New Orleans, Louisiana
We spent July 6-9 in New Orleans, Louisiana. On the evening of our arrival, after an eight hour drive, we explored Bourbon Street. I had been there once before and this experience confirmed my feeling that there is simply nothing else like it in the country. The spectacle of brass musicians with immense talent playing on the sidewalk is so unique to this very spot, and we were totally taken by it. Stefan complained that I was holding his hand “limply” as we strolled, but I ask you, how can a person perceive the cornucopia of life and energy that is Bourbon Street and also remember to maintain the grip of one’s hand? Impossible. The street bursts with golds, browns, reds, and greens. It is a surging force, with a certainly grittier and sadder side, children drumming expertly on buckets for money and the like. We absorbed the spectacle, sat down for an easy meal nearby, and returned to the quiet of the hotel room for much needed rest.
July 7 being a Wednesday, this leg of the trip was the first during which Stefan would work during the day. You may recall my spiraling anxiety from Roanoke. It had worn off greatly but still wanted a bit of attention. Stefan worked with long stretches of silent emailing and slacking and noisy Zoom calls. It was entirely grounding for the little nag in my mind; at least one of us was doing something normal. We stayed put during the day, I got the logistics of this blog organized and I re-organized some of the less functional parts of our packing job. It was...normal! And normal felt really, really good.
Music on Frenchman Street
After eating a meal at Tableau, we strolled to Frenchman Street, off Jackson Square. Crista’s best friend Alli, also a musician, was kind enough to steer us towards the perfect evening of NOLA live music.
On Frenchman Street, music pours from the windows of every bar, through the slatted shutters painted “French Quarter Green”, an impossibly lush, rich hue that accents lively neighborhoods in the city. We were early for our 9:30 show of Antoine Deil at The Spotted Cat, catching the end of the 7:30 show: a treat beyond our expectation.
The space was comfortable and quaint: an L-shaped bar, standing room, and a lifted stage at the window front. Stefan has a keen eye for an available seat and, true to form, he was shuffling quickly towards a spot before I had slipped my ID back into my wallet. We nestled in and were quickly transfixed. The singer of the opening band looked looked like a mixture of Toni Collette and Kate Winslet. She sang with a melodic and warm tone without a microphone, swaying with a charming confidence. With one song to go, she shouted, “We’ve got time enough for another tune!”
Stefan fell briefly in love with the jazz guitarist of this opening group. She had curly reddish hair and birdlike features, fresh and elegant. As she crooned through one song from her confident seat, guitar atop her lap, her voice rang out like caramel with hazel nuts; smooth, deep, with a touch of rasp. Stefan claimed that “she was looking at him,” which can neither be substantiated nor disavowed. I enjoyed the almost apathetically relaxed talent of the young man on the saxophone, simply meditative whether he was playing or not. I teared up with joy and reminiscence of my own sax-playing days.
We were sad to see this band go; the lead singer moved briskly through the crowd to collect final tips and when the folks next to us offered nothing, her practiced gaze of judgment was enough for the shamed group to quickly request change for a $20 from the bar.
Antoine Diel and his band came to the stage to deliver the main show. They opened with Route 66. I felt very cool and in-the-know when I said to Stefan, “If they’re starting with Route 66, this show is going to be the Disney of jazz concerts.” I was right and grew increasingly smug throughout the evening on this point. They were wildly talented and tons of fun. Wanting to make me happy, Stef requested one of my favorite songs by yelling it into the air. “Play Sunday Kind of Love!” he shouted, full of unabashed hope. They played it! In fact, they remixed Etta James with Chris Stapleton and the crowd went wild. We were quite proud of Stef’s achievement.
A Sidewalk Stand-off
Next day, I took Hazel for a walk. In some ways, a walk in a new city can be as calm as day, just a woman and a pup strolling down the cracked cement sidewalks. In other ways, it can be a notably alarming jaunt: both dog and human wondering, “Hm, new smells, which way home?”
We walked passed the open mouth of the hotel towards the revolving door. Something in my mind’s eye stopped me, but I wasn’t sure what. I turned around. Yes, that was it, a man holding my car key next to my car parked outside the hotel, surely not where it was supposed to be.
I looked at Hazel to ask, “What do?” and then approached the man.
