BY BRIGITTE TREUMANN
It was all Willie Nelson’s fault and his “inspirin’” rendition of Metropolis of New Orleans “…I’m the train they call the city of New Orleans…”. I like that track and have listened to it typically without dashing to pack my luggage and heading south. However a mixture of yet one more late snowstorm in April, the still-bare timber, the grayness of it all, and Willie’s alluring, twangy voice made up my mind on the spot. And, as they say, before I knew it I used to be sitting in the lounge of the superbly restored Union Station – To All Trains – waiting to board superliner “City of New Orleans.” The pleasant and cozy roomette, my residence for the subsequent 18 hours, well mannered attendants, even the nondescript meals marketed on a superbly designed, evocative menu card, and an entertaining neighbor, a horse rancher named Bob from Hammond, Louisiana, whose accent and fascinating grammar have been most intriguing, contributed happily to an extended and interesting experience on the rails.
Going to sleep in southern, nonetheless sort-of-wintry Illinois and waking up in the inexperienced and sunny Mississippi Delta, a area that is called “the most southern place on earth” in the sense of the American south, thrilled me. I had glimpses of what Huge Daddy Pollitt from Cat On a Scorching Tin Roof described as “the richest land this side of the Valley of the Nile.” Centuries of flooding by the Mississippi and Yazoo rivers created this ample fertility with rows of fields, that are waterlogged now, being prepped for planting and new progress making an attempt to “come out” (as Rancher Bob stated). The practice rattled quite a bit on the shifting alluvial soil. It had me fearful for a few minutes, blowing its horn because it crossed many Mississippi small communities and towns en path to New Orleans. I understand now that some of them have been key towns and hamlets of the Civil Rights era: Jackson, Greenwood, where Stokely Carmichael gave his famous speech on Black Energy, Yazoo Metropolis and Greenville. The film “The Help” was virtually completely shot in Greenwood, Mississippi. Apparently it much resembles Jackson in the 1960s.
Approaching New Orleans, the panorama modifications dramatically as it turns into a waterscape and swampland. Inlets and bayous related to bigger estuaries, comparable to Lake Pontchartrain (actually an estuary), and adjoining still waters dominate the views from the practice because it hurtles towards its vacation spot on what appeared very slender bridges.
Prepped for cotton.
Are we on monitor?
Above the swamp.
However we made it and I alighted, barely dazed but excited, arrived at New Orleans – Nawlins – The Huge Straightforward – NOLA – Union Terminal, and searching ahead to 5 days in this superb town.
My selection to remain at the Inn on Ursulines, a French Quarter Visitor House, was most fortuitous. It’s understated but simply elegant façade reminded me of a stunning mansion in the French countryside where I spent memorable childhood summers. This New Orleans model has a slender, quite romantic courtyard in the again that runs between the front and a two story-covered-gallery home supported by columns. I stayed in the gallery house and it couldn’t have been more pleasant.
The Inn on Ursulines.
Ursulines Road is known as after the Ursuline nuns who established a convent, an orphanage and a faculty for women in New Orleans in 1745. The former convent is now a museum adjacent to pretty St. Mary’s Church that was built in 1727. I typically walked down Ursulines Road, discovering each a wonderful breakfast spot, the Golden Croissant, and at the nook of Ursulines and Chartres Streets, an enthralling garden and stately construction, the Beauregard-Keyes home.
Historical road signal.
Like so many different NOLA houses, it has a captivating historical past. And whereas I’m not a fan of house excursions, this one did intrigue me, not the least because of the reference to well-known Confederate Basic, Pierre Gustave Toutant (a.okay.a. P.G.T.) Beauregard. The peripatetic common pops up all over the place in and around New Orleans. He “lodged” right here in 1867 (perhaps to take a break from being a common?). One prized possession on view is his travel-dinner-trunk, full with fancy dishes, cooking pots, desk cloths and no matter else he needed to dine in fashion on the marketing campaign trail. Within the 1950s, a noted writer of romantic and gothic tales, Frances Parkinson Keyes, purchased the place, renovated it and designed the tasteful backyard.
Chartres Road impression.
Beauregard’s dinner trunk.
