New Orleans Day 1

My wife drops me off at the airport with a kiss and the ever important hug and I wander in. Through security and heading towards the gate with work still bouncing off the walls in my head and the irritation of the day reflecting in my eyes. I meet up with Joshua, my fellow traveler, who is already at the gate. Bitching, I set my bags down, mention the day has not been good, and further complain about forgetting to eat lunch. Joshua listens as best one can to the irritant ramblings of someone both hungry and pissed. He wisely comments I should go forage for food and I do; returning to board the plane a few minutes later.

Joshua previously offered up a drinking bet based on who ends up sitting next to us – “If either of us are forced to sit next to a [size-challenged] girl, the other buys first round. If either hits the “hot girl” lottery, lucky bastard buys first round.” We choose aisles seats across from each other. Based on what I have observed about Joshua, I accepted the bet knowing I will have my first round for free. Within minutes a young woman takes the window seat on Joshua’s side and the middle is taken by a woman a bit older and very nice looking, while my two vacant seats are taken by a much older woman and a tall man from some other country. I turn to Joshua and comment that based on the original parameters of the bet; we need to tally the score. Gary 4, Joshua 0. It’s going to be a good trip.

We have a stopover in Houston, without changing planes and I mention we can change seats and Joshua chooses to move forward. He offers up a “double or nothing” on the bet. Knowing what I know about Joshua, I readily accept. He pauses and looks at the seats strategically as if to choose the best row. I explain it’s really irrelevant and its best if he just accepts defeat.

Within minutes his two seats are populated by men – one of which might have been a plumber since his pants seemed to reside a bit lower than was really necessary and the other man was only a fraction better. While on my side, the window is taken by a man and the middle by a very nice looking lady. I turn to Joshua, who updates the tally, subtracting points based on the new arrivals. He rightly deducts his two travelers and the lady next to me. My window seat is a wash. Gary 1, Joshua 0. I realize I have a lot to learn about Joshua and his bets.

I strike up a conversation with the lady next to me. She lives in New Orleans and recommends a restaurant called something like: Lucy’s Surf Shop. She also recommended her favorite place to eat for dinner. I ask if it’s expensive and she tells me that two entrees, couple of glasses of wine and desert would be, and she pauses to calculate the total, “right at $300 with tip.” I explain that my travel companion and I are not worth that much. She mentions that her favorite bar is Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop at the far end of Bourbon Street and I make a note.

The woman lives in New Orleans but works in Houston. She is an Accountant, and her husband is an Attorney. I make light of the stereo-types associates with both and she laughingly comments, “yeah, an accountant and an attorney – we are just loads of fun.” I love people who have a sense of humor. She further explains that her husband was a former power trainer for those that want to compete in weightlifting and such, but he quit and became a lawyer due to the stress related to his former occupation. I admitted being a bit confused. She commented that the industry has increasingly more and more litigation. I asked her if he knew what a lawyer does – she laughed again, “yeah, but he is a business contract attorney”. Sometimes I meet people that just amaze me.

New Orleans has arrived and we grab a shuttle to the hotel. As we ride, I notice the buildings. Here and there are very old building nestled in between newer high-rises. One two story building has a room caved in from a fire, as was another a few miles further. As we approach downtown I notice a car with no tires, no doors, no glass, resting peacefully in the corner of a vacant lot. Another few blocks grants a view down the side of a two story apartment building. There is a man smoking on a very shallow porch. The man is slender and yet if he doubled in width, he would have a hard time fitting on the porch.

The driver pulls up to a hotel belonging to other guests in the van. A couple gets out and selects their bags from the back. I can hear them conversing in a language other than English. Normally I can identify the language but their accents are unrecognizable to me.

A short couple of stops later and we check into our hotel just on the outskirts of the French Quarter. We drop our stash of clothes in our room on the 17th floor which boasts of an excellent view of the city. We walk out of the hotel and I politely ask my iPhone where there is a place called “Lucys” – it pops up a location and maps out a route and a few seconds later we are heading down the street, overtaking four guys talking in German and heading in the same direction.


Lucy's Retired Surfers Bar and Restaurant

Lucy's Retired Surfers Bar and Restaurant (http://www.lucysretiredsurfers.com/) resides in the New Orleans Warehouse District and is often responsible for a Friday night block party. We enter and make our way through the workforce crowd, recently retired for the weekend, with many holding margaritas, Coronas, and the odd concoction of this or that. Joshua comments that these are his kind of people. I pause for an instant seeing a Golden Retriever stretched out on the floor just in the doorway leading to the patio. Yes, these are definitely my people too.

The waitress orders me a grilled Grouper sandwich and a Po’ Boy for Joshua. A blond girl delivers our food and looks at my Grouper and tells me it’s chicken. I tell her its grilled Grouper; Joshua tells her it’s grilled Grouper and again she explains that it’s Chicken. Eventually we are able to convince her and she gives me my food, and we consume our first New Orleans meal.

Sandwiches and a few drinks later the waitress asks if we need anything else. I reply with an old standby joke that we are set and we don’t even need the check. She comes back and sadly states that even though she went to bat for us and argued on our behalf, management would not give in. She hands us the check. I love people with a deep sense of humor. As we leave I note another dog has been added to the fold. These are indeed our people.

As we head towards the French Quarter we pass a parking lot stuffed between two buildings. I marvel at what Joshua says is common place in Philadelphia; a row of individual car lifts that raise a single car high enough to park another car under it. A bit later we pass a bus stop whose sole inhabitant, waiting for his ride, has earphones on and is listening to an old CD-Walkman, his hand flailing the air as he beats the imaginary drum set in front of him.


The French Quarter – The ‘Old People’ Bar

As we enter the French Quarter, I mention to Joshua I will need to get a set of beads to take back. Knowing full well that flashing my chest would only generate rolls of laughter from the gutters; I rely on Joshua to acquire the beads. We execute a perfect ‘get acquainted’ stroll up one side of Bourbon Street and down the other, taking in the sights and sounds coming from every direction. Each street we cross is bracketed by traffic barriers, making Bourbon Street a pedestrian only street. We select a bar whose music is well known to us. I did not get the name of the bar but the music is from my era of driving the ‘drag’, running around with my friends, and adventurous tales better left untold.

The bar is crowded and the music is too loud to tell the bartender what I want. I try twice and she cannot understand what I am saying. I finally mouth the word “Margarita” – this she can understand and one appears. I stand next to the bar and scan the room from one side to the other. There are people vertically stacked here and there with a large number of people dancing in front of the band. A few minute pass and Joshua turns to me and asks “Am I the youngest one here?” I look around and leaving the safety of my spot near the bar, I wander to the rear of the room and back. I explain to Joshua that there is one guy, way in the back, that may be younger but I was not sure. Sure enough, based on the other bars that evening, this one is for the “Old People” and the band caters precisely to the clientele. The band strikes up an excellent imitation of the Eagles song “Hotel California”. Joshua shivers, leans over and explains that while in college the guy down the hall, at the same time everyday, would blast the halls with multiple iterations of the song - adding it took years before he could tolerate hearing it again.

The crowd thickens and a flock of people wander in, all holding a flat stick with a life-size picture of some mans face. They head to the dance floor and start dancing, replacing their face with the picture. Although curious, I felt it best to not ask. I notice one lady in the group wearing the stereo-typical short black dress. She reminds me of a modern day Southern Belle. Joshua mentions that he would not make the 8 seconds (in reference to bull riding) much less make a qualifying run but he was “ok” with both. I wholeheartedly agree. As the clan dances one guy goes out onto the dance floor and starts to dance with some of the “face” ladies, only I doubt if he realizes they are only dancing with each other as they have slowly put their backs to him.

Joshua watches the women as they dance and indirectly mentions to me how these “party girls” are the same ones driving the SUV’s and minivan’s to cocoon in until their kids are grown or out of town – then they come to party.

As I watch the crowd the first of many “bachelorette” parties arrives and heads to the bar. One of the leaders asks, repeatedly, if I would buy the bride-to-be a shot of some concoction, the first of the night. I finally succumb to the relentless pleading and motion to the bartender “one”. The bartender has a conversation with the bride and although I am less than a foot away I cannot hear the context, but I can tell the bartender is winning and the bride-to-be, leaves without her shot. I assume no ID to validate the age, no shot. I figured I saved myself a buck or two.

Off to the side a “Shot Girl”, girls who sell 6 inch long, test-tube like vials, filled with brightly colored unrecognizable concoctions of alcohol, is coaxing a patron into consuming the contents of the two vials she has placed between her enhanced bosoms’, which are exaggerated by the corset she been sewn into. He bends over ands twist his head as she leans far enough over him to drain the shots into, or partially into his mouth.

The two chairs next to me are occupied by a couple. He is most likely just past his sixth decade and she is running closer to end or middle of her fifth. They often get up, stroll to the dance floor and partake in the rhythm as the notes bounce from the instruments, across the room, and back. She has left her sweater as a marker for the chair, and he has a full drink in front of his. Somewhere around the third or fourth trip, another couple has dared to challenge the validity of the temporary ownership of one of the empty, albeit, reserved chairs. By now the drink is somewhat depleted, while the sweater is as bright and a pink as it was the last time she left. As the new couple looks at the two seats, the man moves the watered down drink to the side, and respecting the implications of the sweater, motions to his date to take the other seat. The man remains standing, ensuring the missing woman would still have a seat. I wait. The dancing couple returns; she sits down and he informs the squatter she has taken his seat. She gets up and they leave. I can’t help but feel a bit judgmental, but rank has its privileges, and in his case, so does age.

The bar is now officially crowded and I am now standing just forward of the flow of people coming in from, or out to, the street. I have been constantly bumped, brushed, and slightly trampled, yet none of this sends an alert message to my brain. I feel relaxed and really don’t mind or take notice of the occasional tussle - that is until something lightly brushes back and forth across my neck. The music instantly evaporates as I focus on what touched me. I step forward the few inches I have and glance behind me and see a woman with her many braided dreadlocks tightly bunched together, with each lock pointing haphazardly in a different direction. She is at the perfect height in that, as she jostles to get through the crowd, one or more of the locks stopped for a rest on the back of my neck.

