when I saw exactly how this statement worked that I fully grasped how horrendous this was.

If you look at the photo on the left you can see the water in the canal and the wall to the side.  These walls were meant to obviously hold the water back.  However, they were not built deep enough into the ground so, when the water levels rose and pushed back at them they were ripped out of the ground and, if that was not bad enough, they also damaged the levees as they were being pulled out.  The result was huge breaches in the walls protecting neighbourhoods from the water just metres away from them.  In the photo you’ll see the white part of the wall and a more yellow brick. The yellow brick is all the new rebuilding – and that’s a lot of new brick!

The other incredible thing to witness was the fact that as you sit on the coach looking out towards the canals you can see the water and the walls and then, on either side of the walls, the houses.  And the water level within those walls is seriously higher, even on a beautiful, sunny day, than the level of the ground beyond the walls.  Thus, when those walls and levees broke the surge of water must have been the stuff of nightmares.

While travelling on the coach, the guide pointed out a couple of houses with markings on them – marks that were pretty near the roof lines.  She explained that these were made by the rescue services/ordinary citizens in boats who were travelling along checking for survivors.  The date is on the top, a note made regarding utilities, numbers rescued and directly under the date, number of dead found.  Very harsh.

As we drove we could see that many areas are now back on their feet.  But there were still reminders of it all with buildings left abandoned such as they were after the destruction. Either owners could not afford to rebuild or moved away and restarted their lives elsewhere.  The city authorities have a very long and convoluted process, apparently, to demolish an existing building even if it is in an obvious state of abandon.  This makes the neighbours who have rebuilt and have to live with the constant reminder next door rather unhappy.  In a curious side note, the population of New Orleans dropped considerably after Katrina with people moving away and then never returning.

I was grateful that the streets were quiet and we hardly saw anyone around who we might have offended by being there.  I can understand to my core why this has elements which are just plain wrong.  But it also makes better sense now (self-justification, maybe?).  I can see just how the whole system broke down.  I can’t get my head round how the water defence systems weren’t better (the Army Core of Engineers was sued as they built the levee system) but that’s being addressed already by the authorities.  In Louisiana nearly one thousand six hundred died in Katrina.  The monetary damage overall was over $108 billion.  The rebuilding has taken over eight years and is still not fully finished.

When you sit in the French Quarter and eat beignets it’s easy to forget what this area has gone through.  Move away the shortest of distances and you see that the scars are still there in the city’s psyche, like a keloid scar, raised and fiery and a constant reminder of the damage suffered.

E x

The Importance Of Being Idle

Yesterday I had a truly lazy day. After Halloween night out I felt really tired but, as tends to be the case with me when exhausted, slept very little during the night. I was up far too early and after making myself breakfast and returning to bed with it, I read for a while and then managed to turn over and sleep a little more. It all meant that the day got off to a very slow and sluggish start and it didn’t really pick up speed in any noticeable way at any point thereafter.

I spent the day here, at home, going to the gym for a while and then just lounging on the sofa, interspersing these periods with a bit of laundry and ironing just to make myself feel as if I wasn’t wasting the whole day. I also finished reading a book I started the day before and watched a couple of episodes of tv series that I like. In all, an almost horizontal day.

At several points throughout the afternoon I found Practical listing things that I know I need to be getting on with before I move away from this city. I have to get to a main post office – finding one has proven more difficult than you can imagine as there are no major ones within the French Quarter – in order to send back home all the summery gear that I have with me to make room in the suitcase for the new items that I need to purchase in order that I am well wardrobed for the next places I’m set to visit. I then need to actually purchase some new clothes and boots to fill the half of the suitcase I will have vacated after my visit to the post office. And shopping here is actually not as easy as you might think.

In most major US cities you are usually swamped with a choice of malls within the city centre where you can spend a day and exit with everything you could possibly need clothes, shoes and accessories wise. But not in New Orleans. Here you find quirky little boutiques which are interesting and fun to browse through but you have to travel through many, many of them to be able to buy everything you need. I have really not been keen to do this at all. I’ve been into a few of these boutiques and seen nice things there but I’m really in need of winter staples and said boutiques aren’t catering for those. So, I’ve found a major shopping mall here but it’s not in the centre. It’s about ten miles out of here and I’m going to have to taxi it there and back. Not an issue per se but I really don’t want to visit it during the weekend as it’s just going to be that much busier than any weekday. So that’s on the list for early next week.

And, where is she going next? I hear you ask. Well, that would be telling and I’m not telling just yet. But it is definitely to colder climes. And since I arrived in the US without a coat, boots, gloves, scarf, and, in fact, only one jumper, I really need to hit the shops. I don’t deal with the cold well, I’ll have you know, so I need to get me a heavy duty survival kit.

I need to finalise some flights and want to make a start deciding on hotels for the last few weeks in the US. I also have a week with nothing either planned or booked yet which is proving almost impossible to decide upon; I feel like that week is almost the last element of freedom within this whole escapade and I’m reluctant to fill it just yet. But, I do need to make a decision soonish.

So, yesterday when I heard Practical running through these items in my head I couldn’t miss his admonishing tone because of my not moving away from my almost permanent horizontal position and doing something about it all. I told him that I’d deal with it today. And yet, I’ve had another odd night’s sleep and am feeling incredibly lethargic right now. In fact, I’m slowly slouching back into that really comfortable horizontal stance.

I’m really not going to fight it. I’m braced for Practical’s buzzing and whining about my not being efficient to say nothing of Indiana’s full blown sulk at my wasting time when I might be missing out on potential adventures out there in the wild outdoors. But, hey, I’m strong. I can battle them both and I’m pretty sure I’ll beat them down.

And I’ll do it all, I will prevail, without having to raise myself into anything resembling a vertical position; I’m good that way 😛

E x

Boo!

Yesterday was Halloween and there are few countries in the world where this is celebrated more enthusiastically than in the US. And in New Orleans, where little excuse is needed for a party atmosphere to develop and where the whole of the voodoo tradition permeates the city, the date takes on a completely new level of “party time”.  In fact, Halloween has been celebrated here since last week as it’s fallen on a weekday which means major parties and so forth took place last weekend. I had a niggling worry that that would mean that yesterday would be a bit of a letdown with the best events having already happened.

My beacon of hope that this might not be the case was linked to the invite to a party that I received from the tarot reader early on in my time here. He invited me to a famous shop here in the French quarter. This place is all about voodoo – sells spells, Gris Gris, dolls and other assorted items necessary to help mere mortals along. It is also a place which offers lectures on the subject and other spiritually related talks. When I received the invitation he told me that the party started around lunchtime and went on until around nine in the evening. He then paused and corrected himself by saying, “Well, it ends when the spirit that possesses a person in the party leaves them!” I tried to keep my eyebrows from rising too obviously at this statement 😉

So yesterday I headed out of Matchbox 3.0 around mid afternoon and walked towards the voodoo shop. As I got close to its doors I could see people milling on the street around it, standing, sitting on chairs as if ready for a performance and also sitting on the pavements eating and drinking. I took it as a good sign but I had a sense that something wasn’t quite right and I couldn’t place it, and, no, it wasn’t that I felt any spirits asking to take up residence! I walked on and then it hit me: it was really quiet! I mean, there must have been over two hundred people on the street in front of the door but there was no noise such as you’d expect when you put that many people together and certainly nowhere near enough noise if those people are in party mode.

