Talk about a city that can’t catch a break.
In New Orleans, Dorothy and I stayed at a nice hotel on St. Charles Street. You could spend hours walking up and down the street admiring the old colonial style mansions, but turn off that street and walk down two blocks, and you would find yourself in a run down neighborhood with people sitting around playing cards and drinking beer out of brown paper bags. New Orleans is a city of contrasts. We had a nice time there, but everywhere you turned there was a reminder of the city’s poor luck and its poverty. We had the obligatory po’boys and beignets—actually pretty much subsisted on them—and one nicer meal at Cochon where we had pig prepared in various ways, all of it good. We had alligator and frog legs. Yes, the frog legs did taste like that. The alligator tasted like a land animal that had spent its life marinating in swamp. In honor of the alligator, we went out to the swamp lands national park at the southern end of the city and took a look around. It was incredibly humid in the swamp area and almost otherworldly for us Californians. The vegetation was so thick that, at times, you couldn’t see the sky overhead. The water was covered so completely in little green plants that it almost seemed as if you could walk across it. And there were lots of animals. Large spiders wrapping up unlucky flies caught in their nets, florescent green lizards scurrying about underfoot, frogs croaking just out of sight, grasshoppers larger than any we had ever seen whizzing by us, and even a snake curled up on our path who cut our exploration short. The swamp was beautiful, fascinating, and definitely worth a visit if you’re ever in New Orleans.
As we closed in on our last night in New Orleans we realized that there was something important that we hadn’t yet done. We hadn’t gone to Bourbon Street. Because it was our last night, and we had to check out early (for us) the next morning and drive up to Mississippi, we decided that we would go to Bourbon, have a drink and come back before too late. We wanted to get a good night’s sleep before our checkout. That was our responsible plan. We obviously did not yet understand New Orleans. We hit bourbon, walked up down, saw the sights and had a strawberry daiquiri. Then we decided that we would go a couple blocks off bourbon where the drinks were presumably cheaper. We entered a little bar on a side street, ordered a couple drinks, and found out that they were not, in fact, much cheaper. No matter, our plan was to head back to the hotel after these anyway. And then we met Nick. Nick was a large, burly man with tattoos running up and down both arms. He was slightly intimidating sitting next to us surrounded by beer bottles that he had polished off, but his image softened considerably when he ordered us a round of shots called “gummy bears.” Nick was from Alaska and stopping over in New Orleans on his way to Florida. He convinced us to head back to bourbon street where, long story short, we patronized some more of the fine establishments there, with Nick generously doing most of the paying. After a while, we realized that we hadn’t asked our heavily tattooed new friend what he did for a living.
“So Nick, what is it that you do?”
“I work for BP.”
“Seriously though, what do you do?”
“I am serious,” he said with a straight face. “I work for BP.”
It took a minute for the realization to fully sink in. Dorothy and I were in New Orleans, summer of 2010, on its most famous street, drinking with a fellow visitor who worked for BP…the same BP whose oil pipeline was, at that very moment, spewing thousands upon thousands of gallons of crude oil into the Gulf of Mexico. Should we feel dirty about this? Was it our responsibility to report this man to the authorities? Did we need to repent for unwittingly consorting with the enemy? We managed to rationalize it by telling ourselves that Nick was spending so much money at the bars that he was essentially acting as New Orleans’ own, personal, tattooed stimulus god. Nevertheless, we figured we should head back to the room both for the health of our livers, as well as to avoid the stampede of people we were sure would come to beat up Nick if his dirty little secret ever got out.
We got back in time to catch a few hours of sleep before checkout the next morning, and went to bed that night convinced that New Orleans was a strange and wonderful city.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Texas pt. 2
The two highlights from our time in Texas: Lyndon Baines Johnson’s presidential library and hill country estate, and the San Antonio River Walk.
We made it through the storm and arrived in Austin. The first thing we did was go to the LBJ library on the University of Texas campus. It was certainly impressive. First of all, the building itself was enormous, simple white, with a single line of windows at the very top. Inside the lobby are busts of LBJ, Kennedy, Lady Bird, and a large presidential car parked right next to the ticket desk. The ladies manning that desk must be some of the sweetest in Texas. They’re happy to tell you all about LBJ of course, and give you advice about what you can’t miss at the library, but they also dispense useful nuggets of information about where to eat, what else you should see in Austin and the surrounding area, etc… The exhibits at the library were great as well. Pens used to sign landmark civil rights legislation, letters from and to LBJ at different periods of his life, a recreation of the oval office during his time as President with much of the furniture original, and much more. This was the first Presidential library either of us had ever been to and both of us thought they did a fantastic job.