We are leaving the ‘Old People’ bar and heading further up the street. From a balcony of some building a very scanty clad, but very color coordinated girl is tossing beads to the passer-bys. Joshua, while walking, glances up, cups his hands, catch a set of flying beads, and with a “here are your beads,” hands them to me. There is much to learn from this man.

We head up the street, peering into one bar than another as we walk. In one bar I see a chicken having a drink. To be clear, it’s a man dressed in a bright yellow chicken suit – including the headpiece. He is sipping on a drink while sitting at the bar and I can see him bring the glass up to his open break and drinking. I assume he is ending the day, having one before he “crossed the road” (OK, yeah, I know that was really bad, but could you pass it up if you were pecking this out). Further up the street, I spot a woman with a Great Dane. The Dane is straining against the leash as he sniffs at the restaurants sidewalk display of the nights specials, carefully arranged on a tall tray. The woman pulls the Dane back, regains control and without event, walks by the tray of food. But not without pulling a french-fry from the plate and feeding it to the Dane.


The Old Opera House

As we wander down Bourbon Street a call come out from the doors and windows of another bar begging for our attention. The Old Opera House sits on the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse. We shuffle in trying our best to avoid the people surrounding the stage. As we head toward one of the two bars, we have to move with the bubble of space that forms when the person in front of us steps to the side. The space closes immediately, making hesitation a very undesirable trait. Like the last bar, this one does not have my favorite form of drink, so I settle for a margarita, and Joshua has them fetch him a beer.

The band is playing in the front of the long slender room, and we trek to the back where a bar table have been recently vacated. In this context, “recently” is measured in seconds. I take a moment to sit on one of the barstools and watch the crowd. Behind us are the bathrooms on the right, with its clientele hurrying to and strolling from, and a storage room on the left. A bouncer with “Security” on his shirt plants himself just forward of the storage door; it is only opened when employee needs to fetch whatever their duties require. Periodically, he leaves his chosen post, walks around the bar and back.

A very slender, brunette with a top just covering her “top” and jeans that are trying to breathe as they stick to her hips, is sitting on the bar “working” a business-man in a suit. She leans in close, caresses him, laughs, and any other flirtatious action required. Suddenly she hops off the bar and heads to the other side of the room where a man sits. Even sitting he is tall, broad shouldered, black hair and mustache, accented with a very well worn white cowboy hat. The man talks to her a minute, stands up and grabs the second stool next to them, the first one occupied by a man quietly consuming his drink. The big man leans over and says something and the man and he and his drink quickly depart. Interesting this place.

My observations are broken by a “Shot Girl” wandering by asking if I want a shot, I tell her “no” and she wanders off. Within minutes she is back, asking - no telling me to buy a shot. Apparently, “no” means try to sell harder. She stands next to me, places two vials full of vile liquid in her mouth, end first until just about a half an inch of both vials are exposed and tries to entice me into a closed mouth to mouth transfer of blue goo. I shake my head no, hoping she can grasp the concept. She slides them back out, places them back into the holder and walks off, but not without expressing her irritation by a simple hand gesture.

Joshua and I head closer to the stage for a better view. The female singer is dressed in tight jeans and a tighter yellow shirt - tight enough that the outline of her belly-button piercing informs the public of its existence without ever having to show itself. As I watch her, her style, her moves, her delivery, I am reminded of the singer “Blondie” from the 70’s. Even her hair is cut similar, only the music is more updated. Suddenly, in the middle of a set, she takes a couple of steps back, turns her head and sneezes, bending over in the process. In an instant she is back singing the next line. I do enjoy live music.

Two, or was it three, “bachelorette” parties come into the bar, dance, wiggle this way and that, and head back out. Each group carries its own version of a phallic symbol. As I am watching the band and the patrons drinking and dancing, a pungent odor causes me to back up. Looking around I see a guy next to one of the floor to ceiling support columns, leaning against it with his arm at head level. Apparently deodorant was not on his list of priorities this evening. I move upwind from him as best I can, positioning myself near the head of the bar. The woman next to me is dancing in place to the music. She is bucking this way and that, her thick head of hair womping me as she dances. I glance her way after the first beating - she laughed and accented her hips to intensify her swing - moments later she and her date wander out.


Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop

We head out and walk towards the bar the Accountant on the plane told me about. Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop resides at the far end of Bourbon Street and just past virtually all the others bars and restaurants. Lafitte's claims to be the oldest continuously operating bar in the US – its building built before 1772. The door is small compared to other buildings with the inside being very dark, air-conditioned, and lightly populated except for the bar. Based on the number of people at the bar, had this been a boat, it would be sinking, bar first. We wander through the small building to the side patio where the proprietor has set up another bar. I ask for my favorite beverage and the body-builder, no-nonsense bartender impatiently tells me they have none. We grab a beer and take a seat. The patio is full, in that every chair is taken, but other than that, this was a relatively quiet place.

Lacking entertainment we head back through the bar and I notice a man talking to one of the wait-staff at the end of the bar. The man is big – easily six maybe seven inches under seven feet tall, with very broad shoulders, the significance of which will present itself in a moment. Joshua stops a short distance from the bar to examine its content. There in the corner is a bottle of my preferred beverage and I wonder why the other bartender did not mention it when I asked for it. About this time, I can see the afore mention damn-big-dude in my peripheral vision. He has completed his conversation and takes a step in my direction without looking. By the time he turns, he has to abruptly stops inches from running me over. He stares down at me, as if expecting me to move out of his way. Only, I keep looking forward. Five or more seconds of his staring passes and he makes the same disgruntled sound my wife’s poodle’s makes when I tell them to get off the bed. The man steps around me. On the way out I see him sitting at one of the sidewalk tables in front of the bar, and I wonder if I would have had the sense to move if I had consumed less alcohol.


My Bar

We head back down Bourbon Street in search of new adventure. Joshua comments he has found his bar – literally saying “Ah! I found my bar.” I look around at the many doors with people pouring in or out of – “which one?” Joshua points, “there…. my bar.” I must say, when Joshua picks out a bar, it’s a good bar and this one definitely qualifies, even the name says it all – My Bar.

The place is not too crowded, has a band playing old time Rock and Roll, leading with Sweet Home Alabama, and a bar with my preferred drink. My turn to buy and I order a drink for me and a beer for Joshua. We sit and listen to the music. Within minutes the traditional bachorlett party arrives with the bride-to-be sporting the traditional phallic symbol and starts dancing to the bands excellent rendition of Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl. Steve Miller’s The Joker is played next and the gray-haired guy behind me sings with the song. Joshua leans over and explains to me that his high school had a jute box, and it seemed like every other song punch up was The Joker.

From my perch I can see out the front door and watch the people. Many pause in the doorway to gauge the value they can derive from the bar; some come in, some do not. Intermixed in this nomadic group are three mounted policemen stopping in the street for a minute then continuing. A bachorlett party enters, dances, leaves and is replaced by another. Joshua leans over and tells me that the next time he attends a bachelor party he is going to wear a hat with a vagina on it, referring to the consistent wearing of some form of a plastic penis by the brides-to-be. I inform him that he is taking his life in his own hands at that point.

As we are sitting, I glance at the bar and notice a food warmer with slices of pizza. Leastwise, they are supposed to be pizza. Joshua turns to me telling he has never been that hungry. By this time, what with the volume of both the music and the alcohol, I really can only feel the notes from the band as oppose to hearing the music.

Joshua decides its time to have the traditional New Orleans hand-grenade – a vile concoction of what we later determine to be 1.5 oz Gin, 1.5 oz Grain Alcohol, 1.5 oz Melon liqueur, 1.5 oz Rum, 1.5 oz OVAL Vodka, all poured into a plastic cup whose base is shaped like a hand-grenade with a vase-like stem stretching some 12 inches high – straw included. I haven’t finished my latest drink but we head out and walk down the street in search of the provider of said concoction. When we step out of the bar the street directly in front of the bar has a new coat, sparsely placed, and scattered by unwitted or inebriated people as they walk. Seems the mounted policemen’s horses decided to fertilize the asphalt while stopped. There ought-a be a law….

Down the street, as I approach a dumpster, I attempt to toss in my cup, full of ice, but empty of drink. It hits the edge and tumbles in, but not before spewing ice cubes everywhere except in the container. It’s been close to five to six hours since the Lucy’s grouper sandwich, and Joshua patiently paused while I fetch a piece of real pizza from a pizza vendor. As I chew and finish what was placed on the paper plate, I note an inch long cockroach walking up the brick wall attached to the restaurant. A quick wipe of a napkin to mouth and hands and we are continuing our fetching of the illustrious toxic hang-grenade. We reach the drink vendor. I know this because there is a person hanging around in a costume which mimics a hand-grenade. Joshua stands in line until he has acquired the drink. I have a sip and realize that if I were to drink even one, it would quickly travel back up the same path it took to get in.

We stroll back; poking our head into this bar and that, watching people on the balconies watching people in the street, a few toss beads up as a few toss beads down. As we start to cross a street I notice a small group collected on the inside of a traffic barrier, performing line dancing to the music waffling from one of the nearby bars. Further down there are several people sitting on the curb with several cats in their laps, and shortly thereafter we pass a man in a bright yellow chicken suit with a handful of pamphlets in one hand, and placing a cigarette in his beak with the other.


The Old Opera House (Revisited)

We start to enter the bar when the hired door-stop tells Joshua he cannot bring the hand-grenade cup inside and they politely give him one of “their” cups to pour it into. We make the rounds inside and find a perch. I can see a couple dancing; she is facing him, intensely looking him in the eyes and is singing along with the music. To her the entire world is paired down to only them… and the band.