Still, I went in and saw my tarot friend and we chatted and I got a drink. Apparently they were waiting for a sign (?) but no explanation was proffered to clarify that statement. This quiet lasted for a while but then music began to be played and the whole thing livened up considerably; I assumed the sign had been received but no one actually made a declaration to this effect. There were very few people in costume there which made me feel better because I wasn’t too sure what the protocol was here regarding dressing up so I erred on the side of caution and went as me which, as I commented to a friend, is scary enough (although while walking I did spot what could be a costume for the future!).  In between the music we also had some short talks and prayers and incantations which were interesting to witness.

After a few hours I moved away from Dumaine Street and headed into Jackson Square, specifically to Cafe du Monde for an intake of beignets.  In my investigating what Halloween events were programmed in the city centre I found that there was going to be a parade in the quarter so I recharged with my sugar laden treats before finding a spot from which to watch the floats go by.  By the time the sun went down even the weather was cooperating to create a spooky atmosphere with a humid haze falling over the square.  I chatted with people around me and watched the unique characters moving around the area.  Here I have to mention a guy who was pushing a difficult to describe musical installation which was enormous and from which only a syncopated and lonely single drumbeat was emitted.  And then, finally, music could be heard in the distance.

Soon after, in front of me, along Decatur Street came a motley, but inventively attired, assembly of people: from zombies to vampires to Santa (!) to a whole crowd dressed as something from a “Where’s Wally” (or Waldo here in the US) comic page.  Horse drawn carriages were laden with people dressed as creatures of the night and instead of sweets, which is what is usually given out in parades, they were dispensing beads to the crowd (well, it is New Orleans after all).

The best part of the parade was the music.  Whole groups of musicians carrying their instruments and joining in haphazardly with the brightest, loudest and happiest sound you can imagine making sure no feet were left standing still.  They managed to create a great atmosphere for the marchers and the spectators.

As the parade finished passing me by I turned and walked back into Bourbon Street.  By the time I got there the parade was in full swing there and if it had been busy and party central while on Decatur Street, on Bourbon that was ratcheted up many, many notches with the crowds dancing in the streets and jostling to get pictures.  It was incredible.  I made my way to what is probably one of the nicest bars in Bourbon, the Absinthe House, perched myself on a stool and ordered a drink.  The place was pretty packed and I happily sipped away, chatting to the people around me, remarkably impervious to the fact that they were vampires, warlocks, mad hatters and skeletons.

Who am I kidding?  In truth, in this regard, it felt like only a small step up from a regular night on Bourbon Street with a few folks just sporting makeup that was a little more out there than usual 😉

E x

Adding Value

I am a very lucky individual in many ways.  My greatest blessing is that I have incredible people in my life who know me inside out and accept me for who I am.  From family to my closest friends I have a circle around me who act as my very own crash mats, cheering squads, quiet handholders, co-conspirators in weird adventures and unconditional support group.  I try to offer the same in return to them.  I’d like to believe that on most days I manage to deliver.  But I know that they do so for me in spades.

When I look at that circle the faces that belong to family members have obviously always been there and they provide the foundation for all that is solid in my life.  But, when I move away from those family members I can also say that I have friends in that posse that have been there forever too.  My oldest friend and I don’t spend a huge amount of time together but the connection is unbreakable.  My best friends and I, and I am lucky to have two amazing women filling this role, now count thirty years of friendship between us and it is hard to explain or quantify the significance of them to me.  I have friends with whom I’m incredibly close who are newer to my circle but whose contribution to my life is enormous and who make my life richer for being there.  My relationship with all of these individuals, though, all have one thing in common: we have shared “Time” between us.  Even the newest members of the group around me have been there now for nigh on ten years.

I love meeting people, I’ve said this to you before. Most of the time, when you meet new faces, you chat, you laugh and you move on.  But it is one of the nicest experiences when you meet someone and you “click”.  When sense of humour aligns or interests do.  When the conversation is easy and the jokes quickly descend downwards.  When you people watch over a drink and have discussions about both the most erudite of subjects and the stupidest of subjects and both feel like they have similar import.  In moments when you come across people like that you almost have to look up at the Universe’s Department of Chance Encounters and say “Thank you” with vehemence and conviction.  For these new faces, these unexpected new friends that you know from almost the first conversation that they will matter and they will be featuring in your inner circle, are usually people who bring something very different into your ambit and add to the fabric of your life.

C.S. Lewis wrote, “Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art…. It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”  I have value added to my circle of friends after such a Chance Encounter and I’m feeling pretty blessed for it 🙂

E x

Behold….The Bayou

I love to drive.  At home I have a little sports car that I enjoy whizzing about in and I really love driving fast.  When I travel I always come prepared with my driver’s licence and if the need (or want) arises I rent a car.  But I generally don’t do this very much.  I prefer not to have to think about driving in a strange environment and so will come to grips with public transportation pretty quickly so as to avoid stressing about the eccentricities which exist on different countries’ roads.  Also, when you settle bang in the centre of a big city I find that you have plenty to get on with around you without needing to go much further out.  But, there’s no doubt that you can miss out on interesting areas and views by not getting into a car and driving away from the hub of a city.

So, the best of both worlds presented itself yesterday when, my partner in crime from a couple of weekends ago returned to the Big Easy with a car and the generous offer of being the driver.  He suggested we head out of the city, via a scenic route, and have dinner somewhere random on the bayou.  Thus, yesterday afternoon we made our way out of New Orleans and drove towards Lake Pontchartrain.  Once we got past the expressway, and the chaos that implies for this European driver who is used to only being able to overtake in the fast lane but here cars fly past you on either side and you feel you could do with an extra pair of eyes to say nothing about the fact that in the US you are allowed to turn right at a pair of traffic lights even when the lights are RED!, the scenery became pretty and rural and vastly different to anything we’d left behind.

As soon as we came close to water we began to see pretty houses built on the water’s edge and raised on stilts.  Apparently, all this area was destroyed by Katrina and in the rebuilding all new houses had to be built on stilts to safeguard families in the event of high tides or worse in the future.  Small pleasure boats and cars live in the space beneath the houses and all of this area gave off a sense of calm to it.  We caught sight of several people fishing on the banks of the bayou and were lucky enough to see the whole area change colour quite dramatically as the sun set.

An oddity that we did catch a glimpse of when we took a wrong turn – always the TomTom’s fault – was a NASA facility in what appears the least likely location I could ever imagine for one.  It was just there!  In the middle of nowhere, with a rocket lying on its side as a welcome mat for the installation.

We eventually made our way to a small town called Slidell and found a restaurant to settle into.  We had tried another place before this one but, although serving drinks they wouldn’t feed us because it was Monday (!) – this was just a reminder of how far from the metropolis we were as research into the area had shown that several restaurants were closed because it was a Monday, something that you would just not see in the centre of New Orleans, for example.

As we walked into the restaurant we stopped for a second in the car park for me to photograph the setting sun backlighting the trees there.  The sky was gorgeous and herein lies part of the beauty of moving away from the city – you see more sky!  The town itself may not have been the most interesting but their piece of sky certainly could have won awards.

E x

Down At The Bottom Of The Garden

When I exited my building yesterday to head towards Canal Street I was faced with hoards of people walking towards me.  It felt somewhat surreal, as if the Universe was moving in one direction and I was going the other way.  For a few seconds, and as I walked down Carondelet Street, I couldn’t see the why of it.  And then it hit me: the Saints were playing at home in the Superdome.  Then the colour schemes being sported by the crowds made sense – the bright blues, whites, greys and golds – as they form part of the Saints’ uniforms.  I had thought of going to this when I first arrived and looked up the “What’s On” guide but somehow the idea of going to an American football game alone didn’t appeal.  I may have to change my mind on that one after viewing the happy crowds heading that way.  They play again, I think, just before I leave so I will have the chance.

