New Orleans, Cajun Country

Vacations are few and hard to come by in the Alinikoff household. Connie works every day and catches up on reading, shopping, and cleaning on the weekends. I work nights and never miss because if I don’t work I don’t get paid. It’s been a long time coming if I don’t mind saying so myself. Just being together for a couple of days without the usual grind was, well, priceless.

We decided New Orleans would be our destination of choice because of the sights, the food, and the music. I won’t go into the gambling we did at Harrah’s where we stayed. Well, not too much. Suffice it to say that neither one of us connected with the truly blessed (read: winners) and we may have to forgo eating for, say, a month or two. But that’s another story.

One of the interesting things about the New Orleans area is that the weather forecast changes every 15 minutes. The night before we left Nashville the National Weather Service predicted clouds and scattered thunderstorms. Darn! Well, by the time we got to the airport Saturday morning it had changed to clear, sunny, and mild. And that’s exactly how it stayed the whole time.

The hour and a half flight was uneventful other than the drool drying on my sleeve. There’s no way to sleep properly on any flight. Your mouth is always agape, legs tucked somewhere you never want to go again. I’m grateful I have no hair, or that would have been plastered to the side of my head.

Our taxi driver from the airport to Harrah’s was an older local man who was full of stories to tell. Listening to his long Cajun drawl and tales of how hard he “woiked” in his life was a warm and welcome introduction to this great city. It was also a great way for him to glean an extra few dollars tip…no doubt part of his routine as a professional hack. It worked.

We stayed at Harrah’s Hotel and Casino because Connie had accrued a substantial number of points from other junkets taken with friends and family, so the hotel stay was, in that sense, free. She’s a fantastic gambler, plays only the penny slots, and almost always comes away a winner. I, on the other hand, am the worst gambler, should never be allowed in a casino, and could be the poster boy for “stupid gambling techniques.” If I had a million dollars and was turned loose in a casino in the morning I wouldn’t have enough left for a burger by lunchtime.

So here we are, after getting our room squared away, in the middle of the casino. Bells ringing, whirring, buzzing, ding-donging shiny blinking machines beckoning the unsuspecting tourists, the uninitiated, the stupid, the me.

The first thing I do, which is completely the wrong thing if one is going “gaming” as they call it, is to get a beer. Hey, what the hell. I’m on vacation. Let it all hang out. So what if it’s just after noon and I haven’t had lunch yet. But that’s just what the joint is depending on because when it’s all hanging out they’ll snatch it faster than you can suck it back in. A couple of bucks in this machine, a few in that, and then you sit at the blackjack table and hope it goes your way. By the time you realize you need to visit the ATM it’s way past lunch time and you still haven’t eaten anything. Hey, have another beer. But there’s no hunger for food. All hunger is reserved for getting whatever you’ve lost back. You know it ain’t gonna happen, but, maybe this time. That is part of the insanity of gambling. The idea, the hope, the thrill that the unlikely will happen this time. Oh, it’s thrilling alright. Thrilling and expensive.

Thank the lord for cell phones. Connie called me right in the middle of my thrill to see if maybe we should get out of the casino and walk down to the River Walk Market Place for a bite. Luckily I trimmed my finger nails. Otherwise she never would have been able to drag me out of there. I just knew my luck was about the change.

As soon as we stepped outside of the casino it was as though someone had pulled the plug. The city was quiet by comparison. The air was warm but refreshing. The sunlight was almost purifying, and walking a straight line for more than ten feet made me want to run, arms flailing in the air. Im free. I’m free.

There’s a seafood restaurant right on the river with a common area in front of it where a small band was set up on the cobblestones. We sat on the patio outside facing the band and the sparkling Mississippi. The huge boats plodding slowly by reminded us to relax and enjoy the moment. Together, alone, and nothing to do but nothing.

The band started playing some soulful blues right out of the Doctor John songbook just as we finished ordering our lunch. I thought there was a girl singing but no, it was one of the guitar players, and he was great. Two guitars, NO bass, drums, and a tasteful harmonica player of the first order. I usually hate harmonica players. They never seem to know when to stop playing. But this guy was melodic and tasteful, complimented the guitar and vocal perfectly. One of the best I ever heard.

