Wednesday 16th April, 1997 Paddle Steamer                               Bourbon St. Buskers                                     Preservation Hall Jazz                                   Stats.: Route: None Road Kill: None. I was excited. An entire day of no driving and exploring New Orleans. I dressed so fast that Batman and Robin would have been put to shame, and then was about to bypass The Prince Conti's Continental Breakfast, but the aroma of a fresh brew dragged me into the breakfast area. A pain au chocolate, three coffees and an OJ (sem Simpson) later and I was zig-zagging my way through the French Quarter streets on my way to Jackson Square and the Mississippi. It was magnificent. Other tourists wandered about, but I was pleasantly surprised at the number of people who appeared to live and work in the area. Most of the far right third of The Quarter is mainly residential and there were offices, shops and children playing in school yards. There was also live music on the streets and in the cafes. However, the main streets for night happenings were mainly shut and being hosed down in preparation for the coming evening. At the Tolouse Street Wharf I watched real paddle steamers come and go with their burden of tourists. The riverfront Street Car trundled by and I decided that I was having fun. I tried desperately to pretend that I had not seen the Planet Hollywood and Hard Rock Cafe eateries, built into the Jackson Brewery building. But I failed. What is the point of being able to show people T-shirts proving that you have eaten the same burger all over the world? I attempted to take a slightly different route back, and in doing so ran across John, who had manned the front desk when I checked in last night. He acknowledged me and continued giving his voodoo walking tour. I eaves dropped for a few minutes before heading on. Back at the hotel I joined my own tour, The Fun Day tour, which was to give me a brief driven tour around the main sections of the city and a boat trip through the swamp. The many districts of the city all have their own flavor but are generally made up of quite large old homes. Our guide answered many of the questions that had been bugging me: The city was initially founded by the French, over two hundred years ago. The French Quarter was the original city. This explained my feeling that I was in an old European city. Only half of the French Quarter was built on land that did not need reclaiming from swamp. Every other part of the New Orleans area was reclaimed from swamp and bog lands. Though these areas are more than sixteen feet below the level of the Mississippi it is kept dry by a series of drainage ditches, bayous, levies and pumping stations. This all means that the water table is between two and four feet below the surface. So plants and crops always have water but burial is only possible above ground. The bayou was only about eight miles away from down town New Orleans. The parking lot next to the dock was also the site for a shrimp market. People from all walks of life wandered around , dickering for the best prices and checking quality. Our flat bottomed boat was piloted by our swamp guide - and older round faced gentleman. He had a very Louisiana accent and would repeat everything he said, at least twice. This natural reinforcement meant that I actually remember quite a bit of what he said. ("O'er yonder is a turtle. (A turtle). On that log. (Log) ... The log is floating on that bog. (Bog) Now your bog is not the same as yer swamp ..." Our trip took us through out of the bayou and in to the swamp proper. It was green and beautiful and every couple of minutes some one would point out a turtle, alligator, bird or snake. Mid way through this we stopped at Miss Mary's house for a cajun lunch. Her single story, indigo house is near one of the pumping stations and surrounded by swamp. The only way in, is via Bayou Segnette. Her garden has chickens, peacocks, banana plants and herbs. After we ate I talked with her about her father - who had been a mink trapper - and how her siblings and children had lived in the area. It reminded me of the stories that my Father, and my aunts and uncles, tell of their childhood on the island of Madeira. Both involved large Roman Catholic families and co-operatives farming. Once back in the city, I scrubbed up and headed out for a coffee at a nearby courtyard cafe. Then I walked around with the list of cajun restaurants which I had gathered. I had hoped to find some small hole-in-the-wall type place amongst my list. But it contained only either highly priced restaurants, that filled their windows with their awards, or tourist traps, that were decked out with fluorescent lighting and plastic plants. As the night drew in, the crowds on Bourbon grew. Eventually the blocks were closed to traffic. I gave up my hunt and went into the Pat O'Neil. This place had an interesting history, was in the lower price range and fell into the fluorescent lighting category. My Crawfish Etouffee was surprisingly good, if not as spicy as I expected. After eating I walked the length of Bourbon and back and tried every place that had live music. The Preservation Hall, on St. Peter and Bourbon, had no real competition. It is a purposely no frills environment, where the majority of the audience have to stand to experience the veteran jazz musicians work through set, after set of classic jazz. The other music also scored quite highly. About the only places that I did not bother with, were the strip clubs. Sure, they add to the colour of the place, but were not what I was in this city for. Anyway, I can always go to the ones around my home in North Beach. By the small hours of the morning, I felt that I had given the Bourbon scene a good try and was getting pretty tired of the mobs of adolescents moving up and down the street and having fun at everyone else's expense. If it was not for the handful of excellent music venues, I would have completely lost interest in that area of the French Quarter. Some one once used the words "eclectic" and "mess" to describe this place. I can see some of what they were getting at. But I was also acutely aware that I had just seen that small part of the area, that was manufactured for the tourists. Surrounding and under pinning this is a network of establishments that cater to the locals and are not on this one famous street. Eventually I wandered off, down a side street, and found a bar that served Guiness and who's clientele was obviously made up of the staff from other establishments. I played the fly on the wall as a local love triangle unraveled itself, in a slightly inebriated soap-opera kind of a way. Then it was time for bed. I started to try and figure out how many drinks I had imbibed and gave up when I realised that it would be a better idea, if I used that energy to help me focus on the exit door, which was stubbornly refusing to stop oscillating in time to the background noise. ------