So, where was I heading while the whole of New Orleans went the opposite way, I hear you ask?  Well, towards the Museum of Art of New Orleans which is found a little way out from the tourist centre of the city.  In fact, looking at a map and attempting to find a quick way to get there using trams or buses proved a little confusing so I just gave in and made my way there by taxi.  There are times when convenience trumps all else!  Ten dollars later I was deposited at the columned entrance of the museum which is surrounded by City Park, a lovely area with lakes and lawn and quite a few ducks.

The museum is not vast but carries within it a selection of paintings from different periods such as the Renaissance, French and Dutch Masters as well as abstract pieces by renowned names.  I enjoyed the Monet and Degas offerings and particularly liked the abstract gallery with works by Miro, Braque and Picasso.  But there’s always one piece that grabs you when you’re wandering around.  One work that you remember amid the broken fragments of all the other pieces you’ve viewed.  For me, yesterday, it was a piece by an Italian painter I was not familiar with, Luca Cambiasi.  It’s titled “The Vanity of Earthly Love” and, compared to many other paintings it’s not the loveliest, the darkest, the most interesting subject matter etc.  But, it did stay with me.  If you’ve studied any English literature you learn to look for symbolism and imagery in anything you look at or read.  This painting is full of meaning.  It shows a naked woman holding a skull, contemplating it, while an old man holds Cupid (in the form of a cherub like child) with one arm and an hourglass in the other.  It is an allegorical piece, where the old man is Time and he is taking love away while she is left contemplating old age and Death.  A tad depressing, I’ll grant you that, but it was powerful and it made me think about growing older and starting relationships again and so forth.  I have a friend for whom the whole thought of growing older causes her to hyperventilate but I’ve never been one to panic too much at the concept.  I’m more thrown by the idea of starting again in the emotional minefield that is new relationships etc.  I can’t say I had a “David” moment but the brain did go into overdrive whilst looking at this painting and for a while after.  Obviously, the artist hit the mark!

There was another exhibition which also caught my attention, a photographic one, based around a photographer, called Gordon Parks, who produced a photographic essay for Life magazine in the late 1940s.  He recorded life in Harlem, in particular he followed a man called Leonard “Red” Jackson, the leader of a gang, around for a period of time.  His piece was the first by a black man for the magazine and the exhibition carries a vast number of the photographs he took during his time with Jackson as well as the magazine itself displaying the finished article.  The photographs are both harsh and poignant and provide an incredible record of daily life at that point in US history.  Not a light and frothy exhibit but one which makes you think about that point in time.

One of the main reasons for heading out to the museum is that it also has a sculpture garden next door to it so I moved towards it once I’d finished viewing the galleries in the museum.  This garden holds $25 million dollars worth of art in it, so hardly your everyday, let’s let the children loose, kind of bit of lawn.  I truly enjoyed wandering through it, photographing the pieces on display and marvelling at some of them.  Not all were going to be my cup of tea but they all stand out for one reason or another.  There’s a piece titled “Monkeys” which shows monkeys in a silver like metal grouped together on the floor where, their arms from the elbows down to their hands are humanlike.  It was disturbing and I can’t quite explain why.  Another example showed an amazing figure of a person, sitting with knees bent and arms around knees but the “person” is almost an outline made up of silvery letters which are linked together so, of course, you can see through them.  I really liked that one.

Two other pieces really stayed with me: one was a towering piece sitting in the middle of the lake in the garden which, when you peered closely you saw it was made entirely of violins and another, again in a silver finish, which creates an optical illusion and which has a full sized man standing and then on his shoulders has a man crouching followed by a slightly smaller man crouching on his shoulders and so on.  As you glance at it from the front  the whole image recedes upwards and from the side it all looks like a slimming, curved needle.  I spent ages just staring at it from every angle.

I spent the better part of the day in this area of New Orleans.  The garden was my particular favourite although I really would not like to be here once the sun goes down.  The whole space must be a little on the spooky side once the shadows kick in, or at least my imagination, even in full blown sunshine, was already conjuring up ideas which made me shudder inwards.  The only one negative, and I can understand why this is this way, is that you’re not allowed to picnic in any way in the sculpture garden and I would have loved to have just bought a sandwich and a drink and lounged on the lawn surrounded by these amazing works of art.  Then again, at the price tag some of these pieces command, crumbs and straws might not be thought to add to the value or to their aesthetic appeal 😉

E x

Looking Backwards While Moving Forward

I have admitted, in previous posts, to being a history geek (and here please be advised: GEEK ALERT BLOG).   And a literature one too.  But mainly a history one.  I love walking around in places rich in history and imagining people of note from the past treading the same steps that I may be marking out in the here and now.  If I give you a glimpse into my geekdom, I specialised in English and European history between 1450-1750 AD although I did spend quite a bit of time also studying the causes of the French Revolution, of the American War of Independence and Europe post 1900.  Yep totally geekish, I know.

Travelling to a city like New Orleans brings a great many facets of what I studied together into one place.  This city’s history is linked with France and Spain in equal measures and the legacy of both is evident wherever you walk within the Quarter.

New Orleans was originally inhabited by the Chitimacha people but, with European expansion at full throttle by 1700, the French Mississippi Company founded the city in 1718 calling it La Nouvelle Orleans.  It was given the name of the French city which was also the title of the Duke of Orleans, the French regent at the time.  I hate to disappoint many of you who may think that Bourbon Street, for example, is called that because of the tipple.  It is, in fact, named after the French royal dynasty, the Bourbons.  The French held on to New Orleans for a few years until 1763 when it was handed over to Spain.  Street names were changed to Spanish and Spanish architecture was introduced.  Toulouse Street was, for example, called Tolosa.  The French recovered New Orleans in 1801 and, once again, rebranded it in their traditions and language and it remains this way today.  The territory was then sold by Napoleon to the US in the Louisiana Purchase in 1803.  

But the city’s interesting history does not end there.  The arrival of Haitian refugees who were escaping revolution in their own lands in 1804 brought with them the Creole traditions which are inextricably linked with much of the legend that is New Orleans.  And it continued the link with France insofar as the language was concerned as these immigrants were French speakers.  They brought their religious practices with them too. And there we find the links to voodoo.

New Orleans was also in the sights of the British in the early 1800s and they attempted to take the city but were prevented from doing so by General Andrew Jackson who defeated the English army at the Battle of New Orleans in 1815.

New Orleans also has a dark slave history.  I think I read somewhere that nearly two-thirds of all slave trade coming into the south came through New Orleans but I’m working from memory here so don’t quote me.

As you wander through the French Quarter you see reminders of all of the above: bars named after Napoleon, street names, statues of generals, buildings housing sources about the Louisiana Purchase etc.  But when you get to Decatur Street, very near Cafe du Monde, you come face to face with a very striking statue which, to my mind, brings it all full circle.  Here you see Joan of Arc, a.k.a. the Maid of Orleans, in gleaming gold, astride her horse with banner flowing in the wind.  She, of course, saved the city of Orleans in France from the English and the French gave the statue as a gift to the city of New Orleans last century.  It is actually a very beautiful piece and the symbolic value of it makes perfect sense here.

For a history geek like myself the old quarter of New Orleans is like walking through a full size, living, breathing museum.  And that’s the height of geekdom heaven 🙂

E x

Lady And The Tramp

Most cities go through a full wardrobe change as the sun begins to descend.  They move from full day wear to cocktail dress and into clubbing garb.  Some effect this change subtly, discreetly, with the observer almost failing to realise it’s taking place.  In other cities it’s a full-blown, stripping in front of your eyes, short and sharp transformation.  New Orleans is a curious mix of both.

