Alaska, Part 2

Alaska

We made landfall three times while in Alaska, at Hoonah, at Juneau, and at Ketchikan.

We didn’t actually make landfall at Hoonah. There was no pier; in fact, there was not enough depth within the Icy Strait to actually get too close to the town. We were shuttled into town. It’s a small settlement, mostly Native, and not particularly developed, either. It’s only about six streets deep. But it does sport a world class zip line.

We didn’t do much in Hoonah. Bev was still green, just happy to have two feet on solid ground. We strolled about town and along its rocky shore and went to the museum and bought a couple trinkets. We had lunch. I’d like to say that I wished I’d rode the zip line, and in a way, I wish I had; but I’m probably more happy that I didn’t. I’m a wuss at heights and would have probably needed a slight shove to have launched.

The Hubbard Glacier

Our approach to the Hubbard Glacier the next day was far more exciting. It was grey. It was grim. An icy sleet swept across the deck. Floes drifted past as we approached. Penguins and seals rode them, lolling about and watching us as we steamed past, a curiosity they must see a few times a week. The crackle of calving burgs rolled across the water like snaps of thunder, the sloughed off sheets and chunks of ice throwing plumes of spray into the air as the hit the water.

Juneau was busier still. The fog burned off over breakfast, a phenomenon we’d come to expect every morning while in Alaska. It was not a common occurrence at that time of year; indeed, rain was far more common. Rain was expected. It had been raining for two weeks prior to our arrival, in fact, only breaking as we arrived. Had we arrived the week before, we’d have not even seen the Hubbard glacier at all; we’d have been treated to a deluge instead.

Our Guide was waiting for us as we disembarked. She was young by all accounts, just twenty-three. And not a native Alaskan. Most people we met were not native Alaskans. Most were transplants from the Lower Forty-eight. Robina was no exception, being from New York State. Rick, our bus driver was from Miami. This is not surprising. Alaska is not densely populated. Most Alaskans are not terribly interested in tourism. They are fisher folk. They are lumberjacks. They are Sarah Palin. Those people working in tourism are students in summer employ. Tourism is seasonal, after all. Alaskans prefer year-round employment.

We boarded a coach that took us to the “Sounder.” Bald eagles sat on shore, watching us leave. There were orcas galore at sea, although we never got that close to them. Whenever we cruised closer to wherever we’d seen them surfacing, we’d discover them surfacing where we’d just left. Terrible rude of them. Herds of sea lions and walruses lay about on the rocks of the coves, groaning and growling amongst themselves, hardly taking notice of us as we passed.

Tongas National Rainforest

On returning, we set about exploring Tongas National Rainforest and the Mendenhall Glacier. The glacier was much depleted. All glaciers are much depleted. But it was still shockingly blue. Chunks of dense ice littered the shore where we stood, across the inlet from the wall. An eagle flew past overhead, no farther than ten feet from where I stood.
We expected to see brown bears. We crossed a bog and lined up, high above the river bank and peeled our eyes, scanning the forest’s edge for their arrival. The river was choked with salmon. It seemed only a matter of time. We waited in vain. The bears had gorged themselves on the spawning salmon already. The salmon had spawned and lay dying as we watched them roll and splash about on the rocks. They were not fit to eat, Robina told us. The bears were elsewhere, she said.

They were. They were back at the visitor’s center and parking lot. We’d begun to pay no attention to our surroundings. We were chatting, making Euro pals, or Alaskan pals as it were. But Bev was still watching.

“Excuse me,” she said to the oblivious. “There’s a bear.”

Many pictures were taken after much embarrassed laughter.

The Ketchikan Rain Gauge

Ketchikan was wet. It rained buckets. As it should at that time of year. The coast was a rainforest, after all. There was a meter in the town showing the amount of rain that had already fallen by that time. Seventy-six inches had been measured by then.

Trade was catered to tourists looking for a deal. I’d never seen so many jewelry stores in my life. I’d never seen so many Cartier watches, either. But I was disinclined to pay $10,000 for a watch. A young woman approached me as I was leaned over the glass display, gawking at the array of timepieces I’d never buy.

“Can I help you,” she asked. Her Russian accent was perfect. Every shopkeeper and every clerk I’d came face to face with in Ketchikan was Russian. That never seemed to cease to amaze me.

“No,” I said, too shocked at the price of everything I’d seen to say “thank you.”

Her head inched back. Her eyes snapped wide. She laughed. It burst forth from her in a surprised bark.
I finally did say, “Thank you,” but I decided to be on my way and not bother to step into another jewelry store. There was no point.

We had a snack at the Burger Queen. It’s a greasy spoon that all the Ketchikan travel websites said was a must do. There was a bit of a line-up. It was certainly busy. But it was just a greasy spoon, as tattered and worn as one would expect. But it was a change from all the decadent food we’d been eating aboard the ship. Burger and fries. Catsup. Lots of onions. As good as any barbeque. I’m not sure it was worth the somewhat lengthy walk we had to endure there and back in the rain, though. That said, I’d probably go there again, given the chance.