Several songs later the base guitarist announces to the crowd they have a guest who wants to play the bass. He straps his base guitar onto a girl and the band kicks into another song. She is noticeable nervous as she is missing notes. The bands base player steps closer to give her moral support and her quality of play increases a bit I pause to send a text message to my wife. A woman looks over and is obvious about seeing what I am typing. She looks up at me and realizes I am not the person she thought I was. Now, keep in mind, I am wearing a red Hawaiian shirt spotted with orange and black flowers. I look and no one around is sporting anything close. I wonder what she had to drink.

We head towards the back and sit at one of the bar tables. As if on queue the same Shot-Girl comes by, demanding I buy a shot. I tell her I don’t do shots and she replies, “then what the f**k are you doing in New Orleans?” My guess is the management of this establishment does not train their staff in advanced sales techniques.

Off to the side, a different security guy is intensely scanning the crowd. He has long hair, muscular, and is not someone I would want to cross. There is a threesome, two girls and a guy, all dancing closely together. The bartender catches the eye of Security and nods in the direction of the threesome. Security stops the three in mid-dance. Words pass between them and the three pull out their ID’s and show them to Security. He hands them back and nods an “all clear” to the bartender. The three, either out of irritation or because they have yet to reach twenty-one, leave the bar.

The Shot-Girl is back again and leaves just as fast.

We decide we are “done” with this bar. I drop a five in the bands tip jar, tell the security guard thanks for keeping the peace and we vacate this side of Bourbon Street.


Final Hours

We head back up the street and I realize the hearing in my left ear has returned however the right one has completely checked out for the evening. Joshua decided its time for his second hand-grenade and as we approach the vendor, he gets in the purchase line and I turn to head to the other side of the street, almost running into a girl... on a second glance I wonder if it’s a guy in drag. As I wait for Joshua to complete his transaction, one of females in the foursome in front of me inadvertently bumps into the other one, knocking her hand-grenade from her hand. The cup falls to the ground and its contents explode when it hits. I find the irony humorous. It’s half past midnight and I see a female clown walk by with balloons in tow. By now, it is more akin to normalcy than not.

Back in “My Bar” and the band is still playing old time rock and roll with the same passionate intensity as they did hours ago. Joshua is fixed for drink, so I order a beverage for myself. I sit it on the table and head to the only bathroom on the floor. It’s a “single holer” so one must remember to lock the door. While “whizzing” I notice there is a remnant of something that once was part of a green leafy vegetable on the edge of the toilet bowl. I can only think of one way it would get there.

We listen to the music while Joshua nurses his grenade and I have another beverage. When the band finishes their set, we decide to close out our night and head back to the hotel. On the way we stop at Krystal Burger, shuffle through the crowd inside with the same thought, and order a few chicken sandwiches and a tea.

It’s pushing two AM and we are back at the hotel. The bed feels good.

New Orleans Day 2

Its the morning and I wake at half past six and by seven have dragged myself out of bed, brushed my teeth, hidden my unkempt hair under a hat, and head out to forage for the nearest Starbucks. Prior to last nights venture into the French Quarter, Joshua pointed out a Starbucks on Canal Street. I point my body in the general direction and start walking. After I am sure I am moving forward, I pull out my iPhone and Google Maps is kind enough to pinpoint one of the three nearest locations; just a shade beyond a half mile. As I reach the destination, I realize that either Google Maps is cruel, or its developers decided to play tricks on people in New Orleans - on Canal Street - early in the morning, or the address I’m at was one of the locations Starbucks recently closed.

I shuffle out of the mainstream of pedestrian traffic and again query the great iPhone Oz for a location. The sun is bright, hot, and getting hotter. A wave of nausea hits me and I realize the iPhone needs to work faster. Moments later I figure out the next location is indeed the one Joshua pointed out before – in my haste I had not realized it was located in the lobby of the Sheraton hotel. From the periodic looks I get in the Starbucks I must look the worse for wear. After a coffee concoction and a New Orleans/French style chocolate croissant, I head back and turn down one of the more shaded streets. I notice the buildings are the same mixture of new, old, older, and not there. One building has the brick façade from the top window to the roof missing. Sometime, during some storm, nature let the building owners know that buildings are really just temporary. It’s either that of the sun got to the wall too.

I arrive back at the room and find Joshua alive and moving, only barely. I offer him a couple of Advil, explaining that there is a little man in my head with a ball-ping hammer and a boatload of spikes. I think the little guy must think he is behind schedule at the rate he is driving them puppies in. Joshua readily accepts my offering and explains that the best cure he knows of is a shower, a bottle of water, and a cheeseburger. I know Jimmy Buffett would be proud of Joshua’s solution. We make plans to visit Cafe du Moude for the traditional beignets, a trolley ride to the D-Day War Museum, and a trip to the Camilla Grill for the burger. Camilla’s is on the list of places provided by The Master. I must pause here to explain The Master; a man to whom one can provide the name of a city and get in return a list of best bars, hole-in-the-walls, and hangouts. What is important to understand, is not just the ability to provide such information, but the ability to define when one should visit such places and in what order.

We are on the street and off to Café du Moude. I pull out the iPhone, plug the restaurant’s name to search for and Goggle Maps lays out the route. As we walk I pick the side of the rode that provides the most shade. The walking is good. We reach the café and the line to sit is longer than we are willing to wait. We wander to the back to the “To Go” line and like cattle waiting in a chute, stand until the person ahead of us move a bit forward. From the covered patio a server walks out and asks the people in front of us if he can get something for them. A few minutes later they each receive white paper bag and they leave the line, clutching their new found wealth. A few minutes later another man exits the awning and takes the order from the people behind us. I must admit I am starting to feel left out. The server flips to a new page in his little book of orders and asks us if we want anything. We each request an order of beignets and water. Chicory coffee sounds good but the water wins the priority.

A few minutes later the little apron clad wizard reappears with two white bags complimented with two bottles of water. The bags are heavier than they look and are quickly growing grease spots. We step out of line clutching our new found wealth and wander the back of the restaurant to find a place to sit and eat. As we walk, Joshua motions to me to look through the restaurants kitchen window, commenting that what we see goes on 24 hours a day. There on the other side of the glass is exposed the birth of beignets. From the magical hands of the workers, the raw dough passes through whatever process cuts them into perfectly flat, rectangular shapes. From there they gleefully proceed to take baths in hot oil, pausing until they attain a golden tan, then off to the next step beyond the glass.

We settle our derrieres on a stone wall and open the bags. The contents are hot, and Joshua notes there must be a pound of powdered sugar in the bag. Cafe du Moude beignets are world famous, with each exquisitely prepared oral delight following a tradition rooted in a history spanning over one hundred years. Such delicacies require the savoring of every bite. I pause as I look into the bag and then slowly pull out one of its residence. It is almost too hot to handle. I lightly touch it to my tongue then in a blur, the powdered sugar flies in every direction as my mouth takes control. The beignet had no chance to ask for leniency. I take a drink of water and again pause as I look into the bag…

We head back up to Canal Street and catch the St Charles trolley. We board and find a place to sit and watch the world pass around us. I could not help but notice an older woman sitting up and on the other side of the trolley. She is wearing a white sun dress with a strap that covers half the unicorn tattoo on her shoulder. Its colors almost gone and I can’t help but wondered if her personality faded with the tattoo.

On the wall just ahead and left of the driver is a giant toggle switch, like those found on old radios and other electric devices, only this one looks like it’s been on steroids for a might too long. We role down the tracks and each time the trolley comes to a stop a rumble starts from somewhere below the floor. Its sound is familiar and I try to place it. It’s almost like a combustion engine but that makes no sense on an electric car. Only later do I recall a sound from my childhood while playing in the tool shed. It’s the sound of an air compressor constantly filling the air tank. Here it most likely powers brakes, doors, and who know what else.

A stop or two later and we exit to find The National World War II Museum.


The National World War II Museum

Founded by historian author Stephen E. Ambrose, The National World War II Museum (http://www.ddaymuseum.org/) is a tribute to the men and women who greatest gift to us is a free world. We wander the path defined by the exhibits, stopping here and there to look and listen to the situations and event that shaped our current world – shaped by our parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles.

I have read some of the works of Stephen Ambrose: D-Day, Citizen Soldiers, and others. They are not really books on WWII, but on the day-to-day struggles and hardships the individuals faced. A couple of years ago I had the opportunity to sit and talk with a veteran of the Battle of the Bulge, the last great push by Hitler to change the course of the war. He explain how a Sergeant saved his life through the simple act of giving him a pair of boots. In today’s world that makes little sense, but with what he faced from his description it did then. I met and listen to a door gunner on a B17 bomber tell stories of his missions over Germany. The events he portrayed during those missions are numerous, but one seemed to stand out more than the rest. How he was assigned to three different planes, each one lost on a mission he missed, due to being given a two or three day pass. The man was destined to live beyond WWII.

These people tell of times before that which we have now. It is humbling to read and hear what their generation experienced and accomplished. Their difficulties have taught me the difference between an irritation and a problem. As most people who know me will joke – I can bitch and whine with the best, but few know that inside I try to keep the scope of the issue in perspective. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don’t.

I hope each person will take a moment of their life to view and possibly understand that time in history, and a visit to National World War II Museum is one of many paths towards that understanding.


Camilla Grill

We leave the museum and head back to the trolley stop to continue our adventures. Following the recovery advice from Joshua, our next stop will be the Camilla Grill for a cheese burger. As we wait at the trolley stop I notice one of the nearby buildings; empty and tagged for sale. It’s a small two story brick structure with a wonderful balcony accented by ornate iron railings with a couple of door-size windows, each with a few panes of glass partially or complete missing. The building next to it is a small neighborhood grocery store called Price Busters, whose only depiction of the name is a hand drawn charcoal sign in the window over the door. The rest of the windows have an ‘X’ of duct tape as if to protect them from breakage due to hurricanes or little boys with a tendency to throw rocks.