“That’s my car.” I delivered only the facts.
“Are you Gaffrey from Room 306?” he asked. As you know, I am not Gaffrey. He and I shared the kind of back and forth that is friendly on the surface, with a teetering underbelly of rage.
He was unsure that I was the Kende from Room 226 that I claimed to be.
We each paused with the same thought in mind: Are you trying to steal this car?
Thankfully, my sister Kait had gifted Stefan and I engraved, leather key chains just days before.
“It says M + S 12.29.21 on the band,” I said. Randall (he had introduced himself by this point) took a step back, trusting for the first time that I was not trying to steal this car and that he, or someone, had indeed messed up big time. He paused to read the band. “It says 2020 on here,” he responded. I was thrown. 2020 simultaneously lasted three years and didn’t happen at all, and I got married on the third to last day of the year, so close to 2021. Semantics!
Ultimately, it was handled. Someone had placed the wrong ticket on the wrong keys, swapping Gaffrey’s car with ours. The hotel apologized. Gaffrey had to wait an extra ten minutes for his silver Pacifica to be delivered by the valet. He was upset not to have been given the chance to steal a black Audi.
I walk away from NOLA knowing that I made a friend in Randall, who, to assure me that he parked the car back safe and sound in the garage, texted me a pic to prove it.
Abondon Park & Tulane University
A trip to New Orleans calls for a walk through Abondon Park and Tulane University. They sit next to one another on the southwest side of the city and provide much needed green space. Abondon is a sprawling park with a wet, mystical feel to it. Depending on who you are, that mystique can go the way of magical or eerie. I took to it a bit more than Stefan, who was just too sweaty to be into it. The heat and humidity create a culture, in so far as it was observable to us, where folks move more slowly and spend less time outdoors. Compared to Sheep’s Meadow in Central Park or the wildly recreational parks in Austin (post to come!), folks in Abondon were tending not to put down a blanket into the soppy ground, and were walking or biking slowly through the heat.
Along the walkways, willow, oak, and cypress trees stand deeply rooted on half-marshy grass and in ponds. Spanish moss grows upon the trees’ branches. The visual effect is like a gangly elderly man trudging along with long white drapes hanging about his neck and arms. The moss hangs to the base of the tree. The tree becomes the ground, becomes the water, and it feels as if the park is swallowing itself up. Tulane, on the other hand, is manicured. It was quiet with students home for the summer, but very cool for us to see the famous campus sitting in a quiet neighborhood in New Orleans along the park.
Commander’s Palace
The last meal that we had in NOLA was on the recommendation of a Swell contact who had grown up just next to Tulane. He informed that Commander’s Palace was the no-brainer go-to for locals and visitors looking for a totally traditional yet upscale experience. We got all gussied up (celebrating two years of togetherness) and when we arrived were led through layers of intricately designed and arranged rooms and up a u-shaped staircase to our table. The space had a nautical feel. It was traditionally elegant while (funnily) also reminding us of a cruise ship; folks dressed up to different levels, wallpaper in bright stripes of blue teal paired with shiny, silver furniture. The waiters were first class, steady and responsive without being particularly interested in friendship. The food was rich, punchy, and creative.
The restaurant featured Chef Meg Bickford boldly on their site and menu, so I felt a certain kinship with the food, knowing that a namesake with seemingly endless talent and tentacle arms was in the kitchen wildly chopping and sautéing. We committed to the traditions of Creole cuisine with Turtle Soup, confit and cornbread topped with quail egg, and pecan crusted yellowfin tuna. We found here and throughout our stay that in NOLA, you can choose mainly seafood from the menu and still end up gastrointestinally overpowered by the accompanying creams, spices, and breads. We rolled home dangerously satiated and quite pleased, vowing to “be better” in Austin.
On to Austin
The drive out of Louisiana was something out of a Karen Russell short story: the flora ruled the land and crawled into the man made infrastructure laughingly. I-10 was raised on massive concrete posts built into bayous where people fished from boats. The same green we had seen painted on shutters in Jackson Square now coated elephant ear leaves canopying the highway. It felt like nature could reclaim this part of the country in a matter of decades should humans vacate. Louisiana was stunning, cultured, gritty, and a touch too wet for these North Easterners.
More to come!
