The Van Blog

Oh, where to begin…  How about with what I do recall?

J.T. and I finally made it to New Orleans last Wednesday, and what a time it’s been.  It looks and feels exactly as it should—old crumbling buildings, steamy heat, flowers, jazz, and narrow little cobbled streets.

For months now, people I’ve met on the road have been asking “Where are you going?” or “What’s your goal?” and I’ve always answered that I’m just trying to make it to New Orleans before I run out of time and/or money.  A Canadian sans working visa has only six months at a time to gallivant through the States, and this particular van girl’s got to go North soon.

So let’s try simple and chronological to get through the hazy joy that’s been New Orleans.  Thursday was my first day in the French Quarter, and it was no easy feat to navigate the tiny little streets in the big bad van.  After wedging it into a pay parking lot space (how I will never know), J.T. and I went off to shop and explore.  We sat in a sidewalk cafe having cafe au lait and beneigt (terrific little French donuts), and made a plan to put a dent in our New Orleans bucket list.  Somehow, over the next three days, we would have to find a voodoo museum, see the big cemeteries, ride a streetcar, ride a riverboat, and have our palms read.  I’m happy to report now that we were successful in all five endeavors!

Fun Fact: New Orleans’ liquor laws are very, very different from what I’m used to.  One can purchase booze in a to-go cup and then wander the French Quarter on tipsy toes.  It was recommended to me by a friend of a friend that I needed to try a ‘Hurricane’.  Rather than being in bad taste, I think the way New Orleans has marketed its Katrina trouble is admirable.  There’s a dose of humour there, as well as a will to make some much-needed dough off the problem and slowly fix itself in the process.

Funnier Fact:  On my first night in the Quarter I watched J.T. grow steadily drunker from said Hurricanes.  Inside the Snug Harbor Jazz Club (which was recommended to me by someone I met many moons ago in Jasper), she excused herself and then never returned to the table.  Oops.  Not to worry though.  I found her in the ladies loo and peeled her off the floor—forcibly feeding her a giant sandwich before returning to the van.  Never did get to hear the Snug’s jazz though…

On Quarter Day two, J.T. and I hopped on the Canal Street trolley and went off to find the St. Louis cemetery.  Above-ground crypts are just as creepy in cheery sunlight as they are in Hollywood films, and the fact that some of the doors are crumbling away so that one can see inside is terrifying!  Zombies totally escape that way and wander around at night.  I’m sure of it.  We then explored the history of Voodoo in a dim little back-room “museum” complete with gods, offerings, and a wishing stump (I can’t ‘fess up to what I wished for or I won’t get it!).  We topped off that day with a ride on the ‘Creole Queen’ paddle wheeler, which took us up and down the Mississippi River.  I can’t think of a better, or more rock ‘n’ roll, place to have ridden on a river boat.  I have been humming Elton John’s “My Father’s Gun” ever since.

And now comes the lost weekend part—subconsciously (but completely unintentionally) I must have wanted to pay J.T. back by making her play babysitter to an extremely intoxicated Moi.  Since my sauced Saturday, I have had many, many locals shake their heads and say “careful girl, they mix ‘em strong in the Quarter (pronounced Qwar-tah)”, and I wholeheartedly concur.

I remember brief and colourful snippets, which I shall relay in order (as close as I can!):

-There were lime margaritas and a celebration because it was the weekend before St. Patrick’s Day.  Being Irish, I wore a green “Pale is the new tan” t-shirt and donned a single set of green beads.

-J.T. and I strolled around Bourbon Street, I filmed some stuff, and then she got hungry.  I waited with her at a sidewalk hot-dog cart and noticed that an extremely drunk girl next to me was smearing her boyfriend’s shirt with a bright mixture of mustard and ketchup because her hot dog just wasn’t quite making it into her face.  I felt bad and tried to help by grabbing a handful of napkins and cleaning up his shirt sleeve—for which he drunkenly shoved a two dollar tip into my hands.  I refused.  He insisted.  I came away with two crumpled ones in my back pocket.

-There were more drinks and a trip into the dirtiest little sidewalk bar ever (I cringe now but didn’t particularly care at the time), inside which there were more Hurricanes.  (Even now, my stomach is protesting these memories).  J.T. and I had the most wonderful, laughing conversation with the bartender (who was older than dirt and didn’t find us the least bit funny), and then continued our Bourbon Street wanderings.

-Beads were flung at us off balconies, and I have a foggy recollection of running into an exuberant Cuban woman named Mercedes Fernandez who thrust some Jesus pamphlets into my hands and began praying profusely for my soul as she laid her hand on the back of my head. Being two—if not all three—sheets to the wind by now, I became belligerent and decidedly un-religious—asking her all sorts of questions about why she was accosting me in the street during a party in order to discuss my imminent entrance to Hell if I didn’t correct my wicked ways.  J.T. had to drag me away…

-We ended up inside another sidewalk restaurant where J.T. ordered some food, some big glasses of water and (against her better judgment) another Hurricane for TJ!  Then it was my turn to excuse myself from the table and never come back.  I do not remember this.  I do remember hugging the porcelain god– then lying on it, near it, and possibly in it.  No amount of poking or prodding by J.T., or any of the strangers she claimed were there, induced my prostrate form to become upright.  Hours later, only the annoyed manager’s threats of fines and tickets for public drunkenness got me on my feet and back to the van—fine and ticket free, I might add.

Dat's J.T., with my poor little foot in the bottom left corner. Before J.T. realized how bad I was, she took a fun party picture in the bathroom on Bourbon St.

-the rest of that night (and the next day) was spent horizontal in the van (so thankful that I can live and sleep in my vehicle anywhere!).  It cost a bit, but I was camped in that pay lot on Decatur St. for a long time.  Semi-conscious in the heart of the Quarter.  Hours later when I woke up, I vigorously questioned J.T.:

“Why do I remember praying with a Cuban woman, and where the hell did I get all these other beads!?”

Sigh.  I said I would write about it—good, bad, and ugly—and there it is, folks.  I think I’ve had enough New Orleans for awhile.  Tomorrow I head North for a change.  It’s been a long time coming, but for this first long leg of the Van Plan, I am finished with East.  Look out Canada, I’ll be back by the end of the month!