New Orleans, LA
Searching beyond the surface…
The contrast between the warm pristine beaches of the Emerald Coast and the cold crowded one-way streets in downtown NOLA offered a jolt to the system.
The drive to New Orleans was uneventful, but the task of parking our little van was an ordeal — serves us right, I guess, for taking a home-on-wheels into a city. It certainly didn’t help that it was getting dark fast. Because our van requires a clearance of 10 feet, we could not park in the hotel’s parking garage. Instead, N. made reservations at a parking lot a 10-minute walk away. Leaving our van in that lot at night felt almost as if we were dropping off our kindergartner in school for the first time.
When we checked into our hotel, something about the room didn’t look right — it felt weirdly… spacious. We quickly realized that it was missing seating of any sort — a sofa or a loveseat or a chair. When I called the front desk, the manager sent the maintenance man who solicitously nodded thoughtfully, listened to my complaint and said, “Yes, ma’m, I got you…” and then left.
We ran into him a little later when we were leaving the hotel for dinner. He gave us a thumbs-up and let us know that in that very minute he was waiting for delivery of our chair.
Late at night, someone knocked on the door. The maintenance man was standing there with a grin on his face, wheeling into the room a shabby stained red chair; he seemed so proud to have granted me my wish, like a fairy godfather!
N. later mentioned that he sincerely thought the guy was going to bring us new chair, one we might have to unwrap. Instead, we imagined someone gifting the chair to a relative, say a grandmother, and, upon our demand, calling the same with a request and a promise: “Yes, nana, I’ll bring you the chair back after these people check out in a few days! I promise!”
We were afraid to sit on it.
***
Although we had reservations for brunch on Sunday, we were ensconced in our hotel room — but not to our red chair — glued to the TV, watching the World Cup Final. Although neither N.’s favorite team nor mine was playing, we wanted to see a good game. For the first 75 minutes we were disappointed; after that, it was incredible — we probably disturbed our neighbors with all our gasps, yelling and cheering.
After a lovely brunch in a quiet patio covered by the branches of a citron tree, we walked around the neighborhood.
I had only the vaguest notion of what to expect. One hears about the French Quarter in New Orleans around the Mardi Gras season — the tourists, the costumes, the drinking. For some reason, I expected that the city would be quieter the rest of the year.
Instead, there must have been an NFL football game that afternoon, for groups of fans were walking around in Saints’ and Falcons’ jerseys (Who is Brees? I wasn’t interested enough to google it.) Many were carrying half-gallon-sized, beer-bottle shaped containers — and I’m guessing they weren’t filled with apple juice. Others were walking and sipping from cups with neon-colored concoctions. Enterprising hustlers set up shop in the streets — fortune tellers, plastic bucket drummers, bike riders performing wheelies — all competing with the jazz singers and trumpet players performing for diners in the many restaurants, which had their windows and doors open to attract even more customers.
As for the much-hoopla-ed architecture of the French Quarter, “the most European city in America” blah-blah: well, in my humble inexpert opinion, a few balcony gates does not French a city make.
Would we see nothing but the obvious garish tourist traps?
***
One of the reasons that we embarked on this van-life adventure is that, in the process of taking care of our parents, we had become acutely aware that the time would come when we would not have the independence to take care of ourselves, much less travel. And so here we are.
But as we were making plans, the one concern I had was healthcare. Yes, we had health insurance at home, but what would happen if one of us — or both of us — got sick on the road? (Our experience taught us travel insurance was useless: the one time I needed it, I got a letter explaining in legalese that my claim was exempt from coverage. They drum up fears and “what ifs” when they want to sell insurance, and then they try to find any excuse to keep from paying a claim. What a scam.) In my version of a perfect world, every person in this country would have universal health — and dental — insurance, covered from coast-to-coast, without limitations of geography, employment, or income.
Where is this going?
Well, there we were, at a restaurant for po’boys, so named, legend has it, because it was sold to workers who were “poor boys”. We placed our order, waited for our sandwiches, and admired the old-school decor. When we finally took our first bite — oysters for N. and shrimp for me — I heard N., mutter, “Shucks!” and we had ourselves a dental mishap. Just to be clear: the sandwiches were innocent (how do they get such crispy seafood from the deep fryer without it tasting oily?), but they led to a reoccurrence of an issue that N. has been dealing with for years. Now what?
The treatment that N. required was fairly simple, but we still had to find, without insurance, a dentist, get an appointment, and hope the doctor was competent, all in a city we were visiting for the first time. Where to begin? And how much would it cost? In the end, we searched for “Dentists Around Me”, chose one by the reviews and crossed our fingers. Fortunately, N. was able to get the care he needed.
It took three hours and cost $500.
So I’m still waiting for a perfect world.
***
After N.’s dentistry ordeal, we decided to have lunch (po’boys for me, but nothing but soup for N.: gumbo and crawfish etoufee) and spend some time in our van in Audubon Park. It would have been a lovely place to bike if it were not for the gloomy and wet weather. We watched gigantic ships go by on the Mississippi River, some pulled by smaller tugboats.
Our scary experience in New Orleans — as opposed to our scary experience in the Smoky Mountains or our scary experience in Miramar Beach — came courtesy of the city. We were driving under pouring rain and on streets that at certain sections had more potholes than pavement. During what I imagine would have been an unremarkable drive in regular roads, we avoided those potholes we could see through the rain, while we drove slowly through the craters we couldn’t avoid. Even through the rain, we could identify different layers of broken asphalt, like different layers in architectural tels, each specific to a distinct era and government administration. Then, at one point, when we were making an U-turn, we suddenly found ourselves on the path of the headlights of an oncoming streetcar; at that moment, we felt like deer. “Back up! Back up!” I yelled at N. By the time we got to the restaurant, we needed stiff drinks to calm down.
***
I realize that we should not judge a city on the basis of such a short visit. Between N.’s dental ordeal and our “deer in the headlights” moment, I was feeling aggrieved and a bit depressed. Then we went to the Louisiana State Museum and the Presbytere.
The main exhibit at the Louisiana State Museum presented the history of New Orleans in chronological order. I read about the diverse communities, the French settlements, the period of Spanish administration, the Louisiana Purchase, and the continuing resilience and adaptation and spirit of the people of New Orleans. Learning even just a smidgeon about the history helped me get a sense of perspective and appreciation for a city that previously I had been just whining about.
The Presbytere had two main exhibits, one on New Orleans during Katrina and another about the traditions of Mardi Gras. Both added to a better understanding of the city and its people.
After dinner, N. dragged me to a jazz bar. I had poo-poo-ed the idea, mostly out of a sense of ignorance: I knew nothing about jazz, so what was the point? N., on the other hand, wanted to do/see/eat all the things most characteristic about each city we visited: New Orleans was known for jazz, so to a jazz bar we should go. He was right.
This particular jazz hall had been recommended by a local, and the vibe was intimate, relaxed, with people from all over the world having a great time listening to the band. The most surprising thing was to see that the guy playing the trumpet in the band was Asian!