Yesterday I left Matchbox 3.0 at about six in the evening.  The sun goes down here at about half past six and I wanted to be back in Jackson Square at that time in order to get a few pictures of the same views of yesterday but in a very different light.  For any of you who have ever taken a photo with some thought behind it, you know that you hanker for the light of the early morning and the late evening as the glow it gives is quite special.  I walked down Royal Street to the Square and snapped a few shots of the cathedral and the general’s statue once again.  The streetlights and shop window lights were beginning to shine with a golden hue and the whole area looked beautiful; here New Orleans had put on its little cocktail number and was flirting demurely with the crowds.

As I stood by the statue in the middle of the garden a blast of jazz filled the square and just energised the whole place.  This was excellent music, clear, controlled and yet very much alive.  I moved closer to find a group of young men with an assortment of instruments – from trumpets to tuba to drums – standing randomly by a bench just belting out this amazing sound.  The crowd had gathered around them instantly and soon there were couples dancing on the street.  It is difficult to convey the electric blast of energy that the whole square was enveloped in.  I loved it.

By the time I turned to move away from the cathedral the sun had disappeared completely. I walked back heading towards Canal Street via Bourbon to try and catch glimpses on camera of this infamous street.  I had been told that it was likely that there would be a lot of Halloween themed activity going on this weekend so I was hoping for a few quirky characters to be wandering around for me to photograph.  And, whereas Jackson Square retains its elegance and floats about in the spangly but conservative cocktail dress, Bourbon Street throws itself straight into nightclubbing gear and we’re not talking the trendy and fashionable kind which would grace covers of uber-glossy magazines but the skin baring, bead covered, neon infused, alcohol scented, fabrics which buffet your consciousness as you meander down it.

Locals speak of this street with almost disdain.  Any blog, website or article you read about spending time here written by a local carries within it a hint of distaste.  I can understand why.  I really enjoyed my weekend here last week but I am a tourist who wanted to see what all the hype related to this place was.  But I’ve done it now.  And I can imagine the locals feel similarly. It’s a place you come to for the experience or, if you’re local, to bring someone visiting from out of town, but rarely otherwise.  I’ve been looking into other places to spend time in the evening in New Orleans and there are hundreds of bars and clubs which look amazing and which are away from Bourbon Street, both geographically and in spirit.  And that’s where the locals go.  I will be visiting some of those during my remaining time here.

Having said this, there is a place for Bourbon Street.  It is good fun and, if you leave your snobbishness at Canal Street and just aim to have a great time, it is a laugh to wander in and out of the bars. And there are a few spots which aren’t awful.  New Orleans, by the way, is either the only, or one of the only, places in the US where you can walk outdoors with alcohol and for many US citizens this means drinking at speed until they resemble the walking dead. However, for the majority it just means being able to relax around the whole idea of drinking and enjoying spreading their consumption from one establishment to another and wandering around the area enjoying their concoctions while taking in the atmosphere outdoors.

Halloween wasn’t yet quite as in evidence as I’d been led to expect.  But there were a few characters around.  In fact, as I walked back up Bourbon Street I suddenly had the feeling of something large behind me.  As I turned I found myself facing this huge character in the scariest costume ever just a couple of steps away and my heart nearly stopped.  My rabbit in headlights stare must have been enough to make whomever was inside the costume feel bad because they patted me on the back and, when they saw the camera, happily stood to one side for me to photograph them.

And, when you go from one extreme of city styling to another while wandering around – and remember this is all within a ten minute walk – you realise that New Orleans is a tale of two cities, the genteel and elegant juxtaposed with the down and dirty; a very visual contradiction: a very proper Southern lady versus a street smart hustler.  Makes for an interesting time.

E x

All Dressed Up In Iron Lace

Yesterday was a beautiful day here.  Most are, I have to say, but yesterday sported a brilliant, deep blue sky and lovely sunshine without temperatures or humidity levels soaring too far up the thermometer.  It made for a great walk around the city.  I decided to walk through two streets parallel to Bourbon which I had traversed before but had done so without the camera and then head towards Jackson Square.

I set out at around eleven and wandered through Dauphine Street which is much less touristy than the others around it.  It has pretty corners and several beautiful balconies with the iron work not only painted in black but, in some instances, in soft, pastel colours. Wrought iron balconies are my weakness here.  In Italy it was the lamps if you’ll recall.  It must be something about iron, then.  They are really stunning, with the filigreed parts reminding me of iron lace, and in some streets it’s literally one after another so you’re permanently walking looking up and, after only two weeks here, I have accumulated a rather large number of balcony photographs. Many are decorated with baskets of ferns or flowers and it makes the streets, when viewed through the camera lens, resemble vintage postcards.  I find myself having to fight the urge to climb onto one and do a Juliet impersonation 😉

At a certain point I turned towards Jackson Square which is almost like a hub in the French Quarter.  Here you can find the Cathedral of St. Louis, the statue of General Andrew Jackson, a small but rather lovely garden, the Cafe du Monde and you can look over the Mississippi river if you just cross the road.

The Cathedral is thought to be the oldest, continually running Cathedral in the US and the first church in its location was built in 1718.  Since then there have been several rebuildings and extensions until it stands as is today.  To look at it today in such pretty sunshine it was reminiscent of a fairy tale castle.  It is a lovely church because of its simplicity – inside it is peaceful and rather plainly decorated (although the ceiling does have some beautiful artwork on it) and I quite like this deliberate lack of adornment.  I sat there for a while.

Outside the cathedral’s main doors, as you look out, you can see a small garden which has the statue of General Andrew Jackson.  He was the seventh president of the US and was renowned for defeating the British at the Battle of New Orleans in 1815.  Although he was in favour of states having their own laws and rights, he was very much a believer in federal law and, engraved on the statue’s plinth is the statement: “The Union must and shall be preserved.”

A walk around the Square and a quick cross of the road brings you to the shore of the Mississippi.  It’s easy to forget while you’re bang in the middle of the French Quarter that New Orleans has a shoreline!  I spent a little while sitting on a bench looking out at the bridge in the distance and the rather large tankers sailing past.  At some point I need to organise a ride on a Mississippi steamboat.

To make my way back to Canal Street I walked up Chartres Street and found a little restaurant to sit in for a late lunch where I ate the most amazing duck and pears poached in red wine warm salad.  OMG it was delicious!  Happily full I then began my walk back to Matchbox 3.0 clicking away at yet more balconies 🙂

E x

Witchy Woman

The last assignment in the photography workshop took us to St. Louis Cemetery Number 1 which is probably the cemetery that is closest to the French Quarter.  It involved a ten minute walk under a blazingly blue sky and sharp sun.  Cemeteries are always going to invoke some kind of response from individuals, whether they be one of quiet respect or a sense of discomfort linked to every horror movie ever made most of us are unlikely to be completely passive about them.  I do have to say, though, that in such bright sunshine there was no possibility of your imagination playing tricks on you but it wasn’t difficult to picture the scene in different light, or at a different time of day, and the location then creating a totally opposed reaction to the one I was experiencing then.

Cemeteries here don’t house their dead below ground.  Tombs are above ground because New Orleans finds itself below sea level and, thus, the water table is high.  Burying the dead six feet under therefore becomes a risky venture as the soil is swampy and coffins fills with water even when the weather isn’t presenting itself as a storm.  But, once storms hit, and rain falls in copious amounts, then things take a nasty turn.  Coffins have been known to push upwards and float (eek!) and, thus, above ground burials are a necessity.

This cemetery is famous for several reasons the most notable of which are that Nicholas Cage bought the last two remaining side-by-side plots and built himself his future resting place here in the shape of a pyramid – it sticks out like a proverbial sore thumb since all other tombs are very traditional in their white marble dress – and because the tomb of Marie Laveau is here.  Now, you may ask, who is this lady?  Why is she famous?  Well, she is the Voodoo Queen.  There never was then, or since, anyone of her standing in this sphere.