At the trolley stop is a kiosk – a payphone. I jokingly ask Joshua if he recognizes what it is, implying I have never seen one before. Most places no longer have payphones since mobile phones have made them obsolete. Moments later an older woman walks up and uses the phone to make a call. In my arrogance I have forgotten not everyone can afford a mobile phone.

We are on the trolley heading further down St Charles Street. We pass a closed restaurant called Copland’s - a chain known for its New Orleans cuisine. I smile at the irony. The homes become more grandiose as we approach the Garden District and I wonder if I even make enough per year to pay for the maintenance of the grounds of these homes, as their grounds are expansive and the homes even more so; I haphazardly tell Joshua I don't want that much money, implying the amount one would have to have to own such a place. Joshua remarks on the strangeness of my comment and he is probably correct, but I don’t think I could explain, or maybe it’s best I don’t try.

Some of these houses have wonderful porches stretching across the face of the homes. On one porch there lies two comically large rocking chairs, so much so that I would feel like a child should I be rocking in one. A few blocks later Joshua turns to me and mentions what I only started to notice. On every block there are one or more churches. Another block passes and again we joke, counting the churches as we pass them. The cynic in me can’t help but bubble up an opinion – that the reason so many churches exist in such quantities in such a small area, is because that is where the money is. We laugh at my cynicism, but as the high end houses fade into home of similar size, but smaller yards and wood façade instead of marble, the number of churches drops dramatically. Joshua aptly names this section of beautiful, but less grandiose homes, the slums of the Garden District.

We reach the end of St Charles Street and we exit the trolley across a row of businesses. There, in between the collection of old building converted into one business or another, is a restaurant called the Camilla Grill whose white two story building is accented with four large columns. It reminds me of an old time city hall, only smaller. Inside is an ancient 50s style dinner, painted light pink with a one piece duel u-shaped sit down counter that spans the width of the room. Behind the counter are men cooking, taking orders, delivering food, and cleaning tables all the while ensuring the continuation of laughter from the clientele. We are seated at the bend in a ‘U’ and Ray approaches from the other side of the counter, removes the dishes, hands us menus, and cleans the residue left by the previous, though fleeting, tenants. Ray, as well as the rest of the staff is dressed in a white chef’s smock with a black clip-on bowtie. We place our order for two cheese burgers and fries… no, wait - change that to onion rings. Our food arrives shortly after Ray hands us our utensils and white cloth napkins. While eating I notice an old Mickey Mouse clock on the wall in the center of the room. From the looks of it, the clock is older than I am. From too many angles this place is a collection of dichotomies. From the outside to the inside, from the staff to the clientele, from the formal cloth napkins to the style of eats; topping all this is seeing the back of the building where the restroom is – another kitchen, cleaned as if it has never been used, in direct contrast to the busy burners, counters, knives, and to be washed dirty dishes in the front.

We finish our cheese burgers, the last ingredient to Joshua’s “cure”, and grab a trolley back towards the hotel. Back to the room and Joshua affords me the luxury of a thirty minute nap and I wake up after an hour and half. I reassemble my focus, shake out any parts of my brain that is no longer functioning, and prepare for the evenings adventure.


The Start of the Long Dark Road

Dinner calls and we head out to forage for Oysters. Joshua picks the place and orders a dozen. Having had oysters in the past, and one again here as a reminder that I simply do not like them, I order a sandwich. Joshua names our next location and we arrive at the Hotel Monteleone. Per The Masters instructions: “hit the Carousel Bar. Just trust me. And have Bourbon.” We find the bar and grab a seat and immediately understand. The bar itself is round and rather small, only about twenty feet in diameter. The bartenders literally will climb over the bar to get into the circle. The barstools are anchored to a slowly rotating section of the floor. We order drinks as we start our trip. Upon the arrival of the drinks, we pause, raise our glasses, clink them together in toast of The Masters talents. About a half a drink later Joshua asks about the little man with the spikes and the ball-ping hammer. “I do believe he is sleeping it off right about now as I have not heard him for some hours.” Joshua’s “cure” seems to have worked.

In the corner of the room there is a bachorlett party congregating. They have asked the bartender to query the men at the bar, asking which, if any, are recently divorced, and would the man be willing to answer a few questions. One man bravely volunteers to “take one for the team” and he steps over and sits in the middle of the hornets nest. My assumption is the bride-to-be wanted to understand why couples get divorced, from the horses mouth, so to speak. I could not help but wonder why she did not ask who at the bar had been married the longest. I guess everyone has priorities.

A couple of bar rotations later we are heading down our familiar street. We follow the sultry notes of the Blues coming from a bar aptly called Sing-Sing. We step up to the bar and order. The bartender is an older woman and is more than a bit flustered. The evening is young and the bar sparsely populated but one look and one would think this woman was working a bar full of angry drunks, all wanting a high-maintenance drink. She is rushing back and forth without the usual bartender rhythm. She grabs, or tries to grab a plastic cup to pour my drink and two extra try to come with it, falling to the bar in the process. She leaves them there, fixes my drink and grabs a beer for Joshua and plops them down in front of us. She takes the next order from the guys further down from us and grabs a handful of Corona beers. She proceeds to take a key-lime, and cut it into eighths – not too easy to do since key-limes are small little buggers. She places a fraction of a lime on each bottle lip and places them in front of the customers. Heading back our way she see the empty cups on the bar, verifies they have not had any past liquids, and places them back on the stack of unused cups. My impressions watching her frugality is she most likely is the owner and a temporary bartender, filling in a gap in time. She validates a hundred dollar bill from a patron by holding it up to a dim light and fetches change. I am not sure if she has taken a breath yet.

A few minutes later another bartender reports to work. The owner passes the torch as the new bartender comes around the corner to the back of the bar. I can see the dismay in his face as he eyes the remaining limes and knife still out along with the corona beer bottle caps resting peaceably on the bar.

Enough entertainment and we finish our drinks and proceed out the door.


My Bar (re-revisited)

Back at My Bar, comfort settles in as we order our drinks and sit at our table. The same three-piece band is playing only this time it has added a female singer whose stage name is Big Pearl, and is an excellent compliment to the bands style of music – that of old time rock-and-roll. Big Pearl mannerisms and vocal tones are reminiscent of the late great Janice Joplin. She starts in with Tina Turner classic of Proud Mary and does the song exquisite justice. The bar patrons are intermittently increasing and decreasing in population as the band plays song after song.

There is a bouncer in a sports-coat sans tie. He is a large black man who periodically tries to wave in the street passerby’s. Almost like a true fisherman, he sees a prime target and casts a hook, reeling in a woman as she walks by. He gently grabs her arm and she follows him in as she turns laughingly at the group she is with. She is an elderly woman, maybe seventy or older, dressed in a long blue evening gown, accented with the rose she is holding in her hand. They head to the center of the dance floor and she and the bouncer dance through the song, arms flailing, and hips swaying.

I turn to Joshua and he catches me off guard with a comment. “You know the old NT term ‘blue-screen of death’ that occurs when the Windows lost its mind?” referencing the result of a catastrophic software failure of the older Windows operating system. “Yeah” I reply. He looks towards the woman and bouncer dancing; the woman now having the rose in-between her teeth. “I’ve had several of those while sitting here and when I reach ten – we are leaving”. I laugh - “What are you up to?” He leans over and says “Four”.

A minute later two couples walk past us, heading to the upstairs bar. One woman obviously works out as she has muscular arms and legs. She is wearing stiletto high-heels and a short black dress that that would better be described as a long shirt with the front opened to the point her bellybutton was jealous that it was not getting the same exposure. Her caked on makeup alters her face and can only be described as either having escaped from the Island of Dr. Morue or her plastic surgeon must have lost a huge malpractice suit. I turn to Joshua and he holds up five fingers.

I notice a man at the bar, watching the televised ball game while his girlfriend is sitting next to him with a more than bored look on her face. He has tattoos here and there, but the ones on his elbows are a bit different. They are simple tattoos, a big star on each elbow, with the elbow being the center of the star. Joshua point out a girl dancing at the end of the bar, she sports white shorts so tight a quarter could be bounced off them. The wagon train of bachorlett parties have yet to come to an end; one group comes in, kicks up their heels for a few minutes, then heads back out.

A couple comes in to dance to the music, both dressed in tropical white cotton. The man speaks to Big Pearl and she announces they are celebrating their ten year anniversary, and the man has made a special request. He hops onstage, grabs the microphone, and proceeds to tell the bar patrons of his love for his wife and how excited and happy he is to be married to such a wonderful woman for these ten years gone by. He continues, telling the story of how the first time they met, they were listening to the old Hank Williams song Honky Tonk Blues, and breaks into his own person rendition of the song, backed up by the band. Even with my ears moving towards being on the fritz, the tones forming by the words coming out of his mouth were causing my skin to regret that it can only crawl, instead of run. Mercifully, he does not know the remaining verses and he stops amid the applause from the audience.

As the evening hours increases, so does the number of bachorlett parties. I start to notice there are two distinct groups; the first group is the traditional version whose members include bride-to-be, bridesmaids and the occasional friends and compatible relatives. Why ‘compatible?’ Because the second group is as un-compatible as one can imagine. It appears there is a tradition in Louisiana or maybe the South in general, in which a bachorlett party is given by the female relatives of the bride-to-be. This may not seem unusual; except we are talking ALL female relatives whose age exceeds that of either the bride-to-be or the minimum drinking age. There were sisters, mothers, aunts, grandmothers, and a few who may have already earned the title ‘Great’ in front of their classifications. In more than one group, the more elderly of the group seemed to be accompanying out of tradition and certainly not out of fun, based on the furrowed brow and deeply etched frown.