The Beaver

We boarded a Beaver. It was an expensive excursion, but I wanted to fly in a sea plane. We taxied out into the center of the sound and picked up speed, skimming and jumping over the chop, leaping into the air, climbing up and over the surrounding peaks, weaving between the still higher ones. Then we turned about and dove, banking hard as we descended into a steep fiord. We didn’t seem to slow as we raced toward the high treed wall ahead. Our waked splashed high and wide about us. Then we settled and slowed and turned, nestled up against the mountainously high shore that jut up from the sea and reached up into the sky. The pilot cut the engine. We donned life-vests and stepped out onto the pontoon floats. The engine off, it was quiet. Water lapped against the pontoons. Unseen birds called. Other birds glided past us as our eyes surveyed the rocky treed heights about us.

I was seated beside the pilot on the return flight. He was telling me about how he came to Alaska and what he liked about it.

Northern Ontario

“It’s an odd place to live, he said. “It’s a modern town. But within an hour, you can be deep in the bush, standing where no one else has ever stood before.”

He also said, “You gotta like to hunt and fish to live here. You gotta like the bush.”

I looked out the window, taking in the rivers and lakes and pine trees. The undeveloped expanse that stretched on and on and on. Green. Blue. Rain streaking the glass.

“Oh my god,” I thought. “I’ve just spent $10,000 to come home on vacation.”

Alaska was exactly like Northern Ontario.

It was just a little taller.

Alaska

The descent back into Vancouver was uneventful, if a little nauseous. The Sea to Sky highway is a winding switchback that weaves between lakes and coastal cliffs, the angle steep, making it seem like I was always leaning forward as we plunged back down to the coast and Canada Place where we were whisked aboard the cruise ship, even though we weren’t able to claim our cabin until after lunch.

Lunch was served aft, two decks above our room. It was quite a selection” pizza, soup, sandwiches, pasta, salad, and more. If you’ve never been on a cruise ship, you know that access to food is not a problem. Overeating is. Over-drinking may be a problem, too. Champagne as we boarded, beer, wine, brandy, not to mention water, tea, coffee and pop, all of which I consumed that first day, owing to the drinks package purchased. Mustn’t miss out on getting my money’s worth! I’m such a Northern Ontario boy.

We took possession of our cabin shortly after lunch. 1140, Deck 10, three from the starboard stern. There were fresh cut flowers, fruit, and a bottle of champagne awaiting us. Just what we needed, more booze. No point letting it go to waste, we nibbled and sipped as we checked out our room. We had a sizable balcony, easily twice as long as the largest I’d seen along the flanks, and those above us, large enough for two lounge chairs, a table and two chairs. It stuck out so far, we could see the table and chairs from the aft lounge above us.

We dressed and caught the early show in the Celebrity Theatre before supper in the Grand Restaurant, a vast open concept spanning two decks. We sat on the lower of the two, towards the centre. The food was fantastic. It always is on a cruise ship. Lunch was as large and as elegant therein as during the supper seating, so too breakfast, if you were so inclined.

We somehow completed our first supper, despite being bloated by lunch and a tide of fluids. Bev thought her prime rib divine, my coq au vin as good. FYI: all meals are replete with appetizers, bread, soup or salad and dessert. Not to mention the accompanying bottle of flat or sparkling water. One must waddle from the table. One sleeps on one’s side after such a feast, unable to either lay on one’s belly or tolerate the weight of said belly above one. I must mention that there were over fifty wines on the menu, far too many to partake of in one sitting.

I found Michael’s, the piano bar, shortly after supper. It quickly became my favourite. It was a woody affair, reminiscent of smoking rooms of old where gentlemen in tuxedos drank scotch and brandy while buffing on fat cigars. The cigars were gone, banished to the promenade, but the brandy and scotch was still there, along with a beautiful Russian girl behind the bar. Just for ambiance’s sake.

The space was not perfect, though. The piano player was not to type. Where I’d have preferred someone along the lines of Dooley Wilson, projecting the likes of Gershwin and Sinatra into the dim lit space, “As Time Goes By,” eagerly anticipated, the player in attendance was more akin to Groucho Marx. Richard Rubin manned to keys. You don’t remember him? He was a participant on a cheesy game show called “Beauty and the Geek.” I think the music ought to match the mood of the place, and that place radiated a melancholy romance. Richard did not radiate such a mood.

Our first day was at sea. We passed the most scenic portion of the passage after sunset the night before—go figure. It would have been nice to take in the view of the Pacific coast and Vancouver Island falling behind us from our balcony, but we left port too late for such a view. We woke to a view of the sea, with only our wake visible behind us. The air had cooled.

I felt great. Bev did not. Bev had grown queasy.