Marie Laveau lived in the nineteenth century and was known for leading ceremonies where blood sacrifices, naked dancing and orgies took place around the city, and especially around the shoreline of Lake Pontchartrain, where she would sit on her throne-like chair, with an enormous snake wrapped around her, overseeing and leading these ceremonies. There are stories of her both helping the needy and those falsely accused of crimes as well as her cursing and placing hexes on others.  Her notoriety still lives on today as, while I was at the cemetery, people began to arrive in large numbers to visit her tomb.  Hers is not the only voodoo tomb in the cemetery and these can be spotted by the “offerings” which are placed around them.  Colourful beads, candles, dolls and other random objects can be seen at their feet.  Crosses drawn on the marble are also evident and this links to the idea that three crosses marked on the tomb qualify the person drawing them to a wish which will be granted by the spirit of the dead person buried there.  The more contemporary take on this practice is that of knocking three times on the stone and making a wish.  I, of course, did so, just in case.

The morning spent there was highly interesting, with me eavesdropping on the tour guides who were walking their groups along.  Much of it is crumbly and old but from the perspective of the camera rich in pattern and texture – just what I like.  Especially pleasing in such harsh, bright light, were the shadows created by the wrought iron railings against the marble facades of the tombs.  I came away with a few photographs that I quite liked.

Voodoo tradition is woven deeply here, mixed in with Catholicism which is the dominant religion in New Orleans.  There are many, many shops as well as a couple of museums dedicated to the history and practice of the Haitian-mixed-with African religion.  Looking at the tomb of Marie Laveau and listening to the tour guides’ stories sparked my interest about the woman and the practices she became famous for.  I need to investigate this whole aspect of New Orleans life further.

Let’s be honest, who wants to be a goody-two-shoes Disney princess when you could be a Voodoo Queen?

E x

Life Through A Lens

Staying in New Orleans for a month formed itself around the fact that when I originally booked myself in for the National Geographic photography workshop here I was advised that if I also wanted to see the city I should add extra days to my visit for this as the course itself was very intense and allowed very little free time.  When I worked all of this out I would have ended up staying here for at least two weeks and then I thought that it would be quite nice to repeat the Florence model and put down my suitcase for a longer stretch. The course was scheduled from Thursday last to Sunday lunchtime and they weren’t lying when they said “intense”.

It is based on a combination of time in a “classroom” – i.e. a hotel conference room which they book for the duration – and time spent outdoors shooting pictures with the instructors or on your own, having been given assignments by the teachers.  Time in the classroom means going through what you’ve captured and having your choices critiqued one on one and then opened up to the whole group.  Also, short presentations on different aspects of photography – about both artistic, technical and processing elements – are given to move you along the path to better images.

We photographed in Jackson Square at dawn, Bourbon and Frenchman Streets at dusk and at night, the French Market and whole Cafe du Monde area in the morning and one of the local cemeteries.  Within these photo shoots we had assignments such as having to take an “environmental portrait” (where you photograph a subject within the context of his surroundings or with others but not a random crowd photo) or where we had to use colour in a particular way or had to capture pattern or light in a premeditated manner, thinking about composition and other elements.  It all forces you to think.  You can’t just go around madly clicking away and instead have to focus down on the task at hand.  Something I found particularly interesting was that the lead instructor, someone whose photos have graced the cover of NatGeo magazines, says she still gives herself small assignments in order to hone a skill.  I can see why.  It really narrows your focus rather than just going out to photograph with a vague idea of what you’re looking for.  Of course, that applies when you’re trying to learn something, she didn’t mean you can’t just go out and see what you find.

The most valuable part of the whole workshop was, to my mind, the opportunity to see how others use their cameras, how they “see” the world.  Often I find that I narrow my point of view to certain things: I love pattern and texture so my eyes are drawn to that and I’ll go for those kinds of shots, sometimes missing other good possibilities because I just don’t register them.  By seeing others’ images other perspectives are highlighted and pointed out to me and upon my next foray out into the world with my camera I am that much more likely to spot similar vistas to the ones they caught on film.

It is also a joy to have teachers who have every element of operating a camera, using the light, tackle composition, manage to include energy into a photo and have every editing software’s tricks at their fingertips.  No doubt this is what they do every waking minute of every day and you would expect them to be at this level but it is amazing to watch them and to have the opportunity to pick their brains.

They don’t promise that you’ll leave the workshop an amazing photographer but that they’ll have given you some guidance and new perspectives with which to move forward with.  I can say that I have taken a few good pictures during this weekend.  And I know more than when I arrived.  So, all in all, it was worth my time.

My rather busy evenings/nights during the course of the weekend did impact on my energy levels as I was involved in the photography workshop, there’s no doubt about it.  But, at the back of my mind was the knowledge that I still have three weeks in New Orleans to go out and, with time on my side, be able to wield my camera across the beautiful streets, parks and quirky characters that exist here.

That’s my plan for the next few weeks and hopefully I’ll have a couple of photos that punch a little above the weight of my current images at the end of my time here.

E x

Bourbon, Beads and Battles

So, where were we?  Ah, yes…halfway through the weekend’s nocturnal adventures.  I left you yesterday having brought you to the point that I joined the photography group for dinner on Saturday night.  From there I met up with my friend and we deployed a different course of attack for that night’s partying.  Instead of going straight into Bourbon Street, we headed for one of the nicer hotels in the Central Business District, the Waldorf, and to their cocktail lounge where we sampled a few of their concoctions.  We moved onto another hotel to try champagne cocktails after that.  I welcomed a slightly more sedate beginning as my system was running on empty in a major fashion and this made it possible for me to then be able to hit Bourbon Street with some energy left.

We made our way into the French Quarter quite late and found an open air bar with a jazz quartet playing. They were excellent with the singer, in particular, evoking memories of Louis Armstrong as he sang some of that artist’s most well known pieces.  Once the band finished we left this bar and decided to walk to Frenchman Street, which is quite a way away from Bourbon.  However, halfway down we came across a bar called Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop which is not bedecked in neon and has a slightly less hysterical ambience to it than the bars and clubs near the top end of Bourbon Street.  Lafitte’s has history.  It is one of the oldest buildings in New Orleans, dating from around 1772, and is thought to be the oldest, continually occupied, bar in the USA.  It is also considered to have quite a few ghosts propping up the bar.  We didn’t see any of the latter but it was a great place to sit in and drink and chat while good music played.

We ditched the plan to continue to Frenchman and turned back into the busy part of Bourbon Street where we went into a final club where rap and hip hop played and people were dancing and generally having a pretty good time all round.  From there we found somewhere to have breakfast and stayed there for a long while since it was too late for me to be able to make any use of the remaining time to get some sleep – let’s face it, at this point, having woken up on Friday morning and not having slept a wink since then, just crawling into bed for one hour and having to get up to go join the photography group would have just resulted in my waking up feeling rather unwell.  It was just better to keep going. So, fuelled by pancakes and very sweet tea, we chatted in the diner till half six and then I was walked back to my apartment so I could regroup before heading out.

I did join the course group for my second breakfast of the day at half eight and we went on a morning’s outing to shoot some photos.  My post tomorrow will be all about the course, so don’t think you’ll miss out on that.