While observing one such group, I felt a wave of uncomfortableness wash over me, as if someone had snuck up behind me. I turn around and see a man passing by our table, closer to Joshua than to me. Nothing really unusual, especially for New Orleans; nicely dressed, late twenties or early thirties, longer than average hair for his age bracket, yet I that part of me that monitors my environment, found him to be a threat. Later I commented to Joshua on how the man “set off my sensors” and was surprise to find he had a similar impression.

Another “classic Rock and Roll” song is being played and in the mist of the collection of dancing bodies, man in yellow shorts emerges. He is moving to the music, only I am not sure whose, for his flailing arms, wobbling knees, and bobbing body are not in time with the song emanating from the band. I look at Joshua and he holds up ten fingers. It is time to leave – and we do.

At the “Old Opera House” the music is pounding the patrons as we make our way towards the back where a bar table sits conveniently unoccupied. I take a seat and start the process of observing the crowd. My eyes settle on the table just up from us and I watch one of the “Shot Girls” mouth as it forms words projected at a patron whose back is to me. The music all but drowns out the vocals but it’s obvious what she is saying, accent by her holding up 5 fingers. “Fifty!” she says in reply to whatever the man has said. She shakes her head “no” and again she says “Fifty”. This process continues two more three more times and she settles with an “OK, Forty”. She holds out her hand and he populates it with cash. She says she will be right back and steps over to the same broad-shouldered cowboy I had seen the other night, and says something in his ear. He reaches in his pocket and subtly hand her something. She heads into the crowd on the floor and I wait, curious as to what the man has purchased. My first inclination is some form of recreational drug, but she comes back to the man at the table and tells him to meet her outside and she disappears back into the crowd. Nope... probably not drugs. He waits a minute then gets up to go outside and I follow a few seconds later. Half way across the room he sees the same slender brunette from last night, in the same similar nothing top and tight jeans, He grabs her arm and stops her in mid stride. I can’t stop without being obvious so I pass them both, just in time to hear him end his sentence to her with “… you f*cking bitch,” and her response of “No that is not what happened.” Reaching the side door I put my back to the wall where one of the bouncers settled yesterday and watched. The angry man is continuing his conversation then, in a huff, bolts to the men’s room much like a child who did not get the toy he wanted.

Standing here is a perfect perch. I can see most of what happens on the floor. A couple in their mid-forties start to buy beers from the girl who is monitoring a tin trough full of iced down beer. They are stopped by one of the Shot Girls and they agree to purchase a few shots. They take turns with either the vile in her mouth or one between her breasts. Either way they have to bend down while she leans over them. I marvel how overtly domineering either position really is. A minute later the man who threw the temper-tantrum passes me with his negotiated Shot Girl leading the way. They head out the door and disappear into the crowd. Strange place this place.

I find Joshua and we determine boredom is setting in and we head back to “My Bar”.


My Bar (re-re-revisited)

Back at My Bar, comfort settles in as we order our drinks and sit at our table. Big Pearl is ending a song and introduces a girl as she steps onstage. Apparently one of inebriated guests from a dancing bachelorette party has requested an opportunity to sing Me and Bobby McGee. Big Pearl gives her the microphone and the bands instruments produce the notes. The girl starts singing nervously and Big Pearl helps a bit then lets her go. The she makes it through a verse or two then starts to fade. Mercifully, Big Pearl picks up the song and the girl offers a gesture of thanks and leaves the stage. I make a note to myself after seeing this and the other amateur singer and last nights bass player get onstage; “drinking does not make you better a what you think you can do” - for if Kris Kristofferson where dead he would be spinning in his grave. That night he most likely had a shiver run down his spine.

It’s near twelve-thirty and the red headed bartender, collecting stray glasses here and there, passes our table. She has a bruise on her upper arm that almost looks like someone bit her. She makes two or three trips and I can’t help but let my curiosity take control and I ask about the bruise. Seems this five-foot, slender girl is taking a full contact self defense class and “earned” the bruise when a sparing partner kicked the multi-layer pad on her arm; the layers of plastic pinched her arm producing the curved bruise. She is studying to be a police officer and her confidence lends me to believe she will be a formidable addition to their team.

A few minutes later a man walks into the bar, his mullet accenting his entrance. My first impression from his outfit is that he drives a beer truck for a living and I wonder where one goes to have their hair cut in such a fashion. Perhaps “fashion” is not the right word.
As the man settles onto a bar stool, a Jamaican, in dreadlocks stuffed under a rainbow colored rasta hat, near the end of the bar, gets up and blatantly takes a picture of the mulletted man. As the Jamaican heads back to his barstool he sees I am watching and he points to the mullet and laughs, completely oblivious to the irony.

The man with the stars tattooed on his elbows is back, sans bored girlfriend. He proceeds to order a drink and watch the television over the bar playing a commercial for colon cleansing. We get up and decide to head across the street. As we leave the bar a girl in a short black miniskirt takes a step into the still remaining “horse droppings” and lets loose a string of cuss words a sailor would be proud of.

We go into the building and head to the upstairs bar. As we start to go out onto the balcony, I notice an empty fire extinguisher box just inside the door and a bouncer sitting on a stool, fanning himself to cool off from the evening heat. Joshua and I watch the crowd for a bit before I go back in and ask the fanning bouncer where the head is. As I cross the floor a girl on a barstool, talking to a guy next to her, tosses a wadded up napkin over her shoulder and it catches me square on the side of my face. I marvel as the shot and tell her so. She takes the opportunity to offer me a shot to buy. Damn, they are like cockroaches.

Out on the street again and I need to find something to eat and Joshua sees a pizza-parlor. I order a slice of whatever is made, grab a napkin, and eat. I notice the fire alarm on the wall has long ago been pulled; as was the one on the other side of the room. All in all I realize that if this section of New Orleans ever had a fire, there nothing to fight it with save for the alcohol, and no way to warn the revilers.

Finishing my pizza and we head down the street. A short distance past a different pizza vendor, I see a discarded paper plate with one or two pieces of pizza on it near the corner of a building. I am not sure the number of pieces of pizza on the plate as a colony of inch long cockroaches is using the slices for an eating convention. I see I am not the only living entity that wanted pizza this evening.


Old Opera House” – Just About Two AM

As we enter the bar we pass one of the Shot Girls heading out with a “john” trailing not far behind. He stops and gives a hug to another Shot Girl and continues out the door.
Again we find an empty bar table and we each crawl onto a stool. Like a spider seeing a fly entering the web, the same Shot Girl from last night and earlier, stops at our table and holds up her collections of vials. I shake my head and she leaves. Joshua leans towards me and says “She learning”. It only took a half-dozen or so visits. I shake my head in marvel at her persistence.

A song or two more and my ears have endured enough and have decided to translate just the high notes, which means I can hear the band but the music is mostly a muffled mess. The song ends and the lead singer asks the audience if anyone has heard a band named Tool? A solitary figure in the back holds up a lit butane lighter in response – the band must not be that popular. Another song and we are done with the bar.


The Final Hour

Back at “My Bar” at two-thirty and Big Pearl is off the stage and the band is packing up. We have one more drink before retiring from the French Quarter. Big Pearl is sitting at the bar talking to the man next to her and I take a moment to tell her thanks for the entertainment. She introduces me to fiancé and he stands up and shakes my hand as if I were a long term part of their lives. With a heavy Creole accent, he tells me he is the leader of a band playing at Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop. With his jet black hair accented by a thin mustache and perfect goatee, and a dark blue suit best suited for the early nineteen hundreds he must have been phenomenal to watch. I regret not having seen him perform.

The bar is slowing with the bartenders shutting down this or that. They have a different attitude compared to earlier. Their conversations are more towards everyday life and what is going on tomorrow. There really is a whole world behind the scene where bartenders live and work. We often view them as servers; worker bees performing for the crowd, thus we never really see the normal everyday interactions they have after everyone leaves.

It’s nearly three AM and as we head up Bourbon Street towards the hotel and I can see the street gangs starting to move about in broods. The leader heads out first and the rest follow in kind with the youngest members straggle last while trying to look the toughest.

We pause at Krystals Hamburgers again and order two mini burgers and two mini chicken sandwiches. As we head out, eating as we walk, I see a SUV with gull wing doors.

I had forgotten why I like cities so much. It’s the people and their energy. It’s the uniqueness of the remaining individuals that shoots forth after everyone else goes to bed. Or maybe it's just their lack of inhibitions related to the drinking, but either way, the results are staggering.

It’s just past three AM and we are back at the hotel. The bed feels good.

New Orleans Day 3

It’s right at eight o’clock in the morning and I am walking towards the ever coveted Starbucks. As I cross the street three guys, coming the other direction, are having an ongoing conversation. I catch the end of a sentence as one guy says to the other two, "...well I would say so since she slept with me after just ten minutes.”

I more than gladly pay for my Starbucks and some bread-based item from their storehouse of food. I eat and sip. On the way back I notice a building whose ornamentation consist of plaques, each with the face of a lion holding a large metal ring in its mouth. I have seen similar such items in Paris on the Seine river whose boats tie up to the rings. Only these on the building are on the second floor. A man with hair to his shoulders passes me; his hair both black and gray. Black on the lower half and solid gray the rest of the way up.

Joshua is up and alive. We head to Mother’s for a bite to eat. Mother’s is a New Orleans stable. It’s the first restaurant to open and provide food for the people who came to help after hurricane Katrina threw her temper-tantrum. The Po’Boy sandwich is reputed to have started here in the late 1920’s when the owners would collect the leftovers from the slicing of roast beef. Prepared them in a broth and ladled on bread and served them out the back door to the poor who had little to eat. We readily eat the locals’ cuisine. It feels good going down.

I tell Joshua its time to head to the French Quarter. He asks why and I explain to him “to bid the city good bye and to say thanks.” He finishes my sentence with “..for not killing us.”

