Social media has a way of deflating bits of news and events, which may make this blog, seem a step behind. Facebook holds the pictures we deemed most worthy and Twitter has been geotagging our movements south then west. So for this blog, and others along the trail, we’ll raise the curtain on some of the footnotes and anecdotes. Each of these cities rest stops, and hours upon hours in the car holds more than 140 characters. The road west is a symphonic jazz of cultures, peoples, food, smells, coffee, food, feelings, and stories we don’t want to keep just for ourselves but share with everyone we love.
When we left Uganda there was an image etched for us by the women we worked with. They stood, arms waving, backlit by the setting African sun on the steps of Veronica’s house alongside the main street through Namatala. It was so poignant and fitting for the richness of the time we had together with them. They were preeminent hosts and stand-in families. The similarities extended to Atlanta as we backed out of the house on Mountain road. Ron, Karen, Kaliya, and Kool gave us the wave off, the pink bubble assurance, and the tears of knowing our temporary social experiment was over. There was little to talk about other than the memories of a special moment in all our lives. Memories, of course, pockmarked by the usual familial squabbles and necessary deep breath meditations of survival. Love you guys.
Georgia to New Orleans is a quiet road sidelined by boiled peanuts and endless falsities of Cracker Barrel. The marketing team for CB has the country twang and “come get yer food and eats, aww shucks, puttin’ some more gravy on it, yes I’ll have cheese on top of that” down to a science of phrases with no more than five words. “Home sweet, home food” and “Made Fresh” and “Grits & Biscuits” dance through our vocabulary and a vividness of the dull brown on every single sign.
Down below sea level we were waved into the Easy with a fully latitudinal sunset.
A pumpkin sky, wispy eraser mark clouds that helped make the cruise along the bridge bereft of chatter except for the words of the Commodores to bring us in. We posted up across the street from the casino and Marjani managed to lose a whole .85 cents (sarcastically speaking: Gambling is our favorite pastime). Even after a day full of ranging emotions and hours in the car we footed to Bourbon street, ate some Po’ Boys and Gumbo and dropped some dollars in street musicians’ buckets. Talent occupies the street corners in Nawlins’. Psychics and trombones create a pairing that flat out works for the casual strollers, overstuffed foodies, and heavily imbibed.
Speaking of imbibed, New Orleans lays partial claim to the invention of whiskey. Kentuckians shipped the “White Dog” clear liquor down the Mississippi to satisfy thirsts across the Bayou. As demand went up they had to find new barrels to make the shipments so they scavenged old barrels and casks, burned the inside to prevent flavor fluctuations, and filled them up. Over the Mark Twain joy ride the liquor took on the flavor of the burnt casks and colored the liquor to reddish bourbon brown. So the claim is that New Orleanians’ demand was responsible for modern bourbon.
The one and only
Despite the look of glee, take and go beignets in the car are NOT recommended.
Café Du Monde, Café Du Monde, Café Du Monde. The quintessential spot for coffee, beignets and a morning siesta. For us the jump out of bed, shower sleepwalk, and out the door is much less preferable. We like the casual stroll, sit, stare aimlessly, soft music, French doughnuts style much better. It’s like the difference of between a Keurig and French Press. Speed and efficiency is fine, but take the extra moment to embrace the feelings of the morning and the flavor crescendos perfectly. Nobody should miss Du Monde and no person is immune to powder sugar diving into the threads of their pants after just one bite. The other institution, Commanders Palace, lives in the Garden District and feels just like a perfect NOLA restaurant should. The nutty Victorian Blue building is embedded in the neighborhood and seems no different than any other house. Except the food! Lunch has never been so grand. Both must stops in our books.
The trail heads west across the Bayou from here. The engineers who make this city exist deserve special note here as driving on roads surrounded by lakes, lowlands, swamp water, gators, and stringy moss makes no mathematical sense. It seems like some architectural improvisation that keeps shifting and moving to find the right note. It’s jazz. No wonder that’s the music they play here.
"It's all happening." 