Our lunch of crab cakes, cajun fries and a split fish sandwich arrived to the beat of the next shuffle. The food was even better than we expected. The sauces, especially the remoulade with its zesty horse radish tang, let us know we were in real cajun country and they don’t fool around with that down here. A perfect lunch. Simple, delicious, and genuine.

This was not our lunch, obviously. But the folks on the next table over enjoyed this colorful plate of crawfish. Connie calls ’em river bugs. “Ain’t eatin’ no bug.” Actually, they taste like lobster. Honest!

Off to the French Quarter. It was a good walk from the river. Lots of people milling around, mostly tourists like ourselves, gawking and pointing. We all looked like a bunch of movie extras. But who cares when you’re having fun? I wanted to eat in every place we passed, drink in every bar, and I did try on just about every hat the stores were selling. I am a hat guy, you know, the proud owner of probably over a hundred of them if you include all the baseball caps and the seven yarmulkas I have stashed in a drawer somewhere for the improbable time we have a passover celebration or a bris.

This buggy is festooned with all kinds of do dads, chachkes, and your basic tourist junk. But it’s so over the top I just had to show it to you. Oh, it’s for sale.

Trying to find a hat my size is no small challenge. I am ‘king of the pinheads’ with a 6 7/8 dome, buzzed real close, but not shaved. I wear hats almost all the time and I’m always looking for a new cool acquisition. New Orleans is a great place for hats. All the players (musicians) and a lot of the locals wear them. But almost all of the stores had only medium or large sizes. I was ready to give up hope when we happened upon a place just off of Bourbon Street that had a huge selection of styles and sizes. After about an hour of rummaging through their entire inventory I found three I just had to have. Connie knew how important this process was for me so she waited patiently outside, sitting on the curb people watching. I came out of the store with the big smile of success on my face only to have it quickly disappear when I realized how hot and tired she was, plus it didn’t take me long to figure out that I’m going to owe her big time the next time we’re out together and she wants to go shoe shopping. Oh gawd! note: If you ever go shoe shopping with a shoe-whore, or a hat-whore for that matter, bring a book and maybe a pizza.

If you’ve been to New Orleans I’m sure you’ll agree that one of the most endearing aspects of the city is its neighborhoods with their brightly colored homes. They’re not afraid to celebrate colors here. It’s not uncommon to see pea-green doors along side fire-engine red walls and okra staircases. Festive is the word, just like the people who live here.

They love music and dance.There are little groups of musicians all over, in the clubs and on the streets, playing for tips and the simple love of the music. Brass bands were playing like they must have a hundred years ago when Satchmo and King Oliver were thrilling the locals.

Eating great food is always a celebration in the Crescent City. A warning to those with telegraphic tongues or sensitive taste buds: some of the local dishes can be accentuated with cajun spices and peppers. We had some gumbo yesterday which held secrets one would only experience after several bites of its deep rich rue. Once the andouille sausage in the mix kicks in, your nose opens up and then there’s no stopping the gris gris. If you don’t care for spicy foods there is a cornucopia of milder dishes, enough choices for the most discerning gastronome.

There are so many activities available for visitors, but our two-day mini trip left most them on the table to be savored on a future, and hopefully longer, trip. We did not make it to the picturesque old cemetery. We did not do the river tour, nor did we see the world famous Preservation Hall (almost blasphemous for a long-time musician…I’m so ashamed). On the one hand we hated missing these points of interest, but on the other hand they remain new and beckoning objectives.

After check-out from the hotel Monday morning we got into the airport taxi and were greeted by a very friendly lady cabby. We small-talked for a few minutes and then Connie asked her how she and her family faired after Katrina. That opened, pardon the reference, the flood gates. I won’t go into that here. That’s another story, coming soon to a blog near you.

The trip was huge success for us, just what the doctor ordered. And one for which I will be ever grateful. After that twenty minute cab ride to the airport I promised myself that I would always be mindful of how blessed most of us are, what a beautiful country we live in, and to never hit on twelve.