I still marvel as the difference in architecture. The changes are dramatic, from the old to the new. A building here and there, originally built sharing the walls with their neighbors, now are isolated with scars showing where the former building was attached.

In the French Quarter there is a Street Player setting up in the middle of the street, tip cup out. Stores are opening here and there. We walk up one street and down the other, seeing the Quarter in its preparation stage; getting ready for what comes out in the night.

Time to head back to the hotel, and to the airport and home. This section of the city has given us a ride for the brief time we were here. I thank it and its people for the entertainment, the frivolity, the laughter, and the lessons.

G. Steven Nolte,
New Orleans, May, 2009


PS: Joshua, there were a few things I left out simply because I could not understand or remember why I wrote the note. Such as the entries: “Because I'm a bitch,” and at the Opera House “Cute Brunette - hi! Can I ask you a question,” and “Buy me beer.”
There also were the miscellaneous events I choose to leave out such walking past the Corn Cobb Fence hotel and the girls flashing from the balcony of the topless bars.

Starbucks: A Lifestyle Choice

Lifestyle choices – we all make them, we all have them, and they are all one step away from being categorized as an addiction, usually by those who do not share the opinion or who cannot relate to the value derived from such choices.

I have one: Starbucks. Not coffee, not tea – Starbucks. I have had this conversation many times and still there are those that cannot understand. It’s not the store, nor the coffee, not the high-maintenance frou-frou drinks. It’s the consistency in the experience, from the time you walk through the door to the last sip of the drink, it’s the experience. I can enter any Starbucks and order the same drink and it comes out the same way – most times. And the times it does not? I can have it remade, often accompanied by a coupon for a free drink the next time I wander through (any Starbucks). It’s the experience. I have a friend who drinks diet cokes on a regular basis. He drinks it for the flavor, which is consistent from drink to drink to drink. It’s the experience.

Family and friends try to convince me that my choice is an addictions, citing cost and my ability to accept that coffee is worth the $3:25+soy+tax, but if I were to have coffee at home instead of Starbucks, making the bottom line cost less than drinking a couple of diet cokes a day, would drinking the diet coke be the addiction instead?

We all make choices. It’s how we act upon those choices that truly determine whether we are involved in addictive behaviors. In my case, there have been days where I may not enter a Starbucks for hours, sometimes delaying my arrival into their parking lot until well past noon. Personally I feel it just enhances the anticipation. When I finally consume the custom made drink I can feel the calm settle over me like a warm blanket and all is right with the world again.

It’s the experience, simple, pure, consistent. However, there was one event that happened recently which, to me, could be construed as an addictive behavior. Standing in front of the Starbucks cashier the other day, I realize I recognized the driver of the car coming through the drive-thru as having come through days earlier. I can’t imagine someone short-changing themselves, accepting just the coffee drink without any regards to coming into the store and being immersion into the full Starbucks experience. Just a quick run around a building to get a drink – if that is not an example of addiction than I don’t know what is.

I think I will have another Starbucks since mine has reached the end of the cup. Besides, my hands are starting to shake.

My Favorite Question

Several years ago I heard a great question, granted from a movie, but still a great question. Moreover, the fact it came from a movie makes it all the more interesting when asked in real life. The main male character, while standing in the hall of a catholic school, waiting for a child, politely converses with a nun. As the nun finishes her conversation with the man she asks him one last question. "Have you ever felt the hand of God?"

That question has become prominent in my mind, for in real life, it is not necessarily easy to answer. There are those I have known who would quickly say "no", if for no other reason than it's a safe answer. Yet, in most peoples lives, we see, or hear of experiences we quickly write off to coincidence, pure or dumb luck, or the ever infamous "shit happens", in hopes we no longer have to dwell on them. Only, I seem to dwell on what I cannot explain.

"Have you ever felt the hand of God?" I have asked myself this question several times in my life. Combing through memories and stories collected while passing from adolescent to adulthood.

While working in an ice-house during my senior year at high school, my friend Quintin and I were moving an industrial ice-maker from one side of the shop, surrounded by 55 gallon drums, to the other side, to give us more room to maneuver while bagging ice. The goal was to shift the heavy machine from its 'ice catcher' bin, onto a wheeled rack, making it easier to move. We were making progress, shifting one end then the other closer to the rack.

Being seventeen has its disadvantages, one of which is the limited volume of experience from which to draw upon. Lacking the forethought to see that ice makers have a hole on the bottom of the machine through which the ice drops into the bin, we continued to shift the machine to position it on the rack. As edge of the bin meets the hole, the machine's weight carries it off the bin; falling directly on top of me. I have my arm up, pushing against it as if to hold it in place, but my strength is no match for its weight, and I am pushed downward - not back, but down. The last thing I see is Quintin clawing at the metal, trying to stem its fall. The next thing I know, I hear him ask me, what is to date the silliest question I have ever heard: "Are you dead?" - and he expected an answer.

I am compressed into a squatting position with my feet flat on the floor. With the weight of the box on me I cannot move either leg. The ice-machine has landed in such a way that it stops halfway to the floor and keeps me from moving, yet prevented me from being crushed as I would have had it traversed the remaining distance. The corners of the ice-machine are caught on something; me being one of those something's and one corner is pressed deeply onto my collarbone.

Quintin is just a bit shorter than I but as luck would have it, substantially stronger. He maneuvers around to my side and placing both arms under the edge near my head proceeds to lift the machine the few inches I need to twist my legs free and crawl under the box to safety. As I stand up, I can see how the box is balanced perfectly, for one corner rests on the mobile rack with only an inch of overlap. Another corner is balanced on the edge of a 55 gallon drum by far less than an inch. A third corner is slightly dug into the side of the ice bin itself, and the forth and last supporting corner was me. I tell Quintin, now red from the strain of holding the box, that I am free and he takes a step back and the ice-maker slams to the floor with a roar as if angered by the loss of its prey.

I think of that situation from time to time, remembering how the edges of the box were so finely balanced. I can't help but wonder how I could have been so lucky or is it just that periodically "shit happens"? I would assume so had it not been for another incident that same summer when, again working with Quintin, I happen to be under a car. As the car starts to slip off the jack I hear Quintin yelling to get back, but I am under the car. By the time I start to react it's too late and I can see the car body coming down towards my head. Incredible it stops fractions of an inch from hitting my face. I scramble out from under it to see Quintin laying behind the car and bracing himself with one hand on the ground and the other holding the car from falling the rest of the way. I work quickly to straighten and reset the jack and when we are both safe, we take a step back, breathe, and go back to work, finishing the task, this time with far safer supports in place.

One can look at those events and chalk them up to bad luck, lack of experience, improper preparation, or simple misplaced karma, tacking on as a balance of synchronicity, that having Quintin being in the right place at the right time is what saved me from being physically altered.

"Have you ever felt the hand of God?" That question was on my mind recently as I drove to meet Gunnar, who is just a few years shy of retiring and one of my oldest and closest friends. We meet once or twice a year to catch up with our lives. During the conversation he looks at me and says he feels lucky to be here. He explains that in the weeks prior he was riding his motorcycle home from work, traveling down one of our illustrious 6 lane highways at 65 mph in pre-rush hour traffic when the car in front of him ran over what appeared to be a catalytic converter fallen off some previous cars exhaust system. With no time to react, Gunnar hits the chunk of metal. The results are astounding.

He describes the damage to the bike: the back wheel is completely broken, the front rim is severely bent, the motorcycle body's damaged, and both tires flat. Someone called 911 when the accident occurred and the paramedics showed up a few minutes later. A witness describes what he saw: when Gunnar hit the debris his bike literally went airborne, flying almost three feet in the air. As the bike came down, it hits on the front wheel first then lands on the back destroying it as it hits. Through the half a second incident, still traveling at highway speeds; Gunnar retains some semblance of control and the bike stays upright with him on it. He maneuvers the bike as best he can while other drivers swerve to avoid hitting him. A moment later he is off to the side and safe.

"Have you ever felt the hand of God?" On the way to meet Gunnar, I asked myself if a person would recognize it if it happened, not expecting to receive an answer.

"Have I ever felt the hand of God?" I do not know if I have, but there are those I believe can honestly say they have.

When Dark Clouds Rise

In past jobs I have had the opportunity for small adventures here and there. Such was the trip to San Diego during the Americans Cup in ’92. Our company had presented during a marketing event and my job was to pull it off unscathed. After ten days of non-stop running I was glad it came to an end. My co-worker, Brian and I packed the three-quarters of a million dollars worth of computer equipment into a van, filling every inch of storage with boxes. When we crawled in the van to head back to Dallas I can rest my head on the wall of boxes behind us.

Five hours on the road brings us close to Tucson Arizona during mid-day. We had cross into Arizona without the air-conditioner; turning it on would increase the chances of overheating the van, and it remains off during our trek across the desert like area of the state. With the windows rolled down to alleviate the heat, Brian and I are in shorts and t-shirts, him driving, me, with my shoes off, peeling and eating an orange. We are talking about life, family, and work, as do most people while on the road. Finishing the orange, I reach into the cooler for an ice cube and proceed to use it to wash the stickiness from my hands. Sticking my arms out the window, the 70 mph blast of hot air dries them in an instant. I make a comment to Brian and we joke about having such air-dryers in the restrooms would defiantly dry your hands.

We are traveling in the left lane, about a hundred yards or more behind a semi-truck. The truck passes too close to a thick bush on the side of the road; its branches violently sway from the sudden concussion caused by the 60000 lb vehicle. The bush instantly changed colors from green to black, as if a cloud formed around it. Brian sees it first, expels an expletive, and leans toward the middle of the cab yelling “BEES”. I lean as far from the open window as I can as the van covers the remaining yards. We enter the cloud.

If an arms manufactures had a sense of humor they could not have done better. It is as if we are being shot at with a ‘bee machine gun,’ sending those little varmints towards us at 70 mph. Bees and windshields really do not get along and there are hundreds of simultaneous thumps and thwacks as they hit the van, the glass, and the boxes behind us. A moment later and we are through.