She did not make her spa treatment. She grew more sea sick with each undulating roll of the deck, collapsing onto the bed after tossing back the pills our butler brought from the infirmary.
Once I knew she was okay, I went to the spa, where I was treated to the hard sell of my need for a continuous stream of spa treatments throughout the voyage. I declined. I did return to find Bev worse off than I’d left her. She slept through lunch, rising for supper, even though she didn’t feel up to eating much. She sipped a little soup before retiring again.

I had kippers for breakfast. Why? Because they come highly recommended by Supertramp. Thereafter, I always had kippers for breakfast. Why? Why not, I reasoned. How often would I be afforded the opportunity, afterwards? I was treated to whales breaking the surface as I ate. They blew geysers and leapt, their spray as long as they were.

Bev was feeling better. The sea-sickness pills were kicking in and she was probably getting her sea legs. We played a game of shuffleboard on deck, Bev kicking my ass early, until I got a feel for the deck and recovered in the second half. We don’t really know the rules, if there were any beyond placing the disks within the numbered squares and triangles, but we carried on, regardless.

We retired to the Library for a while, as the day was damp and growing cooler, the wind gusting past the deck. I wanted to go to the theatre after lunch to learn the tango but Bev bailed at the theatre entrance. She may have felt a little queasy still, not firm of foot, so she left to go back to the room. A partner could not be found for me. Most people arrived as couples or in twos, so I watched for a time.

I now know how to watch the tango.

Progress. Small steps.

New York, Part 2

I decided to go to see the site of the World Trade Center. I knew that the clean-up had finished and that construction of the new World trade Center had begun and that nothing remained of the tragedy, but I was drawn there. 9/11 had affected me and I wanted to pay my respects to the victims, if only to visit the site of their deaths.

I headed south by subway (subway stations were conveniently placed all about Times Square, one just outside my hotel entrance at 47th and 7th, getting off at City Hall and wandered about City Hall Park, checking out the Jacob Wrey Mould Fountain and the statuary throughout before making my way to the World Trade Center and Financial District. I followed my map, walking the short distance down Broadway to Versey Street, rounding St. Paul’s Chapel to where the World Trade Center once stood, and still does in my memory.

I was not disappointed. It was a construction site with barriers up all around it, cutting off any and all view of what was. Trucks rushed here and there, delivering steel and concrete and what have you, drills and jack hammers and hydraulics and pneumatics threw enough dust and noise into the air that I retreated to St. Paul’s Chapel again.

What was remarkable was how little damage was done to the surrounding structures. St. Paul’s Chapel, just across Church Street was unscathed as far as I could see. So too all the other buildings across Church Street, but I suspect they were and had since been repaired and cleaned up. They would be. Business beckoned. Retail abounds at Century 21 and Wall Street is but a few blocks to the south. They would not have spared any amount to refurbish St. Paul’s, bringing it back to its former glory; it’s where George Washington was inaugurated as the first President of the Nation, after all.

I walked down past Zuccotti Park to Wall Street, then back on the subway where I got off in Greenwich Village for lunch. I was terribly bohemian while there, trying sushi for the first time, listening to musicians talk trade at tables around me.

I spent the afternoon touring Radio City Music Hall. Primarily a cinema, it found its way to movies as well. Visions of a thousand films passed my mind as I approached it, its neo marquee rising high up its flanks, its lights ablaze day and night. Radio Days, Home Alone 2, Quiz Show, and most memorably, The Godfather, with Michael Corleone and wife Christmas shopping, Michael reaching for and grasping a newspaper bearing news that his father had been shot and expected to die.

Inside, it’s an Art Deco palace. The Grand Foyer, its staircases a cascade of Oriental murals, plush VIP lounges, the mezzanine and balcony and the great proscenium arch, over 60 feet high and 100 feet wide, a huge semi-circular void, its steam powered stage, so top secret during WW2 that the FBI had to guard it, lest its mechanics reveal how the Navy’s aircraft carriers dispatched its fighters.

Of course, there were Rockettes. I met one and had my picture taken with her.

I had time for another show. But which? I didn’t want to pay full price though, so I stood in line at TKTS and looked to see what was on sale. I recommend TKTS. That day’s shows could be on sale for as much as 75% off. If you’re willing to wait. The line is long. Some lengthy time might be spent waiting. But only for musicals; should you wish for drama, there’s a much shorter line on the other side. I was waiting on the much longer side. I didn’t have to wait too long. No sooner did I resign myself for a full morning of inching forward, a young lady in a short tuxedo danced up to me and presented me with a pamphlet for “Chicago.” Go to the box office and get 50% off your ticket price it said.

Done. Time and money saved.

I was off to see the city from up on high, atop the Empire State Building. A must. It too is an Art Deco wonder (can you tell whether I’m a fan of Art Deco?), all marble and arches and decidedly 1930s. King Kong surveyed the city from that vantage, so did Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan when so sleepless in Seattle that they had to fall in love atop it, as did Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr while having an affair to remember, not to mention Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne; even the Daleks and Doctor Who chased about the observation deck.