Now, my time with my new friend was not just about debauchery, I’ll have you know.  We decided to balance out all the partying with some culture and on Sunday afternoon we went to the Modern Art gallery where there was an incredible photographic exhibition based on the theme of water and how man is using it.  The prints were vast and stunning and conversation provoking.  I thoroughly enjoyed it.  Across the road from the gallery is the Second World War Museum and we headed that way.  It is a very large museum with an impressive coverage of all fronts in the war but, especially thorough and well-resourced is the section on the war in the Pacific. From diaries of soldiers, pieces of kit and equipment, posters, newspapers and small cinema areas showing original footage the whole exhibit is engaging and highly informative, to say nothing about very emotive.  The enlarged photographs – many of the iconic ones associated with this time – with narrative explaining what they were showing were, at times, heart breaking. Perhaps the most striking element of the museum was not inside the building but outside, on the pavements to be precise.  Stretches and stretches of pavement slabs were engraved with the names of, and dedications to, the fallen US soldiers, sailors and airmen. There were thousands.

From the museum, and after a rather tall, sweet tea to keep me moving, we began to walk back into the centre.  Along the way we came across a large square filled with small tents housing artisans’ arts and craft offerings and a blues band playing in what appeared to be a blues festival.  We hung around for a bit and then returned to the Quarter where we had an early dinner in a rather lovely restaurant.

I made short work of getting into bed once I returned to the apartment on Sunday evening. As I lay there, nearly incoherent with exhaustion, I looked back on the weekend and listed my accomplishments: I obviously have an incredible ability to stay awake for extraordinary periods of time and function normally while I do so.  I have a sweet magnet depicting the iconic image of the US sailor kissing a girl in the midst of the US celebrating the news of the end of the war in the Pacific and I am also the owner of a string of purple, New Orleans beads (go on, work it out) possession of which were on my bucket list and, in an ideal world would have been earned during Mardi Gras but I’m not likely to get to Mardi Gras any time soon because of my work schedule so this made a good alternative.  But, best of all, I am glad to say, that I have made a fabulous new friend and I thank him for being my partner in crime over this weekend. We really made a dent in Bourbon Street and the famous New Orleans night life, pot-bellied pigs and Darth Vader included (lol). You know who you are 😉

The good times did, indeed, roll.

E x

Up All Night To The Sun

Did you miss me?  I haven’t written since last Friday which is a serious infraction on my part, I know.  However, the good news for you is that I certainly have been busy and that means that you’ll be getting a few rather jam-packed posts because of it. So let’s begin with a weekend spent partying in New Orleans.

Through a strange confluence of events, a cousin of mine back home in Gibraltar realised that a friend of his was in New Orleans over this past weekend and put us in touch with one another.  Arrangements were made and we met up on Friday evening to go out for dinner and drinks.  We had never met – our first contact was literally via Facebook Messenger.  Now, this could have been awkward, let’s face it.  But, the Universe was obviously smiling on us as it put two people with a very similar sense of humour (and love of a good night out) together. We went for dinner in one of the many fish restaurants on Bourbon Street and once that was finished we headed out onto the neon illuminated, bar crammed, infamous street.

We first stepped into a relatively civilised place where jazz was being played live and we chatted and drank whilst listening to very good music. We moved on, passing through a place which had a live band playing rock classic covers and then, in another bar, we were crammed in like sardines in a very small can while rap and hip hop were being blasted lived from a small stage and ladies were invited to join the musicians there to dance and show their talent, in particular their ability to shake their booty, and boy could they make it work 😉  We also frequented a club where very dodgy karaoke was being sung, including songs which are obviously Louisiana classics that we’d never heard of.  The characters singing were a joy to watch, each with their own quirks and “style” of both singing and dancing!   By that point we had consumed enough alcohol to find the whole thing hysterically funny.

A few bars later, near to five in the morning, we walked into a place with a huge, square bar and collapsed onto some bar stools, ordered drinks and began to chat with the bar staff.  Music was playing and we were chatting and suddenly we looked up and the place was absolutely empty.  The doors were closed and we were the only ones left in the bar. Eventually, we were invited to leave!   And that deserves praise from you all…we closed down a bar on Friday night on Bourbon Street!  When we emerged from there Bourbon Street was much, much quieter.  We made our way out of Bourbon in search of some breakfast.

Now, on any other ordinary weekend it really would not have mattered that I was returning home when most people were getting up to start a new day.  On any other ordinary weekend I would have just showered and crashed into bed.  But, please do not forget, that I had paid a queen’s ransom to be a part of the photography course and I was expected at eight thirty in the classroom to continue with said workshop. Thus, I did not sleep.  At all. Not one minute. I literally had time to get in the shower, dress and run out the door.  I spent the day on Saturday both in the classroom and out and about shooting pictures all the way up to five thirty in the evening and then rushed back to the apartment to hit the shower once more, change and go to meet the photography group for dinner.   And here, you may be thinking, once dinner was over, she went home and slept….well, no!

I had made arrangements with my partner in crime from the previous evening to try new spots around New Orleans and we did.  I’ll fill you in about those tomorrow.  Now, now, don’t judge me!

E x

Smile For Me, Sugar

I met my two instructors and coparticipants in this photography workshop yesterday evening. People are mainly from the US but there are a couple of Canadians and a lady who is doing something similar to me and has also been travelling since July and she’s. from then UK. They all seem lovely and we had a great chat over dinner, introducing ourselves and finding out a little about each other and why we’ve chosen to do this. Obviously all of us want to improve how we take a photo but for some it’s all about having a creative outlet in otherwise stressful lives or the opportunity of creating something beautiful, dare we say even artistic, using a medium that does not require a paintbrush (that SO applies to me).

Our lead instructor is a lady who has worked with National Geographic for many years and who has covered some very untravelled terrain in her expeditions for them, especially in China and Ethiopia. She is engaging and held our interest while she gave us a little background about herself and her experience as a photojournalist. Her presentation included some of her photographs and, oh my goodness, they were just astounding. From stunning landscapes to the most amazing portraits of individuals she’s met along the way. And, it goes without saying of course, all her images are seriously beyond the average tourists’s photo of a pretty landscape or a stock capturing of a landmark. Her work is filled with colour and pattern and great action caught spectacularly on film. And her love for travelling to the unknown was conveyed in her narrative as she explained some of the background to some of the pictures. It’s is a person for whom the road less travelled is always beckoning. I really enjoyed listening to her.

We had dinner at a well known local restaurant and amongst the dishes served was gumbo. It was delicious but not as spicy as I thought it was going to be. In fact, it was a touch sweet, which I was told by those who’ve eaten it more regularly than I have, it shouldn’t have been. I really liked it but will be investigating other eateries in relation to this dish as, apparently, there are many different versions of it.

We gathered at six thirty a.m. in Jackson Square for our first photo shoot.  The sky was grey and overcast and for a while it was still dark.  I was reminded of how lovely cities are so early in the morning as there are so few people on the streets.  It makes for easier photos and, more importantly, for the possibility of taking a table at Cafe du Monde for breakfast where I ate my first beignets with fresh orange juice.  They remind me of Spanish churros although these are fried in small pillow shapes and are heavily covered in mountains of icing sugar.  They were piping hot and pretty delicious.

I am including a few of my photos from this morning in this post just so no one decides to hire a hitman to take me out for the lack of any photographs over the last few days.  They’re more arty than pure representations of this city but I do hope you’ll like them.  I’m currently on my lunch break and have just returned to the apartment to bring the laptop back so I don’t have to lug it around.  I have to leave immediately as we have been tasked with taking an “environmental portrait” during the break i.e. a photo of a main subject surrounded by others and it can’t just be a random crowd photo.  So I leave you to go and harass a poor, unsuspecting soul into posing for me.

