A long weekend
We left early Thursday morning for the more than five hundred mile drive that would take us to Mississippi for my Father-in-Law's wedding. It's been a long and wonderful, though far from relaxing weekend.
I’ve stood on the bank of the Mighty Mississippi. I’ve eyed the wares of Marie Laveau’s VooDoo Shop, and bought a Mardi Gras mask to hang in the library which will go a long way to making me look more “well-traveled” (I hope).
Yes, the weekend was all about going to Mississippi to attend my Father-in-law’s wedding.
But the weekend was all about the day we spent in New Orleans.
Driving in to town on Toulouse, I was decidedly disappointed – it felt kind of like being stuck in a box – such narrow streets. And all those people!
It must have been because the windows were rolled up, or maybe the car deflected the electro-magnetic energy field or some such bull, I’m not sure. All I know is that from the moment I opened the door of the car, I was caught up in the energy of the town. It wrapped around us, pulling us to the heart of it, which for us (with three kids in tow) turned out to be Danny O’Flaherty’s Irish Pub (a great place to rest, nice, friendly staff, and the world’s coldest beer – or maybe I had the world’s most severe thirst, I don’t know). They welcomed children, had an incredible Irish harpist with a beautiful voice, and a top-notch air-contitioning system, and they didn't care how many times we came in just to rest and cool off a bit.
Who knew it was possible for the city to get even hotter once the sun went down?
Not I, said the cat.
I’ve heard people talk about New Orleans as if the city itself was a live entity, and now I understand why. There are those places that gently seduce you, for me it is an empty beach, a secluded wood with old knobby trees that whisper the earth’s secrets upon the wind. New Orleans pulls you roughly into a tight embrace, grabs your ass with a demanding squeeze, then ravishes you ‘til you’re breathless.
I am not normally a crowd of people person. If given the choice I’d pick a secluded cabin in the woods or on a deserted strip of beach somewhere over a happening kind of place any time. Except, I found, when it comes to New Orleans. It is, apparently, home to my alter-ego…the wild child stashed somewhere deep inside of me that has been longing for a chance to escape since the many years ago when it would have been more suitable to allow her to do so.
New Orleans has something called The Hand Grenade. The Hand Grenade is a pretender of a drink, tasting remarkably like honeydew melon and packing a wallop the size of a Mac Truck. Of course, if you’ve never had one before, you don’t find that out until you’re already finished with the drink and standing in the middle of a French perfumery sniffing the most amazing scents and trying to act grown-up enough to be deserving of one of the fine blends.
It could have been embarrassing, but I held up rather well. I was beyond caring, at any rate, thanks to the generous helpings of three kinds of rum that are purported to be included in the drink. Two of those and anybody’s toast, let me tell you.
I settled on the lovely Sesquessence fragrance, btw.
If the entire town hums with life, Bourbon Street sings with it. Music spills from most every open doorway. People peddle mixed drinks on the street. The police ride horses and look cool and laid-back. It was only the fact that we were too tired to walk another step, and that we had to get back in time for Miss Libby to let us into the house, lest we have to sleep in the van, that we left. Each one of us hoping that we get a chance to go back some day.
I’ve stood on the bank of the Mighty Mississippi. I’ve eyed the wares of Marie Laveau’s VooDoo Shop, and bought a Mardi Gras mask to hang in the library which will go a long way to making me look more “well-traveled” (I hope).
Yes, the weekend was all about going to Mississippi to attend my Father-in-law’s wedding.
But the weekend was all about the day we spent in New Orleans.
Driving in to town on Toulouse, I was decidedly disappointed – it felt kind of like being stuck in a box – such narrow streets. And all those people!
It must have been because the windows were rolled up, or maybe the car deflected the electro-magnetic energy field or some such bull, I’m not sure. All I know is that from the moment I opened the door of the car, I was caught up in the energy of the town. It wrapped around us, pulling us to the heart of it, which for us (with three kids in tow) turned out to be Danny O’Flaherty’s Irish Pub (a great place to rest, nice, friendly staff, and the world’s coldest beer – or maybe I had the world’s most severe thirst, I don’t know). They welcomed children, had an incredible Irish harpist with a beautiful voice, and a top-notch air-contitioning system, and they didn't care how many times we came in just to rest and cool off a bit.
Who knew it was possible for the city to get even hotter once the sun went down?
Not I, said the cat.
I’ve heard people talk about New Orleans as if the city itself was a live entity, and now I understand why. There are those places that gently seduce you, for me it is an empty beach, a secluded wood with old knobby trees that whisper the earth’s secrets upon the wind. New Orleans pulls you roughly into a tight embrace, grabs your ass with a demanding squeeze, then ravishes you ‘til you’re breathless.
I am not normally a crowd of people person. If given the choice I’d pick a secluded cabin in the woods or on a deserted strip of beach somewhere over a happening kind of place any time. Except, I found, when it comes to New Orleans. It is, apparently, home to my alter-ego…the wild child stashed somewhere deep inside of me that has been longing for a chance to escape since the many years ago when it would have been more suitable to allow her to do so.
New Orleans has something called The Hand Grenade. The Hand Grenade is a pretender of a drink, tasting remarkably like honeydew melon and packing a wallop the size of a Mac Truck. Of course, if you’ve never had one before, you don’t find that out until you’re already finished with the drink and standing in the middle of a French perfumery sniffing the most amazing scents and trying to act grown-up enough to be deserving of one of the fine blends.
It could have been embarrassing, but I held up rather well. I was beyond caring, at any rate, thanks to the generous helpings of three kinds of rum that are purported to be included in the drink. Two of those and anybody’s toast, let me tell you.
I settled on the lovely Sesquessence fragrance, btw.
If the entire town hums with life, Bourbon Street sings with it. Music spills from most every open doorway. People peddle mixed drinks on the street. The police ride horses and look cool and laid-back. It was only the fact that we were too tired to walk another step, and that we had to get back in time for Miss Libby to let us into the house, lest we have to sleep in the van, that we left. Each one of us hoping that we get a chance to go back some day.
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