The lines were shorter than I was led to expect. I was up top in no time, eschewing the topmost deck, being informed that it wasn’t worth the extra cash. I beat the rush, the lines decidedly longer when I was leaving than when I arrived.

I had to visit J.J.’s Hat Center while I was in the Neighborhood. I bought a couple while there, a straw and a fur felt. I ought not to have. They were more expensive than those I’d bought from the Hatter in Toronto, but their selection was larger, their ambiance more lush. Long, tall, lazy ceiling fans, it smelled of wood and wool and fur and the ages. Glossy wooden display cases, glassed display doors glowed under the soft overhead lighting. Leather seating. An aura of style and a bygone age. It screamed masculine.

My final day was spent wandering up and down the city, taking in this and that and not really seeing much. I was too rushed. I snapped Pen Station and Grand Central and Madison Gardens from without, the formers from within a little.

June and I had shared a few drinks over the course of our mutual stay, but we spent our time crossing paths, odd for such a large city, but as we were staying at the same place, not impossible. We’d yet to have the dinner we’d set.

We finally did, that final evening. I’d caught sight of an Indian restaurant while wandering the streets nearby and suggest that. She like Indian, so a time was set. We were sat, were mistaken as a married couple as we both wore wedding rings, ordered and ate. And talked like Euro pals sometimes do. We discussed our pasts, our presents, what the future what might hold, and whether it was what we expected and desired. Family. Friends. Regrets. Defeats. Triumphs. And our separate glory days of old. Backpacks and flannel and Doc Martens and mosh pits and what was. And what would never be again. The past is past, we decided, best left there and not pined over.

I suggested a club I’d seen that morning, in the basement of the Edison Hotel where I’d seen a curious display, a sousaphone with a speaker set within, the horn throwing Louis Armstrong out into the space before it.

I noted the plaque before it. The famous Vince Giordano and the Night Hawks were playing there that night. Never hear of him or them. I looked them up online and saw that they’d written and recorded a number of movie scores. A few of them even wrote television scores. This was their under the table job, so to speak. Special guest Saul Yaged, a New York jazz clarinetist from the 40s and 50s.

June said that she liked swing and Big band. Go figure, two middle-aged ex-punk, new wave, grunge backpackers who’d mellowed so.

The bar was Art Deco, funneled to coax the music to the back of the hall. There were a couple dancers all decked out in ‘40s attire, bow-tied and tweed, floral and red lipped.

We shared an antipasto plate, danced a little even though we really had no clue what we were doing. I complimented Saul after his numbers. He was good, but he was 80 as well, so his lungs weren’t up to more than a couple songs at a time. He thanked me. And for the next hour I was his favourite fan in the front row.

We caught a set, no more. We both had flights in the morning, mine so early to necessitate a 4 am wakeup call.

New York

The Big Apple. I made it. It had been some years since I’d seen that fabled skyline from JFK and promised myself that I’d have to come back one day, and now I had.

I was fortunate to have arrived early, as well. I was supposed to fly from New Orleans to Washington to New York, arriving after 8 pm, but I was somehow bumped from American to Delta and now had a direct flight, arriving two hours early. That afforded me the time to do something.

But what? I asked the concierge. He suggested a Broadway show. He probably suggested that to everyone when asked. We were in the Entertainment District, after all. We were in Times Square, after all. The theatres were minutes’ walk away, seconds in a dash, depending on the crowds that were forever gathered under the blinding neon and LCDs that turned night into day every night. I had the concierge book me a ticket for “Billy Elliott,” showered and changed and had just enough time to grab a slice and a coke at Joe’s Pizzeria (again, the concierge’s suggestion) right across the street before racing to the theatre and sitting minutes before curtain. That’s a New York minute, in the classic sense.
Maybe not if you prescribe to this more modern definition of a New York minute: the interval between a Manhattan traffic light turning green and the guy behind you honking his horn (so said Johnny Carson).

It was latish when “Billy Elliott” ended, too late for me to go exploring an unfamiliar city, anyway, so I went back to the hotel and settled into the bar for a nightcap before going to bed. I did not get to bed early. In fact I went to bed fairly late, somewhere in the vicinity of 2 am. I met some people at the bar that night and had a Euro pal moment, most notably with June, a Korean Californian my age in NYC on business. We and a trio of friends from the Midwest sat up talking for hours until mutually breaking for the night. I never saw the trio again; I did see June every day.

The next day I rose slowly. I was a little late getting about my day, but what did I expect after staying up all hours? The weather matched my mood: overcast, a slight sleet washing the high-rises and streets wet, if not clean.

I discovered a quintessential diner a few blocks from my hotel. Ample food, super speedy service, dirt cheap; what else could you ask for? “What to do?” I wondered while I ate, glancing at my trusty guide. I thought I might see 5^th Avenue and then make my way to Central Park, weather permitting.