E x

Itchin’ On A Photograph

I have decided that I love Starbucks.  I know this makes me a stereotypical human but I do. Their banana bread is to die for and they do a decent cup of tea.  They also offer free wifi which makes life easier all round if you don’t have an internet package.  The irony is that I don’t drink coffee of any variety: not caramel versions, iced versions, French roasts or Guatemalan.  I really don’t like coffee.  When I was a university student I desperately tried to acquire a taste for the beverage in the hope that it would help me stay awake during long nights studying but it never happened.  So I don’t drink it, which, here in the States is almost a sacrilege since everyone walks around with a coffee cup in their hands.

Yesterday I went out to do some shopping since I am now desperately fed up of wearing the same four t-shirts I brought with me.  I chose two new ones and a pair of skinny jeans. And a very bright pink umbrella as it is going to rain over the weekend and I’m going to be out on the streets because of this photography workshop.  After much wandering through the French Quarter, popping into shops and trying things on I concluded that I’d shopped enough and there, almost like a mirage, was Starbucks, calling me in, sirenlike.  I ordered and sat down for a bit.  It’s a great place to people watch too.  So I entertained myself for a bit looking around and then went through emails and texts relating to the course.

I’m all set for this now.  I leave the apartment shortly to go and register for it (headquarters are in a rather posh hotel in the Quarter) and then we have an introduction by the course leader, a National Geographic photojournalist, followed by dinner.  I think we do some light photography today but not too much.  It’s more a getting to know you and theory day.  I’m looking forward to this whole long weekend as it’s always interesting to see someone, who’s at the top of their field, work and have the opportunity to pick their brains and chat with them about the different assignments and experiences they’ve had in their professional life.  I’ll let you know a little more when I know a little more.  In all, there are ten participants (including myself) and two instructors and we’ll be covering a wide area of New Orleans in our photography outings. These are going to be rather packed days to come.

After I left Starbucks yesterday I walked to Jackson Square again – I really like this small area and I have found myself returning here a few times.  There’s a lot of movement and activity here and there always seems to be music playing.  I have a bench that has almost become “mine” and I sat there for a bit, admiring the views around me.  You may be wondering why on earth you’re not getting any photos at the moment and it’s because I have been deliberately leaving my camera behind when going out for walks.  It’s almost like I don’t want to photograph anything in the Quarter before the course because I know a large part of what we’ll be focusing on in the course is in this district.  I almost want to see these streets through fresh “camera” eyes when I begin the workshop.  That may sound absolutely idiotic, I do understand.  And, by now, I’m really wanting to take photographs!

So, I’ve charged the camera’s battery, I’ve packed my bag with stuff I may need and I’m getting myself dressed to leave soon.  Let’s see what the group’s like and how impressive the instructor is.  I’m a little concerned about my theory knowledge – what I produce with the camera tends to be trial and error for a large number of my pictures; I keep adjusting until I find the result I want rather than immediately knowing what I have to set things to to produce what I want. – but it’s too late now to change things by much.  I’ve revised the important stuff and I hope it’ll be enough.  You just don’t know, when reading their information and guidelines, how much knowledge is considered as “enough” by them in order to be able to merit your place here.

I’m hoping that time will allow me to keep posting as normal over these next few days but I’m not totally sure it’s going to be possible.  I’ll do my best to keep you in the loop on a daily basis but if not, my apologies and I’ll revert to normal as soon as I can.  It’ll get more exciting from here on, promise 🙂

E x

Miss Elaine Down South

It was a scorcher of a day yesterday and when I ventured out for a walk the pavements were almost sizzling and the humidity factor must have been through the roof. Part of it is because they’re expecting rain over the next few days and I could see gathering clouds in the distance as I wandered.  Note to self: I need to buy an umbrella!

I made my way into the French Quarter quite aimlessly as, at the moment, all I’m interested in is looking around and getting my bearings. I have to say I much prefer streets other than Bourbon Street and it’s not solely because Bourbon is tourist Mecca here. There’s some other reason for it but I haven’t quite put my finger on it yet. Bourbon has pretty buildings with the wrought iron balconies and in the evening it obviously bursts with nightlife but it’s not the only street that does so and there are others that both aesthetically and atmosphere wise are more appealing to me.

Anyway, I travelled up and down streets parallel to Bourbon while looking into shop windows and cafes, restaurants and bars trying to spot places I want to visit over the next few weeks. I eventually stopped at a cafe and asked for a drink and a treat and once served I got to chatting to the guy who was serving my table. He’s a local and was telling me about some good spots around here. We introduced ourselves and something which has already happened here took place again. I imagine it’s a southern habit. He proceeded to refer to me as “Miss Elaine” for the rest of the conversation. With a southern drawl – very quaint. It brought home to me that, yes, I’m definitely down South.

A friend of mine was asking whether I’d come here to learn French and I told her that, so far, I haven’t encountered it in any conversation. I’ve seen some signs in shops for “entrance” and “exit” and so forth in French but haven’t heard it spoken. I, originally, had thought when I planned the whole itinerary way back when that I might be able to practice my French while here but it’s not looking likely. But France is evident in the centre from the tricoleur flying from flagpoles to street names pronounced with a French accent and elements of the cuisine. So is the Spanish influence obvious as well as the Haitian. It all combines to create a very unique melting pot with an edge to it and a permanent original soundtrack; there’s music wafting in the air pushing out from establishments or simply from quartets on street corners. It is quite extraordinary.  It reminds me of Havana, Cuba, in that way.

I couldn’t stay out for very long as I have some swotting to do. You see, the whole reason for camping in New Orleans is actually based around the fact that I booked myself into a National Geographic photography workshop for this weekend and I was advised at the time that if I wanted to sightsee I should add extra days to my time here as the course is pretty intense and there wouldn’t be enough time during those days for me to investigate the city. The course runs from Thursday to Monday to which I needed to add travelling days and extra ones for me to have time here to get to know the city. When I added it all up I knew I needed a minimum of two weeks here so I just thought that I’d spend the month and, if after a few weeks I’d seen it all in New Orleans then I’d just branch outwards from here to see other southern towns as I, although I’ve travelled quite extensively in the US, don’t know the south at all.

The course requirements include that I know a whole lot more than I do about the workings of my camera – this is a new one, bought just before leaving Gibraltar in July – so I had to, basically, read the manual and work out several functions and features which I didn’t know about and which my previous camera did not possess. There’s also a checklist of photography theory that I need to have in my brain so I spent some time on that too. I’ll have to continue with that today. For those of you demanding pictures they’re coming…hopefully the workshop days will churn out a few good ones. Don’t despair.

And then the reason for having an apartment rather than a hotel came into its own: I made my own dinner! I know, I know. I can hear some of you thinking that eating out is infinitely more interesting. I love restaurants and discovering odd places to eat but, guys, I’ve been eating out since early September so the idea of a homemade meal is actually heavenly. I made my “Chilli Pasta” and ate it while perusing my reading material. Tasted brilliant, what can I say?

In all it’s been a good day: I’m much more familiar with the Vieux Carre, I met a couple of very nice people, I found some places to revisit at some point and I’ve covered some of my homework! And, most of all, I’m getting a feel for this place. How the city works and moves along and how people tick. Most are very polite, genteel even, and are engaging and usually sport a smile.  Well, it is known as Southern charm 🙂

Miss Elaine thinks she’s liking the South.

E x

Welcome To The Neighbourhood

Yesterday I moved into my new “home” for the next month. I left the hotel and made my way to the city centre by taxi having taken screenshots of several possible hotels nearby should the apartment, for some unexplained or catastrophic reason, fall through. But it didn’t; the agent was there waiting for me as arranged with the lease for me to sign and my keys in hand. She told me that some workers were installing some screens on the windows to lessen any exterior noise as this particular apartment looks onto the main thoroughfare outside the building and there’s a tram car line on it. I wasn’t especially concerned since, having lived next to an airport at one point in my life and a busy train station at another, an occasional tram passing by wasn’t going to ruin my quality of life. But, it was still nice of them to be organising it for me.