The windshield is plastered with what was once the contents of hundreds of bees. Thick gooey splotches smear as Brian hit the windshield wipers. I check to see if anything is moving in the van and note the boxes behind us are covered in minute remnants of insects. Apparently bees do not fare well with boxes moving at 70 mph either. Although I consider it lucky that none survived the collision but us, I start to realize there are bee parts everywhere; everywhere - the boxes, console, and map, our necks, hair, cloths, and legs, even in my shoe there are smatterings of bee parts. The bouncing off boxes has spread the swarm and the heat dried them where they landed.

We travel a bit further and pull over to dust off. Clean the window as best we can and head back on the road, a bit further from the vehicles in front of us.

Such are the adventures.

Key West, Florida

Periodically I find I need an opportunity to shutdown life, ignore any fears, frustrations, and the occasional fight I might wish to have, but do not. Such a time led a fellow adventurer and me to Key West, Florida.

As we start our descent into the Miami area, we are cruising just above a layer of clouds, heavy irregular shapes, piled thickly together, with an opening here or there only to be filled with another below them. As we grow closer to Miami, the clouds vanish and the land below quickly transforms itself into marsh. We are over the Everglades, and I noticed the afternoon sun, reflecting off the pockets of water, appearing as if it lay beneath the surface, intensely shining through only when an area of vegetation clears.

There are lines, mostly straight, like small roads stretching far into the distance, hundreds of them, some turning sharply, and then heading off into another direction. The man next to me lives in Miami and he explains the trails are left from the air boats - the skiffs with large above water propellers that are used to navigate the marshy, vegetative water. Where they pass, they slice open the surface allowing the water to appear. Nature, over time will fill in the gaps.

As we approach the airport, I see rows of palm trees lining the roads and the fronts of buildings, and my heart reminds me of how much I love their shape, and what they represent.

We land, grab a car, and head out, Joshua driving, and I observing. We have 161 miles to cover to reach Key West.

On the way out of town there are several rows of tract homes and what is interesting is home after home has corrugated tin covering the windows facing the freeway. At first glance, it appeared functional, maybe blocking the noise from the cars, then I discover the tin covers all the windows of a home, then another, and another after that. I realized these homes were empty, the tin protecting the windows from vandals and vagrants since the homeowners were no longer able to live there. Regardless of why, they are symbols of people who lost their homes.

The road to Key West is a small two lane rode whose bridges allow the hopping from island to island. As we cross under the archway that signifies the entrance to the Florida Keys, a motorcyclist buzzes by, his hair covered by a helmet but his long blondish beard seems to split down the middle with each half flowing down the sides of his helmet as he sped along.

Periodically, I would see the Gulf and belt out "got water!" Joshua would reply with either a "got nothing" or "got water!" This reoccurring event and his patience and camaraderie are a welcome relief to these last few months.

We pass over a small island; to the left are Kite Boarders. Kite Boarders are people, on a single ski, tethered to very large kites. The kites, fed by the ocean winds, are full and darting here and there, pulling the skier along, popping them up off the water, giving them opportunities to perform a split-second acrobatic flip or spin, before slapping them back onto the water. There are dozens of them in close proximity. Joshua comments there are so many they resemble a swarm of flies. I am amazed they do not overlap and tangle.

We pass business after business, some catering to the boating industry, some to the tourist, and some that are not so discriminating. Take Papas Lounge, the building appears to have seen much better days, what with the lettering on the sign begging for a new paint job - it seems to make the building itself look more dilapidated, though that would be hard to do.

We cross over another small bridge and several fishing boats are on the hunt. Joshua makes the comment we should be out there with them. I wholeheartedly agree.

We cross over Seven Mile Bridge, with its huge rising arch, highlighting one of my favorite places to be. A motorcycle, with its female passenger, pulls over and the girl runs to the edge to take a picture.

As we travel past homes and businesses, I notice a bit of whimsy here and there. Several places have mailboxes shaped like a Manatee standing upright, holding a mailbox between its fins. Often they are dressed as a Santa, an Angel, or the occasional Reindeer.

We approach Key West and curve to the right, then left as we pace the ocean. Another turn here and there and within a short time, I see a marker designating the furthest most southern point of the US. I am in Key West, as far from everything as I can get without getting wet.

We find the hotel, change, and wander down Duval Street. We head to our first stop; Caroline's Cafe for lunch. As we walk, I glance at the bars, shops, and restaurants lining the street. We pass a bar, and I note a man wearing a leather shirt and leather chaps. Somehow, he seems to have forgotten the pants part of the outfit, as the chaps did nothing to cover his rear. Yes, I am definitely in Key West.

We are seated on the patio at Caroline's Café; I order a Grouper sandwich, Margarita, and we relax and watch the sights. A woman skirts by on a bike, a dog resting in her basket, I half expected the Wicked Witch to be chasing her. A moped pulls up with two guys on board; the passenger has a shirt that says "Gal Pals." Another guy passes sporting a bright pink Mohawk and I had to ask Joshua what would possess a guy to get up in the morning and say to himself, "I think I'll get a pink Mohawk today"? As we eat our meal, a chicken wanders by and Joshua comments "you can always tell you're in Key West - the chickens wander into the restaurants."

We head down to Captain Tony's Saloon made famous by Jimmy Buffett in his song The Last Mango in Paris. Business cards cover the ceiling and a good deal of the bar, stapled to every nook and cranny, accented by small herds of bras traded for drinks in previous weeks, months, and years. Much to my dismay, Captain Tony is not in, but we enjoy his bar. After a drink or two, I wander back to the head (bathroom) and, true to the song, written on the bathroom wall, now framed and protected by a sheet of plastic, are the words highlighted in the song: I ate the last mango in Paris, took the last plane out of Saigon, took the first fast boat to china, and Jimmy there still so much to be done."

As we head further down Duval, Joshua comments about his sandals. He shows me the bottom of them and I am amazed they have a built-in bottle opener. Only Joshua - only Key West.

Our next stop is Sloppy Joes, once Hemmingway's favorite hangout. We step to the rear to what is called "Sloppy Joes Backroom Saloon and Sea Breeze"; we enjoy a drink or two and a bit of hypothetical philosophy. A half hour later we head back to the front to blaring music and sheets of people dancing on the floor. Several drinks later, it's late and we decide its time to find the hotel. I felt something on my hip as I stand and my phone decided to jump to its death, hitting the floor and dissolving into several pieces. With luck and the help of a fellow bar patron I find the parts and head on out - reassembling as I go and the phone comes back to life.



It is 7:00 AM. Morning comes too early, and I grab my jeans, slip on a shirt, hat, and a pair of shoes, and head outside to let Joshua sleep a bit more. I again walk down Duval Street, and notice the street is empty save for an occasional bicyclist and the one or two people walking one direction or the other. I head towards the only Starbucks in Key West, nine-tenths of a mile away. As I painfully cover the distance, I note the onslaught of vocal roosters, with their early morning crowing. One would sound off across the street and two more would answer from somewhere else. As I pass a motel, one lets loose and I pause to take a picture. I tried several times but the picture would always come out blurry. As I tried again, the bird suddenly darts towards the other side of the parking lot, startled by the temporary resident in the motel room when he opens the door where the rooster was serenading, and yelled out at the bird "What the Hell's wrong with you?" as if the rooster would know - Yes, its morning in Key West.

I pass a hen and half a dozen chicks consuming a pie tin of crushed corn chips. They scamper slightly, then head back to the plate. Slightly above the tin is a sign that states "This Family is sponsored by the Salsa Loca Mexican Restaurant."

Suddenly I realize I am still on last night's rhythm for I have been humming the Jimmy Buffett tune regarding Captain Tony's. I pass multiple closed shops, restaurants, bars, and the occasional gated entrance to homes and apartments. One such gate is located between two buildings. It is wrought iron with chicken-wire covering it halfway up. On the other side of the gate lies a two foot stuffed rabbit, staring at the chicken-wire as if trying to find a way through it.

I reach the Starbucks and in moments have the coveted liquid in hand. I head back out and pause at a touristy tee-shirt shop. Something is familiar. I see across the street a solitary balcony on the second floor. When my wife and I came to Key West almost a decade ago, we sat at an outside bar, and I saw on that balcony where someone had placed a mailbox on a pole and painted the words "Air Mail." That mailbox is now gone as is the restaurant where we sat, for it is now the tee-shirt shop. Only the brick sidewalk is the same.

As I walk, I see the ocean in the distance down one of the side streets. I head that way and soon enter an area noted as "The Truman Annex," it is lined with tastefully done two to three story condos, all keeping with the Key West style. I notice the lawns are perfectly manicured and here and there, doors are open, some with screens some not. As I pass the condos, a man walking the other direction says good morning to me. He is impeccably dressed and seems very out of place. He reminds me of the literary discussions I have with one of my brothers from time to time, as we sit drinking a beer. We will watch other patrons, attaching a personality and uniqueness to each one. This man would fall under the category of a serial killer.

As I reach the end of the Truman Annex, I am close to the ocean. I expect to be able to follow the shoreline back to the street where my hotel resides. A quick look tells me that will not be possible. I have traveled the wrong direction but this morning it does not matter, I cross the parking lot and bid the water good morning.

Off to the right is a decommissioned WWII ship named the USS Mohawk. She is a retired Coast Guard cutter, and came to Key West after serving her time in the Navy, including seeing action 14 times against German submarines. At 165 feet in length, she is an ironic contrast to the huge cruise ships in the distance behind her, for without her and her kind, the cruise ships would not exist. I pause to give thanks to the men she protected, who in turn protected us.

Time is moving and I head back the way I came, again heading through the Truman Annex where the number of open doors has increased. As I reach the other side of the Annex, I turn the corner of the first street I see. Moments later a familiar sound reemerges: roosters crowing and I realize I had not heard one since I entered the Annex. There is a distinct difference between these two sections of Key West.