I found myself opposite St. Patrick’s Cathedral and upon entering, found that Mass was in progress, so I found a pew and sat down. Tall, intricately carved, neo-gothic, it’s a sight to behold. It may be dwarfed by those buildings around it, but within, its height boggles the mind, its span wider than any church I’d yet seen, its central arch supported by massive pillars that require televisions set throughout for the devout to see the alter and priests. An organ played hymns. A choir sang. The gathered sang and kneeled and rose in unison, lined up for communion and were instructed to “go in peace, to Love and Serve the Lord.”

I walked over to Rockefeller Center, stood in Art Carney’s place where he once marvelled his fictional grandson with the magic of Christmas, with a little help from Coca-Cola, then found myself shopping for a while, waiting for the weather to improve. It did. The clouds had already begun to break as I emerged from Mass.

I unraveled the subway, making my way to Central Park, basking in and dappled by the now brilliant sun. I circled the southern fifth of the Park, enjoying the paths and bridges and its stately trees before emerging and strolling up 7th Avenue to Carnegie Hall, stopping to admire the statuary littered around the Columbus Circle while I was at it. I got there without much practicing (there’s a joke in there, if you know it). It was closed. But the box office was open, selling tickets for the upcoming season. When I mentioned how far I’d come, expressing disappointment that I’d just missed performances and guided tours by a week, the box said rather cheerily, “You’ll just have to come back, then.” I don’t think she had much skill at geography.

I applied the ticket I bought online for “At the Heights” that evening. I queued up for the box office to collect it. They couldn’t seem to understand why I didn’t have my ticket.

“We sent the ticket to you by mail,” they said. What did that matter? I thought. I had ID and the credit card I’d purchased the ticket with. Print me a new one.

I was more diplomatic than that. I did point out the fact that I had my ID and credit card with me for them to validate. “It arrived after I left home, I explained. “I’ve been gone a week.”

The two stars were absent from the performance. Holidays, go figure. I did see their chief understudies play the leads (the actors who normally played the main supporting roles), thinking that I probably saw a better performance because of it. They’d risen up through Broadway to get their parts. Unlike the two leads, who were American Idol winners with no prior theatrical experience.

I was exhausted from a day of walking when I returned to the hotel and I was a little old for clubbing, in my mind, anyway, so I found a seat at the bar and my bartender from the night before, indeed, my bartender for my entire stay, asked me if I wanted the usual. The usual? I wasn’t aware that I had a usual. I did have a few Glenmorangie scotches the night before, but I’d had a few imported beers too, I remembered. I’d asked him what scotch he recommended the night before, not being a scotch drinker but game to try one, and he had told me that nothing stronger than Coors Light ever passed his lips, but said that “this” scotch seemed to please most scotch drinkers. I found it odd meeting a bartender who didn’t like mixed drinks or malts, every bartender I ever knew partook, if only to speak on what they were serving. Not so him. But he was right. It was light and smooth and had pleased me the night before, so I suppose the Glenmorangie was my usual in his eyes.

I nodded. He poured. And June resolved in the seat next to me, her day of meetings complete. We did not stay up late that night. We’d both suffered enough from our excess the night before. We did discover an easy report between us, and said as much. She’d backpacked too, even if she’d traded her flannels and jeans and Doc Martens in for a power suit in years past, so she was well acquainted with the Euro pal phenomenon. We made a date for dinner the next night before we both begged each other’s forgiveness, each repairing to our rooms for the much-needed rest we’d denied ourselves the night before.

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.

New Orleans, Part 2

I landed in sweltering heat, collected my bags and took a cab into the city, the usual array of twists and turns that curl around circle routes, ring roads, culminating in a final plunge into the core proper. The big sky narrowed as the three and four-story buildings closed in and we lurched through cross-street after cross-street. I finally saw that fabled street sign, Bourbon Street, catching a glimpse of those getting a head start on their twelve-step program, clutching neon lime green flat-bottomed flasks to their chests or the more mundane plastic cup sloshing beer.

We burst back out into the light as we crossed Canal Street, only to slip back into the twilight of narrow streets again, the buildings noticeably taller on this side of Canal. I checked in, found my room, unpacked and rushed back out to explore, easing my way up Canal, inching past shops selling identical wares until I saw St. Charles Street.

I knew what I was looking for, Mayer the Hatter. I even knew where it was. I’d found it online, and wrote down its address and stuck it in my wallet, refreshing my memory online before leaving the Wyndham. Office buildings towered around it. A street car rattled past as I checked out the wares in the window, finally walking into the glorious air-conditioned space within. I could have lingered all night in its heavenly chill. But I had things to see. I worried over my decision, trying on this and that, brushing off the occasional suggested paper hat, focusing on straw, unsure whether broad or stingy brim suited my mood and look. I picked a classic stingy brim fedora and made my way to Bourbon Street.
Bourbon was easy to find. A collection of high school aged kids blared traditional New Orleans jazz at its entrance, under the red glow of a Walgreens neon, their drums a collection of flipped plastic pails, their brass tarnished and scratched and dinted. I slipped a couple bucks into their case and began to rubberneck the length of the street.

