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| The drive is a very pleasant one, coming via some very verdant forests, and Baton Rouge. Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train, And I'm feeling near as faded as my jeans. (Kris Kristofferson – Me and Bobby McGee) It's all starting to make sense now. No wonder Janis felt at home singing that song, it's only up the road. The only upsetting thing about the drive is that, driving east along the south coast, you don't expect to see the sea on your left. It turned out to be Lake Pontchartrain, but I couldn't see the other shore, so it might as well have been the sea. I find the hotel very easily, and am pleasantly surprised by its quality. There is a house in New Orleans, It's called the Garden District, And it's given a room to many a poor boy, And God, I know, I'm one! O.K., not quite the same as the original, but you have to speak as you find. The hotel really is very good, possibly my best yet, and I seem to have secured a very good deal. Not only is it a good room, but the fee includes breakfast and parking. Breakfast is rare in American hotels, and, in city hotels, parking is usually very expensive. Having settled in, I set out in search of a New Orleans adventure. I browse through the brochures in the hotel lobby, and find one for a brewhouse. Now my previous experience of American brewhouses has been very positive, so I earmark this as a possibility. I walk in the general direction of the city centre, in search of a bus stop, and soon realise that it is walking distance, so I keep going. New Orleans is hereby excluded from all my previous criticisms of US cities, as it has a centre, and distinct areas. In many ways it is more French than American, which figures. I walk through downtown and into the French quarter, and it is all the films promise; narrow streets, houses with columns and balconies, and groups of street musicians. The sound of a riverboat hooter pulls me right, and I find myself on the banks of the Mississippi. I'm still torn about the brewhouse, because in New Orleans I feel obliged to eat Cajun and listen to music. I suddenly realise I am standing opposite said establishment, and it has a band playing, and a good menu, some of which is Cajun. Sometimes the fates are kind. Most brewhouses, and this one is no exception, have a deal where you can buy a sampler, which is a small glass of each of their brews on a paper mat bearing a description of the beers. So this I do, and order gumbo, which is something I feel I should do in this city. This is described as a soup, but is quite thick. As Harry Hill once said, "It's a thin line between soup and stew". Anyhow, it consists of rice, with chopped smoked sausage, crabmeat and shrimps, in a thick brown spicy sauce. I followed this with a shrimp salad – in the States shrimps can be anything from the tiny ones that we get, and I had in my gumbo, to king prawns, and these were indeed royal. Sufficed, I strolled into the night in search of diversion. I soon came across the main street, full of clubs, each one offering a different kind of music. I was taken by two guys playing zydeco, so settled myself in and ordered a drink. It was a few minutes before I realised that I was, in fact, drinking bourbon on Bourbon Street. Stereotypically, zydeco consists of violin, accordion, washboard and a lot of snare drum. In this case the drummer was a machine, and the washboard player was peripatetic, in as much as he wandered around the club, spare washboard in hand, encouraging tourists, preferably female, to join him at play. The two musicians were good enough to do without this gimmickry, but it keeps the tourists happy and puts bucks behind the bar, so I suppose I shouldn't be too purist, and I spent a very happy hour in their company. Leaving the club, I wandered in the direction of my hotel, wondering where I might pick up a taxi. At which point one came along, I stuck my hand out, and he pulled up. I thought that only happened in the movies. |
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