I agreed with the agent that I would just leave the behemoth that is my suitcase there and head off to find the nearest supermarket that she explained was a couple of blocks away. She told me they’d leave the air conditioning on to cool down the place for my return. I walked to the market – it’s not referred to as a “supermarket” here – and found myself at its doors five minutes later. Now, in my usual life, going grocery shopping is not one of the highlights of my week. Like most people, rushing to the supermarket usually happens after a long working day, when the zillion other members of society have also finished work and have decided that the local supermarket is THE place to be, and you’re shattered and trying to cram in the weekly food purchase before you need to run to get elsewhere. Long lines to pay, queues at the deli counter and a full formula one circuit of the outlet with a vehicle that refuses to turn when you command it and a manoeuvrability that brings to mind an attempt to walk through quicksand, make the whole experience feel like an expedition to Base Camp.

But, this whole mindset changes when I get to supermarkets and open markets in other parts of the world. I love meandering through the shop peering at products that I can’t find at home and, at times, trying to figure out what certain food stuffs actually are. This market did not disappoint, with aisles filled with items that I did recognise and many that I didn’t. I especially liked the glazes for barbecuing and an ice cream section that was so large I could honestly see the calories piling on my hips just by watching the selection. My favourite thing, which doesn’t exist at home but which I thought was an amazing idea, was a whole wall covered in dispensers that reminded me of those glass cylinders used to house jellybeans of every flavour with a “tap” style end which you open to serve yourself from. But, instead of jellybeans or other sweets, these dispensers were easily four times the size of the candy ones and filled with nuts, trail mixes, dried fruits, cereals, rice, pastas, mueslis and so on and you just mix up whatever combination you want. From dried cranberries and pineapple pieces to assorted mixed nuts combos. It was incredible and I succumbed and bought a huge bag of my own version of fruit and nut mix. Another mouthwatering feature were the counters with either readymade foods such as grilled pineapple or baked Cajun salmon steaks or the counter assembled with deep vats of gumbo and other local delicacies. There was also a counter dedicated to pizza where you pick your toppings and they make the pizza – fresh dough for the base – before you and you can either take it and bake it at home or they fire it for you while you shop in a wood fired oven! I mean, who cooks here with all these choices?

So, I became THAT shopper who has all the time in the world and is moving through the store at the slowest, most annoying, pace as she has nowhere else to be and nothing more pressing to do; precisely the customer that I hate when I’m doing my weekly shop at my local supermarket. When I’d finished I paid and had my shopping packed for me in brown paper bags. I walked back to the apartment and found it empty of workers.

I began unpacking my gadgets from my hand luggage bag: laptop, iPad, camera, lenses, all the cables in the world, chargers etc. I began to make myself at home and was about to tackle the suitcase when there was a knock on the door. My friendly agent, with a friend of her own, was on the other side and informed me that they’d realised while I was out that the air conditioning in my apartment did not work properly and that they were going to move me to an apartment down the hall. So, they helped me move what I’d unpacked, my suitcase and my shopping bags into apartment 206. When they left I unpacked everything, made myself a cup of tea and sat down, on my sofa, to admire my new home.

It is lovely and huge for a one bedroom apartment. I suspect it was originally a massive studio which has been cleverly converted into a one bedroom as these are going to be both more popular for corporate types (and they are who this company’s target market is) and they can charge more for a one bed than a studio, of course.

It must be near on seventy square metres with very high ceilings and one enormous bank of windows on its external wall. The floors are painted glossy black, the walls and shutters on the windows are white with neutral furnishings and touches of blue around the place. The kitchen and lounge are open plan with modern fixtures and fittings. But it’s the bedroom which is cleverly set out. If you think of a Japanese tea room with its wood and paper screens then you’re on the right track here. But instead of light and flimsy screens imagine a more industrial version with dark wood heavy beams and frame and an opaque corrugated type of material for the spaces between the frame. These “walls” slide on the suspended beams and section off the bedroom while letting in light both through the opaque material and the space between the top of the beams and the ceiling. It all comes together really well, giving the whole place a very light and airy feel as well as creating quite a zen-like space. I have to say it’s very me because I much prefer modern to traditional decor and I definitely don’t like too much in the way of furniture and clutter.

This place is a veritable palace compared to my Italian Matchbox. It is, in fact, Matchbox 3.0 with upgrade included. The building has its own fitness centre and hot tub, free wifi, a maintenance crew on site and parking space (had I wanted it). Location wise it also ticks every box since it is literally a straight line from my building’s front door to Bourbon Street with only a three minute walk between us. That plus the proximity of the supermarket, a fabulous looking deli/restaurant just across the road from me and the tram stop at the end of my pavement all make this a great find.

There’s only one thing missing in this place, Indiana reminded me while I drank my tea and watched the news: a hint of leopard print somewhere. I promised him I’d get to it right away.

E x

Things That Go Beep In The Night

Yesterday was deliberately a very lazy day – today is looking similar too. This was mainly due to the fact that jet lag is seriously biting and my body is complaining by feeling somewhat shaky and tired at the oddest times. I am determined to be over jet lag by Monday so that once I’m ensconced in the city centre I can really get into a routine there and make sure that I enjoy my time there. Therefore I decided that the weekend would be spent around the hotel, resting, going to the fitness centre, walking around this area and doing laundry!

Thus, yesterday wasn’t the most interesting of days but a necessary one to get back to the land of the living. It was a good day all in all. I fought from sleeping during day time and went to bed around eleven. Sleep took a while but eventually I did succumb. I woke with a start at three twenty a.m. not sure why I’d woken up but certain that something had disturbed me. I waited in the silence for a bit and nothing seemed out of place so I turned over to try and get back to sleep. Within a few minutes the sharpest of beeps burst through the room and I sat up in bed unsure of whether this earpiercing racket had come from within the room or from outside. I waited. A couple of minutes later it happened again and I was certain it was coming from inside. It was the smoke alarm. Now, since I’m not a smoker and had not been carrying out any voodoo style ceremonies comprising burning of any items in my quarters, I had no idea why the thing was complaining. So, at all of three thirty in the morning I called reception and explained and they said they’d send someone up to check it out.

Ten minutes later the duty manager and a maintenance guy appeared at my door with a massive step ladder and the smoke alarm was taken apart, battery removed and replaced. All seemed fine and just as these two members of staff and their ladder were leaving the thing beeped again, and again, and again! Up went the ladder once more and after much wiggling of the battery the guy thought he’d solved it. But, no, he hadn’t – the thing kept beeping. By now the rooms next door were showing signs of life with people in the hallway. In desperation the manager asked me if it was ok to totally disconnect the thing to which I replied it most certainly was and they dismantled the whole contraption. I returned to bed at four ten.

So, my plans to sleep during normal night time hours were rather interrupted by all this commotion. I’m hoping it will make for one very tired me tonight so I sleep all night through. Meanwhile, I’m spending my time writing a bit and reading a lot and watching a bit of tv.

I think I’m going to give you all a break for a day until I’m settled into the new apartment and life becomes a little more exciting once more – smoke alarms notwithstanding. Moving in on Monday in theory and that will take up some time as I’ll have to go shopping and unpack. First I need to find a supermarket though.

I’ll take a few pictures of Matchbox 2.0 for the next entry and you’ll be able to compare with the original Matchbox and you can tell me whether you think it’s an improvement or not. Meanwhile, enjoy the silence free from my nonsense 😉

E x