The sun was low, Bourbon already growing dim. True to its reputation, it did not take long to slip into the expected debauchery. Mere feet within was the first strip club, an ATM conveniently across from it.
I discovered that I was hungry. And not for strippers. I passed a Hard Rock Café, not interested in corporate fare, the usual homogenized crap, the usual pound of fries accompanying the usual deep-fried whatever. I kept on until I saw what I wanted on Bienville, Desire Oyster Bar, a little restaurant tucked in under the Royal Soneto Hotel, its doors thrown open to the night. I ducked inside, saw that it was full and loud and filled with the clatter of glassware and cutlery. I saw an empty table near the entrance, caught the eye of one of the waitresses and gestured to the table. Big woman, black, all smiles. She nodded. She came over, menu in hand and said, “Sit yourself down, dear. Take a look at that and I’ll be right back to take your order. You want something to drink?” Can you hear the southern drawl? Slow measured speech, unhurried, befitting the heat and the humidity that felt like I was swimming though the air. Fans rustled the air overhead. The din echoed off the tin plate and tile.

I asked what was on tap and ordered jambalaya. What else would I order? First meal in Nawlins, after all. The beer came, delightfully cold, hoppy enough to offset the bite and the heat of the jambalaya.
My belly full, I made my way down Bourbon, taking in the names of the streets and bars along the way, the Old Absinthe House, Rick’s Cabaret, Jester, Famous Door, Daiquiris, Conti Street, St. Louis, Toulouse, St. Peter, St. Anne. Court of the Two Sisters, Pat O’Brien’s, Maison Bourbon. Wrought iron railings followed my every step, twenty- and thirty- and forty-somethings leaning far out over the street, beers and daiquiris in hand. Herds of youths crossed around me, most carrying those neon green flasks in hand.

Human statues held fast here and there, portraying windswept statuary, all silver or gold. A cop astride a horse clopped past, traces of it left behind here and there. Hawkers declared imminent damnation, laughed at by the gathered, some saluting them with their fishbowl cocktails, others screaming vitriol back. A concerned citizen rushed me upon seeing my wedding band, asking me, “Does your wife know you’re here?”

“Of course,” I said. “Do you want her number to ask her yourself?”

I wanted away from the fray. I heard a trumpet and clarinet in Maison Bourbon as I approached St. Peter, where everywhere else was a cacophony of electric guitars and basses playing classic rock covers at near deafening levels. Once or twice I passed two bars facing one another, their doors and windows wide open, their bands dueling for patrons. All the bars had their doors and windows wide open. I felt compressed as I passed. But not targeted; that only happened each and every time I passed a cabaret, where girls in halter tops and hot pants and stilettos rushed forward to take me by the arm to draw me in. “How you, sugar?”

I walked into Maison Bourbon, the hint of air-conditioning rolling out of its open French-doors, and sat at the bar. All the tables were full, the patrons pressed together within the small space, back to back and shoulder to shoulder. It was a wonder that the waitress could navigate the space, her tray narrowly sweeping across heads as she reached and stretched and placed the most current tally of the table’s tabs.
I noted the location of the fables Preservation Hall down the street but dismissed it for the evening when I saw how many people had lined up outside it, so I tried a few bars on for size, The Krazy Corner, Ticklers (a thin piano bar, just sayin’), Pat O’Brien’s (three or four bars in one).

The day began to press down on me. Long hours of airports and flights and cabs had caught up to me. My head was swimming and I was in need of a bed. I decided to call it a night, what with my already having booked a bayou tour for the next day.

I’d promised myself that I would not spend the holiday belly to a bar.

Bourbon Street threatened such a vacation.

New Orleans

I’d wondered for some time what I wanted to do for my next holiday. Bev and I had just gone to the East Coast twice, first to Nova Scotia (Halifax, specifically) and Quebec City, then to Nova Scotia and PEI. We could go to Newfoundland, I supposed, or we could begin looking into the West Coast.

But I recalled looking out of JFK’s windows once and thinking as I surveyed New York’s fabled skyline that I would go there someday. I also thought about New Orleans and Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras was not essential; from what I’d heard, every night was Mardi Gras in New Orleans sans the parade. I looked into both and asked Bev if she was interested.

She was not. She’d gone on this Woman’s Wellness retreat at Cedar Meadows Resort and one of the girls had suggested that they all go to Vegas. Apparently, there was some enthusiasm about it and Bev began to think that she’d like to go. Her friend Lynn had been there and when Lynn thought that she might attend, Bev really began to think about it.

“Who’s planning this trip? I asked.

