New Orleans, Part 3

Up and at ‘em. I was going to the bayou. I woke, showered, dressed, had breakfast and was on my way after I and the other tourists about town had been picked up, dispatched to the dock of the flat bottom boat that I’d spend the rest of the morning on, racing to and slinking through the fingers of the river delta, taking in the mangroves and lizards and birds and insects that crossed our path, where I learned that crocodiles can’t seem to get enough of marshmallows. They thought they were eggs. They kind of looked like eggs. But unless they have no taste buds to speak of, you’d think they’d have clued in that the things fed them from the boat had neither the taste nor texture of eggs. But hope abounds, doesn’t it.
I returned to the city where I booked my next day tour and set about enjoying more Cajun cuisine. I lunched at Arnaud’s, reputedly where Elvis ate every day while filming King Creole, savouring (Rockefeller) Oysters for the first time (me, that is, not Elvis). Four ladies were the only others in attendance in the front room when I arrived, and were still there when I left. One was celebrating a birthday, and after declaring, “Now, aren’t you a dapper young gentleman,” chatted me up and asked if I might take their picture, and once I had, asked if I wished them to take mine.

I tried to eat at Galatoire’s for supper that evening, but when I entered the atrium I was greeted with a rather formal, “Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”

“I’d like a table for one, please,” I answered. “Do I need a reservation?” I looked in, noting that few tables were occupied at that time.

“Not at this time, but I’m sorry, sir,” the tuxedoed gentleman at the maître d’s podium said, “we have a dress code in effect, and though I can loan you a jacket, I cannot lend you pants.”

I was wearing shorts. The day, like the day before, was hot and humid, and I had spent the day out on the delta, feeding marshmallows to crocodiles, so no, I was not wearing pants. Or shoes for that matter. Sandals seemed a more sensible choice at the time.

“Ah,” I said, already hungry and not wishing to trek back to and from my hotel in such heat, “may I make a reservation for tomorrow at five?”

He took my reservation and bid me good evening.

I spent my evening and night on Bourbon, again, this time getting a ticket for Preservation Hall, even if I was too late for seating. Ever been to? No? FYI: It’s hot in here, so bring a hand fan if you’ve got one. It’s an altogether unimpressive building, inside and out, decidedly weathered exterior, in need of paint, maybe even the wrecking ball. Its storied interior is as rustic as you might imagine. The hardwood creaks underfoot, the walls could use a spot of paint. That said, it’s a wonder of ambiance and history and I recommend it to one and all who’ve never been.

Generations of footfalls have worn paths into the floor. Paintings line the walls, each frame a musician with horn in hand, or a banjo, or a drum, all of them smoky and African. There’s a sign behind to “stage” (there is no stage; the musicians are at the same level as the audience, most of whom sit on pads on the floor or stand, with only a few benches in between) that states: Traditional requests $2, Others $5, The Saints $10. I was left standing at the first inner entrance with an amazing view of the band from just off stage. The Preservation Hall Jazz Band was not in attendance, they tour a lot; but the band that was in attendance was just as good. Young. Co-ed. Not the trombone player. I think the trombone player was attracted to me, as she kept glancing over at me between solos and songs, smiling. Maybe I was wrong, but indulge me; I’m getting on and I’ll take what compliments I can get.

The next day I took a Katrina tour where I saw watermarks fifteen and twenty feet above ground, FEMA marks spray-painted in red over still empty homes. I saw pumps and levees, the Mississippi and Lake Pontchartrain. And I saw anger. I saw it and heard it from the tour guide who railed against FEMA and Bush and any government he could name. “We were abandoned,” he said, “left to rot when any other city would have been rescued long before. No one cared to do anything until it was too late. Why? Because we are a black city. Any white city would have had a quicker response. Old ladies died in their homes and were left to rot in their houses for weeks until their families were finally allowed to go in and remove them. See the marks on that house,” he pointed, “see that number? That was how many bodies they found in there and were left inside.”

I nearly suffocated in that shuttle. Exhaust leaked into it, making us all nauseous. We were happy to finally step out into the St. Louis Cemetery where we’d have likely become residences had we remained confined in it for much longer than we were. Beignets at the Morning Call Coffee shop in City Park, then back to the French Quarter through the Garden District.

I showered, dressed in a suit and made my way to Galatoire’s, the only person seemingly headed West while everyone else headed East. The NFL had its home opener that day and all of America had its eyes set on New Orleans and the Saints, they having won the Superbowl the year before. I’d never seen so much black and gold in my life. Or so many overly tanned people. A woman passed me, nearly mummified from so many years spent worshipping the sun.

“Nice tie,” some guy said as I passed. “Where’d you get it?”
“Toronto,” I said.
I heard him say, “Shit,” as I passed.

When I arrived at Galatoire’s, it was almost empty. Most people were out at the Stadium, they said.
The man I took for the maître d’, the day before, sat me. He asked me where I was from. He asked me if I had a regular waiter. I did not. When he heard I was from Northern Ontario he asked if he might join me, and spent my whole visit keeping me company. Good thing; shortly after I was seated, the place emptied out and I had the whole restaurant to myself. Sound carried, bouncing off the mirrored walls and green fleurs-de-lis. Low slung ceiling fans spun slow circles overhead. He said he’d spend decades travelling to Ontario with his father to hunt and fish each and every autumn, he said. I asked him, “Where?” North of Thunder Bay, he said.

After a time he too spoke about Katrina and how it had devastated his town. It was still having an effect, he said. “Tourism is down.”
“There seems to be a lot of people here,” I said.
“Not as many as there once was,” he said. “Tell all your friends to come on down,” he said. “We could use the business.”

He ought to know, he was the owner’s son.