As I walk, coffee in hand, a middle aged woman passes me walking her bike - I notice the front tire is flat - every freedom has its risks. A bit further and I see a building whose age is such that a tree, two feet and some change in diameter has grown near the edge of the floor of the home. Long ago there was a battle as to who would win, the tree has pushed the floor of the house up several feet, splitting the wall and collapsing the roof.
Tree: 1, Home: 0.

I turn a corner and head up a block then across another, zigzagging the blocks to get closer to the hotel. I pass a series of '50s style homes, which appear to be made of concrete, each one a duplicate of the others except for one small minor difference, a simple design shift here and there. The last two in the series have experienced a conversion into cafes.

A half block later, I recognize a building across the street. I am staring at the former home of Ernest Hemmingway. I am on Whitehead street/US 1. Close to me is a telephone pole with a faded sign. It reads, "Found, Lost Cat" with a picture of said cat, well washed by the daily rains. I find it funny, for if you have ever been to Key West you know that cats are a commodity, and I wonder how one tells a lost cat from one on the prowl - maybe this one as five toes instead of six.

As I round the corner, I reach my hotel room. There on the porch, Joshua sits in one of the two Adirondack chairs. He looks none the worse for wear. There are yellow Allamanda flowers growing around the porch, with a red one slipping in here and there. I take the other chair and relax for a moment, and slip off my shoes; for some reason my bare feet on the old, weatherworn floor boards gives me a feeling of delight. A third creature decides to join us. A stray cat wonders onto the porch and coaxes some petting from Joshua. Once he stops, the animal lays down for a moment, then up again and wanders to the edge of the porch. The cat shuns us by sitting with its back to us, as if a reminder that we are but visitors, and not to get too comfortable here.

Time for a shower and a quick bite to eat - a continental breakfast by the pool and the morning sky has added an accent of misting rain. I eat next to a gold fish pond, finish up, and get ready to leave.

As we start our drive back, we pause for a moment near the ocean to bid it farewell. We have been in Key West for a very short time, but then there is never enough time when one is in Key West.

G. Steven Nolte
Key West - December 9th, 2007

The Star Spangled Banner

With each fireworks display, I am reminded of the reason for fireworks beyond that of entertainment: the reminder of war. In the "Star Spangled Banner," prisoner-of-war Francis Scott Key wrote of what he saw from the decks of a British warship as it fired upon Fort McKinley - "The rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air." Key wrote of what he saw, but what is not written is the reality of the men within the forts ramparts. War, the reality of war, cannot be captured in prose, in pictures, or in movies. It is one of those things beyond our ability to fully comprehend unless we are one of the unfortunate few who has lived through it, or one of those precious few who did not. The walls of Fort McKinley may have withstood the nightlong attack from the British, but some of her men did not. The resiliency of the human body is negated by shrapnel and cannon balls, by lack of food and fresh water, and by sickness and fatigue.

We, as a nation, survived that long night along with a flag that so stubbornly refused to lower. We survived in countless other battles, skirmishes, and struggles. We survived, not just with seasoned troops, but troops made from farmers, hunters, shopkeepers, and blacksmiths. We survived by people much like ourselves.

Every year a newspaper or magazine article appears whose goal is to reintroduce the idea of replacing the national anthem with "America the Beautiful". The reasons are valid: the "Star Spangled Banner" is hard to remember, and harder to sing. It requires a vocal range most people cannot attain. "America the Beautiful" is easier to teach, easier to sing, and its lyrics well known. But this country is not built on "easy"; it is built on the hardships of those that came before us. It is built on lost lives, lost arms and legs, lost husbands, sons, wives, and daughters. It is built on perseverance and commitment. It is built on love of country and love for each other.

If the national anthem is hard to learn, then listen to it more often - reiteration is a great teacher. If it is beyond your range, then sing it within your range; sing it for country, sing it for yourself, for those you love, and for those non-professional soldiers who fought for you. Sing it from your heart, whether well or poor; sing it with pride and without expectations of acceptance. Sing it.

Downtown Philadelphia

The first thing I notice about the streets of Philadelphia are the street food vendors. Walking the streets is a trip through drifting smells of hot dogs and hamburgers and the every present Philly cheese steak. As I venture further, I pass a man who reminds me of the heath food customer joke – his clothes loose and hanging, his beard unkept, his eyes vacant and focused forward. He reminds me of someone who is constantly ill. He is, ironically, carrying a sack from Wholefoods, a health food mart.

There are endless differences in the people I pass. A college age girl carrying a sheet of mounting board, the heavy cardboard used for displays and mounting pictures catches my eye. I notice because I find it interesting how in the mist of the emotionally monochromatic city, exist little symbols of art and culture. As my trek continues I find a flock of girls, each carrying a board. It is too much and I have to ask; they are nursing students and the boards are for an honors presentation at the Benjamin Franklin House. I notice two women in scrubs walking on the other side of the street, mirroring the two nursing students on my side of the street.

As you walk the streets you find the traffic lights seem to be timed, not to the traffic, but to pedestrians, an observation made into an impromptu fact by one of the residents of the city. If you pace yourself you can walk block, to block, to block, without having to wait for the lights to change. This sense of privilege is somewhat altered when one steps off the curb, only to realize the delivery “boys” on bikes seem to overlook the stoplights. Good safety tip: not only be aware of one-way streets, but also look for those overzealous emulators of the Roman god Mercury.

When you walk the streets and watch the people, you notice most stare straight ahead, seemingly to keep within their own world. Yet, every once in a while, a persons face lights up and pauses to say “hello” to someone they recognize. They are oblivious to all until their peripheral vision catches a familiar shape coming the other direction.

In a Starbucks, I wait for my drink and I notice a note on the stores public bulletin board. It’s a call to those who suffer from Migraine headaches. I find it interesting to ask for volunteers, suffering from Migraines, at a coffee shop. As a researcher, how do you know if the persons’ Migraine is induced from too much or too little coffee, or one of the other uncounted causes of a Migraine? I can see the notes: Patients headache lessened considerably once the medicine has been consumed. Medicine: One pill - drank with coffee.

And since I am being cynical, I might as well add the conversation I had with my coworker while walking the section of Chestnut Street that has the long line of plaques embedded in the concrete, listing the signers of the constitution. As we read the titles/professions of the men, we questioned the difference between the Statesmen, and the Politician. We came to the conclusion that the Politician would take the bribe and say he will do what briber wants, while the Statesmen will actually do it – its all about ethics. Although I had to laugh at Webster’s definition of a Politician: a person primarily interested in political office for selfish or other narrow usually short-sighted reasons.

As I head back to the office after taking a lunchtime walk, I pass a man dressed in Colonial garb, he is one of the actors helping tell the story at Independence Hall. I see him standing beside a building eating lunch, probably purchased from a street vendor. I chuckle thinking how he is dressed for the seventeen hundreds, yet eating from a small plastic covered aluminum pan. Then it occurred to me, that 230+ years ago a man could have been standing in the same spot, near the same building, eating his lunch from a small tin plate. Do things really change?

I reach the building housing the office and I step into an empty elevator and smile at the subtle dissolving remnant of a previous riders perfume. If her perfume choice matches her personality, she is a person to behold.

It’s the end of the day and my coworker and I head out for dinner, traversing one block then another. We choose an outdoor café, and sit at the last available table. We are close to the street, close enough that I can almost touch the city buses as they pass. There is a trumpet player across the street and I walk over to him, give him a $5 bill and ask that he play his favorite song. He questions my request, and I explain that I want to hear his passion. I return to my chair, and amid the traffic, conversations, footsteps, dishes, and an occasional dog barking, the passionate notes refuse to be enveloped, crossing the street with ease.

Observations are made as we sit. Across one street is an advertisement – “Home of the $98 suit! Two for $190”. I did not realize such a place existed; I seemed to have missed their marketing. We notice there are two fire hydrants near us, and wonder if they both are active or is one a replacement for the other, with the city leaving the older out of respect for its age. As we discuss, the people just on the other side of us joke they feel safer since any wayward vehicle would have to pass through the two fire hydrants, and me before it gets to them. We never did figure out why there are two fire hydrants, but we did hope they would, at a minimum, give us an extra second or two. I am reminded how my Aunt would not let the kids play in the front yard of the cousins house, worried that a errant car would jump the curb and hit one of us. She must be looking down at me and shaking her finger.

We have a wonderful waitress named Alda. Alda, looks very tired, but casual questions and a thank you here and there for taking care of us and she brightens as she brings the drinks, food, and bill. She is from Bosnia, and delights in response to my question of how to say “good evening”. She explains there is nothing so formal, but the word “scami” is close. I ask her how one says good-bye, and she replies with what sound like “mira posa shin”. I think people delight when someone takes a passing interest in them, enough to ask them about themselves. Alda, spends her time at work catering to crowds of hungry people, I think there are but a few that ask her about who she is.

The evening passes, and we eat and drink, watch the traffic, and catch a glimpse of the sunset. I notice the unusual number of pregnant women in the area. Nearer the end of the meal, the traffic is having its effect and I grow tired of the rumble. Then the wind shifts a bit and someone’s perfume crosses my path. The traffic doesn’t seem so bad after all.

Big cities always retain a special place in my heart for I do love them. I have had more than one conversation with those who dislike the crowds, the traffic, and the buildings. I thought of this and wondered why I view them so differently. I answered my own question, for I do not see hoards of people, and streams of cars, I see separate entities, little pockets of energy, each carrying the emotions their lives generated. They live, laugh, and love. They are stoic while walking yet light up when they see the unexpected person on the street. Even the cars are carriers, taking these entities from one place to another, their bodies going along for the ride.

We are through eating, pay the bill and get up to leave. Alda, smiles and waves with a “mira posa shin”, I return the good-bye as best I can.