“I think Angel is,” Bev said.

“You should find out if she is, then, and if the girls are really on board.”

Bev informed me that Angel informed her that it was a go and that the girls were all in. I asked one of the girls who worked at my office who’d been there and she said, “I don’t have any money for that. Or the time. I got two kids.”

I asked Bev again, “Is this a sure thing?” Apparently, it was.

I suggested that it wasn’t and that she should come to New Orleans and New York with me.

She wanted to go to Vegas.

“You’ve no issue with me going to New Orleans and New York?” She didn’t. “Alone?” No. “Without you?” No.

Bev would have gone, but her mother’s passing had put her in a funk that she couldn't get out of; but being a private person, she wouldn’t speak about it either, keeping it to herself, working it out in her own time.

The date for me to book was fast approaching. I asked Bev if she’d heard anything about the Vegas trip.

 She hadn’t.

“Then you’re not going,” I said.

Bev said something about my not telling whether she could go or not.

I didn’t say that, I said. I explained. It wasn’t that I forbid her from going, far from it; I said that if no one had gotten back to her about it, then no one was planning it, and if no one was planning it, it was not going to happen. Group trips take planning. Everybody has to know the dates. Everyone has to book time off and that takes coordination. Everybody either has to book individually and get them linked, or someone has to book it all and everybody has to pay their share. None of this was happening.

“Come with me to New York,” I said.

“I’m going to Vegas with the girls.”

I booked my trip. I found a package deal that probably turned out to be more expensive than had I gone through a travel agent. It might have been a better deal had I stuck to one destination but I wanted to do both. I was calling it my Big vacation, what with my going to the Big Easy and the Big Apple. I booked a hotel room at the Wyndham La Belle Maison, just outside the French Quarter on Gravier St, right across Canal Street, and at the Doubletree, in New York’s Times Square, right at 7th and 47th Streets.
Bev’s trip fell through. One by one the girls backed out at the last minute, including the one who put the idea into everyone else’s imagination.

I bought travel guides (I always buy travel guides), I bought a ticket for a Broadway show. I scanned Google Maps and tried to consider what there was to do, not wanting to waste time in a bar. Fat chance of that in New Orleans. You can’t go to the Big Easy without spending a little time on Bourbon Street. Some may never leave it, but I wanted this trip to be more than just a hangover. I also didn’t want to get mugged either; and in my mind, a staggering tourist all by his self might make an easy target.

I told Bev that it might not be too late to add her to my trip; it was just flights, after all. Hotel Rooms didn’t care how many people occupied them and I had King size beds in both.

She thanked me but said that some of the girls had decided on a more modest vacation again. They were all going to get together at Angel’s cottage just outside Cochrane. I can’t say I wasn’t a little annoyed with angel, as it was her who’d instigated this fiasco in the first place.

I shrugged. “Okay,” I said, “suit yourself.”

I wasn’t being snarky. I wanted her to come with me. I’d asked her enough times. And I had my doubts that the cottage trip would come off either, considering the track record of the planner, thus far. Aside from that, where would you rather go if you thought on it, New Orleans and New York or Cochrane?
Okay, I thought, you’re going it alone this time. I hadn’t done that in years. But it wasn’t like I wasn’t capable. And it wasn’t like I wasn’t the driver of all our vacations.

I packed. Mainly clothes for hot weather. Shorts, t-shirts, light weight button-downs. A suit, a few dress shirts, a few ties, dress shoes and sandals. I even packed my clarinet. New Orleans seemed just the spot to bring a clarinet, even if I couldn’t play it yet, even though I’d yet to begin the lessons I’d signed up for. But I’d been mucking about with it and the instructional books I’d picked up, and I was keen to learn as much as I could before taking that first lesson. It all but filled my carry-on, but I didn’t think twice about it. I did get some curious looks from airport security personnel as I passed through metal detectors.

“It’s a clarinet,” I said when I saw eyebrows bend and heads tilt upon sighting the odd shaped image on their screen. Couldn’t they see that? One did, saying, “I know,” through a tight smile.

The day came. Bev brought me to the airport and I got on the plane.

I was flying solo. First time in about eight years.

I was on my way to New Orleans.

The Big Easy.

Crawfish, Oysters, po’boys, Bourbon Street and jazz.

I was excited.

America, Part 2

Hudson, Ohio

Brunch with Valerie and family complete, we were off to visit my cousin Kim. Four more hours on the road, the only thing of interest being watching bikers put on and take off their helmets at State crossings, depending on which States dictated that riders had to wear them. Why wouldn’t you want to wear a helmet? Is risking brain injury a thing there? Didn’t Gary Bussey impress the need to protect your head? Apparently not. Apparently, it’s better to taste freedom and feel the wind in your hair than to be a gibbering idiot after a brain injury.

