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.