It’s Easter Sunday and I am out chasing a number of Easter parades. Trumpets of a passing parade on Ursulines woke me up, a merry introduction to what was a day of pictorial, musical and gastronomical overload, and unforgettable encounters. A day of constant meandering, tasting all these well-known specialties: three varieties of gumbo, truffled crayfish legs, beignets, bread pudding and cautiously sipping drinks with ominous names like Creole Slush, Hurricane Jane, Darkish and Stormy. But, to my disappointment, no fancy cocktail named Beauregard Punch! I shall create a becoming recipe.
Pink Easter Parade attendee.
Fabulous parade women.
Maurice and Ainsie – two bons compagnons.
The Bearded Belles of Bourbon Road and a smiling writer.
Taking a respite from the madding Easter Sunday crowds, a peaceful gliding by means of the Bayou Manchac, certainly one of many bayous or swamps in the world, seemed simply the fitting thing to do. Our information from the Cajun Delight Swamp Tour, folksy, fast-talking Capt’n Danny, was entertaining and knowledgeable. He lured slyly swimming alligators by throwing marshmallows their approach, or pointed to small and enormous turtles all in a row, whistled at cute raccoons staring out from dense bushes, and regaled us with tales of a scary voodoo priestess Julia Brown. She forged her spells in this watery sylvan realm and is claimed to have died with a curse on her lips, saying “when I die I shall take the whole town with me.” After her demise, so stated the jolly Capt’n Danny, a terrible hurricane destroyed the town. But Julia Brown’s dire predictions didn’t mar my enjoyment of silent waterways, the luxuriously inexperienced river forest, the silvery-gray veils of Spanish moss graciously draped on beechwood and cypresses. It was all kind of dreamlike. Perhaps I’ll develop into a voodoo priestess by the river, but a friendly one.
In the Manchac bayou.
Turtles all in a row.
Again in the maelstrom of energetic, happy-go-lucky tourists and New Orleanians my meandering led to the charming Marigny district. I adopted Esplanade Avenue with its wealth of early 19th century colourful and appealing mansions, the popular neighborhood of wealthy Creole residents of their time. It is straightforward to fantasize in “Nawlins”; not a voodoo priestess, but now a Creole of Spanish or French descent driving a thoroughbred, doffing his hat to the strolling women (this time I would like to be a person).
The preferred hub in Marigny is Frenchmen Road. It’s typically described as the Bourbon Road of yesteryear. Lined with eating places, cafes, and most of all, stay music golf equipment, it teems with aspiring and established musicians, colourful fashions, actors, producers and filmmakers. And, in fact, loads of goggling tourists who hope to spot a star, or simply to take pleasure in a type of NOLA drinks you’re allowed to hold in plastic cups in plain sight outside.
Music at Bamboula’s.
I come across a particularly dynamic, noisy and hilarious Hip-Hop occurring/production for MTV. They arrange (if that’s what one might call it) while I lunched on delicious crab desserts and quaffed the infamous hurricane double/triple rum cocktail at a fun place referred to as Bamboula. However then the present was on outdoors, and music and motion erupted like a benign volcano. I might have beloved to have a camcorder, however had to content material myself with my little Leica digital camera, making an attempt to maintain up with the velocity and constant motion of many faces, arms, legs, and our bodies.
Carrying the hurricane.
The youngest hip-hop fan.
On my last day of this good week, I booked a historic river cruise on the magnificently vast Mississippi with the Paddlewheeler Creole Queen that takes you downriver for about one hour to the 1815 Battle of New Orleans at the Jean Lafitte National Historic Park. Here, future U.S. President, Common Andrew Jackson led American forces victoriously towards a British invasion. It elevated Jackson to the status of Nationwide Warfare Hero. The Nationwide Park Service maintains the extensive green expanse of the previous battlefield, crisscrossed by small rivulets and patches of swampy floor. A dignified, white-mustachioed veteran informed the story of the Battle of New Orleans in great and poignant details.
The Creole deck.
Spanish moss on battlefield.
Simply rolling alongside…
Continuing the battlefield mode, I spent the remaining day at the extremely really helpful National World Struggle II museum. Because the official pamphlet says, “it offers a compelling blend of sweeping narrative, and poignant personal detail…an expansive collection of artifacts and first person oral-histories take visitors inside the story of the war – why it was fought, how it was won and what it means today.” It has been rated # 3 Museum in the USA, and is completely nicely well worth the visit. I targeted on the deeply shifting and brilliantly curated D-Day part, and that’s only a small a part of the entire. I need to return to further explore the in depth museum campus and rather more of this most fascinating, distinctive and mysterious city.
Enjoying the coda.