I just came in last night from my extended stay in the city of New Orleans…
Straight off my Christmas break at the end of the semester, my family picked me up at the university and continued south to New Orleans where – as I said before – they were running their races. Well, they all did well and they finished out the weekend in the city. After Mom and the little ones went home, my dad stayed at the local company office to work and I stayed behind with him over the few days with an unexpected extra travelling companion:
…my little sister!
She is the next oldest in the family at twelve years old, seven years below me. I was originally going to spend the time alone exploring the city and having my own little adventure, but Maddie was gunning to go, and upon finding out that it really wouldn’t cost that much to let her stay and come along, it turned to me to whether or not I would be alright keeping her. I kind of knew how much it would mean to her if I did, and she has been missing her older brother a lot over the past year or so, so I agreed to take her with me.
Dad gave us use of the rental car, a little bit of allowance, and complete freedom, provided we kept our noses clean and the car unscratched. So we packed a bag with our coats and some water bottles and our heads full of ideas and we set off.
The first day, with some navigational issues, we arrived and parked in the Business and Arts district of ol’ Nawlins. That morning we spent walking through little art museums and artisan shops in the area, getting our first taste. We’ve always loved glass blowing and she couldn’t resist staying for yet another demonstration. I’ve always had a thing for the good old Murano glass art, so I loved seeing the sculptures and glasses. Our wanderings led us to Magazine Street, however, which we took all the way to the French Quarter, my personal favorite section of the old city…
Here, I guess you could say our adventures really began here as we explored with abandon – poking in and out of old shops and antique stores, perusing art galleries and music shops. We began finding and chasing down little legends, folklore, and traditional spots as we discovered them, always on the trail of something new. We found the blue dog, followed after artist Terence Osborne and some of his fabulous work, almost met Pao and Caliche (but DID find their personal art gallery!), and started going searching after the places in recurring pictures that we found. At St. Louis Cathedral, we stopped to lunch upon famous Lucky Dog hotdogs and took a river walk (and nap) to the French Market. All over the French Quarter we went to see the buildings and houses and gorgeous balconies and everything else, taking plenty of opportunity to notice and lots of opportunity to talk.
The French Quarter is something of an architectural artwork by day, iron rails and lampposts in the old French style and little corner shops and slate roofs and everything else that there is to see. By night, she is something of a small dream, lit by golden candles and lights and brimming with more than just the disrighteous passions of the otherwise distracted. There is always music. There is always a wandering minstrel with his trumpet or guitar who fills the streets with his sorrows and joys. There is always a band of strings and brass still writing and rewriting our American culture in jazz. There is plenty to see otherwise in New Orleans and especially in the French Quarter, but this is the New Orleans that I find.
That night, Dad came to meet us for dinner with some colleagues from work at a restaurant on the first block of Bourbon Street. We had some excellent Cajun, famous (and delicious) New Orleans bread pudding, and told the locals about our day, much to their delight and suggestion of what to do the next day. So we went to bed that night satisfied…
The next morning, we woke up bright and early and headed out to get coffee and beignets (mmmMmmm, good!) at the Café du Monde in the outer French Quarter. After some mild exploration and a few more pralines, we headed off to Metairie in uptown to find a certain special statue (which we had been hearing) about in one of the deliciously cool cemeteries of old New Orleans.
All around the cemetery grounds we roamed, pausing in awe at the prodigal splendor of the old family crypts hundreds of years old, like temples of cut marble. We saw the miniature houses and peaked in through the iron doors at the small rooms lit by stained glass windows, the final bed chambers of names, dates, and wishes well.
Above-ground resting places are not necessarily alien where I live, but it’s certainly a very rare occurrence. All of the Metairie Cemetery was marked by a forest of these gorgeous creations. A canopy of ancient live oaks gave us shade as we walked somberly, peacefully around. I’ve found that there is a certain atmosphere about places like this that always quiets me inside and out. As for this one, I’ve seen few of equal prominence, one such being the cemetery Isola di San Michele. The huge structures bested in size and grandeur some of the houses I have seen in my life. I’ve laid my head down under roofs smaller than those that house the departed in Metairie. It was all so unreal, so incredible.
And then, after long searching, much lostness, and finally a little help, we found it: The Angel of Grief, the weeping angel of Metairie. It was inspired by one in Rome and was erected in 1890 in the tomb of Chapman H. Hyams. We had seen pictures of it in galleries all over the French Quarter and had finally found it.
After our successful hunt, we headed back to the French Market to celebrate. I asked Maddie what she wanted for a late lunch and she told me plainly, “Jazz.” So we hit up a little jazz pub for a po-boy and a band with a sax and a tip jar. One of the best lunches I’ve had yet. As a final mark before we left for dinner, we drove around the Superdome and then across the bridge to see Old Algiers Point so that we could ride the ferry back just as the city lights were coming on. As we were walking along the riverfront in the light of the streetlamps, she asked to dance to the music we could hear.
Hey, fathers get to dance with their daughters. A big brother can dance with his little sis. The boy she marries better be a man and a half.
After our last Nawlins dinner at Jacques-imo’s (shrimp etouffee!), we drove down St. Peter’s Street all the way back to the city, gazing sleepily out the windows at the Christmas lights on the huge mansions and small castles of the blatantly rich and fabulous.
The last day before the flight home was spent on the north shore of Lake Pontchatrain, away from the city and in the bayou. We searched in vain for an alligator at a little nature park and finally ended up at a water front walking park, climbing the enormous old trees there and staring off across the water to the city beyond the horizon.
I would say that our adventure ended with our flight home that afternoon at 3:00, but a friend of mine reminded me that the real adventure is never really ever over. I guess that’s the idea behind this little blog: this is the story – the adventure – of the life of a Jonathon. The adventure never really ends. It has its high moments and its low, its fast and its steady, but it is the never ending story of a life in the world.
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