Four hours later, we pulled into Hudson, Ohio, amid wide boulevards and stately elms and a noticeable lack of garish corporate street advertisements and neon. Only one existed, a decidedly ‘50s mom and pop burger joint drive-in, grandfathered in before the city could enact a bylaw prohibiting eye pollution. Even McDonalds blended into the ambiance.

We were met at the drive as we pulled in, thanks to Aunt Lorraine’s timely text.

Hugs, kisses, the grand tour.

No sooner had we pulled in and unloaded our luggage, we were urged to haste.

Where are we going? I asked.

Mentor Amphitheatre

We’re going to a concert, Kim said. What sort of concert? The Cleveland Symphony Orchestra was performing Oklahoma at the Mentor Amphitheatre. Kim’s friend arrived. We were shepherded into Kim’s van and within the half hour we were finding a spot on that grassy knoll, sizable picnic basket in hand. Kim unloaded the spread. Wine. Beer. Hot food. Cold foot. Salads, potato and macaroni. Fruit and cut veggies and dip. Desserts. It was like being served from the Tardis. There seemed no end to it. Throughout the feed, the Orchestra played live to the film Oklahoma, the musical soundtrack digitally removed, the dialogue intact.

The next day, we were treated to “A Taste of Hudson,” where participating restaurants of the area sold prepared tapas on the manicured lawn of the town square, each selection a dollar. Square white tents set in neat rows, washing the now packed space in reflected light, the heat adrift on a pleasant breeze. Families and friends milled about, crossing paths, darting here and there to seek their stomach’s content. We purchased prepaid debit cards, each loaded with twenty bucks, and all we had to do was stroll from tent to tent, picking out what struck our fancy, swiping the card, and nibble on what each business had to offer. I took the opportunity to try what I didn’t have ready access to back home. Indian, Tai, Arabic, you name it. If I couldn’t get it, I wanted to try it.

Our bellies full, our cards depleted, I wandered off to check out the rows of classic cars arrayed just off the square. Unlike in Timmins where ‘70s muscle cars rule the roost, all eras of classic cars sat in neat gathered decades. There were a few from the ‘70s, more from the ‘60s, even more from the ‘50s and ‘40s. There were fewer from the ‘30s, ostensibly rare, probably due to there being fewer cars then. I was drawn to those and to those from the ‘20s, coupes and sedans and perfectly preserved model A’s and T’s, their invariably black shells gleaming in the dappled shade. Supple leathers glowed, chrome flashed. They all smelled of rubber and leather. Proud parents stood by, certificates of authenticity displayed in their windshields.

Afterwards, Kim invited another friend to dinner. He was a pro football player in days past and looked it. Tall, broad, muscled still. He told tales of his glory days, full of past indulgences and steroids and anger, and how coaches and trainers would rile them up prior to a game, to whip them into a killing frenzy.

He said, he found himself slipping into a seething rage after a practice one day. It rose up for no good reason. It just rose. He’d been standing in front of the sink, before the mirror, and began to get mad. Why? He didn’t know. He just did. He got mad and grew madder by the moment. He gripped the sink with both hands and applied all his strength to it, his muscles tense and taut. He strained against the basin and ripped it off the wall. Water sprayed everywhere. He spoke like such things were a common occurrence in professional football.

Why was he invited? He too was a writer, and a published one, at that, albeit by a small independent press, invited to encourage me about pursuing my writing “career,” and on how to seek out publishers. How and why did an ex-football player become a writer? For the same reason why and how he became a knitter, to ease and tame the rage he’d been encouraged to sow by the sport he’d loved and pursued.
The next day was a lazy day. We had a full breakfast, we chatted. Mandy, Kim’s daughter, propped herself up between a chair and the countertop and swung back and forth like a swing throughout. She was active, filled to the brim with soccer and speed. Too much sitting set her on edge.

Kim spoke about her job and how taxing it was. She taught autistic children, a task so intense that when her one-on-one tutelages were complete, she was too exhausted to do much more than veg in front of the TV, oblivious within moments of turning off the tube off what she’d been watching. She spoke about her children, their soccer prospects, their education, and their further prospects afterwards. She spoke about her parents, our family, Cochrane, memories, and Rick, her husband, and how they met. She saw that he had a tie draped over his rear-view mirror, and that she preferred the prospect of a man who actually had need of a tie, regardless the event, yet one relaxed enough that a tie could be so haphazardly draped so over the rear-view mirror of his car. Rick and I kicked back at the pool, Rick training their new dog, each of us feeling out the other to see if we liked each other, I suppose. I liked him. I hope he liked me; I must have seemed a little unfocussed and maybe a little disgruntled to him, he being far more successful in his chosen profession than I was in mine.

We went back downtown, Bev looked in clothing boutiques, I browsed books at an independent bookseller.

We woke to the need to return my Aunt Lorraine to Indiana and to be on our way.

We had a long haul ahead of us. Fourteen hours for me until North Bay, four for Bev until home.

I was hell bent to be at it.