The Johnson sights in the Texas Hill Country are also worth a look. It is only a short drive outside of Austin, and in an area of only about 30 miles, you can see (and take tours of) Johnson’s boyhood home, the “Texas White House” which he bought as a senator and lived in after leaving office, the school he attended as a young boy, and his grave-site. Like the library, many of the things in the “Texas White House” were actual possessions of his, which makes touring the house and grounds that much better.
In San Antonio, we saw the Alamo which was slightly disappointing, but we thoroughly enjoyed the famous River Walk. There were families of ducks and ducklings enjoying the river just as Dorothy and I were, there were restaurants and bars aplenty with outdoor setting on the edge of the river where you could enjoy a drink and snack while watching the people go by, there were old brick buildings with ivy and hanging plants jutting from their walls, and joggers taking their dogs out for runs (one lady with a pit bull nearly ran us off the road and into the drink, all the while hollering about tourists in her way. Were we that obvious? I thought I left my fanny-pack stuffed with maps at home). And there were other people…lots of other people. Actually, we thought, far more people than is normal. At the heart of the restaurant section, it was so crowded that it felt like maneuvering in Times Square on New Years Eve. And they were all wearing name-tags with their names and “A Vision for the Future” printed on them. Dorothy and I tried to figure out who they were, and why they were wearing these name-tags. We thought there must be some convention in town, but the people didn’t seem to have any identifiable unifying characteristic. There were men and women (normal), people from America (normal) but also Australia and Europe (less normal but not too strange). There were people dressed in suits and people with cowboy boots, tattoos, and tons of piercings (now we are starting to get stumped). Finally there were people of all ages…there were seniors, middle aged folks, and people our age (22) and younger. Completely confused, Dorothy and I finally stopped a nice looking couple and asked what the name tags were about. They were a nice couple from Denmark (the man said “We’re from Denmark…you know…Europe? Across the water?” Yes, I think I vaguely remember hearing something about how fruit goes rotten faster in the state of Denmark or something) and the man explained that it was an AA retreat. He said: “this blue mark on my tag means I’m a drunk…well, a former drunk. That green mark on my wife’s tag means she’s not a drunk and is here to support me. There are 60,000 of us recovering alcoholics here in San Antonio for the weekend.” We had our explanation, and the strange mix of demographics all of a sudden made perfect sense. We thought for a moment about that number…60,000. And it seemed as if they were all on the River Walk with us. It was ok though, they weren’t pushy or loud at all…not like that damn lady running with her dog.
We made it through the storm and arrived in Austin. The first thing we did was go to the LBJ library on the University of Texas campus. It was certainly impressive. First of all, the building itself was enormous, simple white, with a single line of windows at the very top. Inside the lobby are busts of LBJ, Kennedy, Lady Bird, and a large presidential car parked right next to the ticket desk. The ladies manning that desk must be some of the sweetest in Texas. They’re happy to tell you all about LBJ of course, and give you advice about what you can’t miss at the library, but they also dispense useful nuggets of information about where to eat, what else you should see in Austin and the surrounding area, etc… The exhibits at the library were great as well. Pens used to sign landmark civil rights legislation, letters from and to LBJ at different periods of his life, a recreation of the oval office during his time as President with much of the furniture original, and much more. This was the first Presidential library either of us had ever been to and both of us thought they did a fantastic job.
The Johnson sights in the Texas Hill Country are also worth a look. It is only a short drive outside of Austin, and in an area of only about 30 miles, you can see (and take tours of) Johnson’s boyhood home, the “Texas White House” which he bought as a senator and lived in after leaving office, the school he attended as a young boy, and his grave-site. Like the library, many of the things in the “Texas White House” were actual possessions of his, which makes touring the house and grounds that much better.
In San Antonio, we saw the Alamo which was slightly disappointing, but we thoroughly enjoyed the famous River Walk. There were families of ducks and ducklings enjoying the river just as Dorothy and I were, there were restaurants and bars aplenty with outdoor setting on the edge of the river where you could enjoy a drink and snack while watching the people go by, there were old brick buildings with ivy and hanging plants jutting from their walls, and joggers taking their dogs out for runs (one lady with a pit bull nearly ran us off the road and into the drink, all the while hollering about tourists in her way. Were we that obvious? I thought I left my fanny-pack stuffed with maps at home). And there were other people…lots of other people. Actually, we thought, far more people than is normal. At the heart of the restaurant section, it was so crowded that it felt like maneuvering in Times Square on New Years Eve. And they were all wearing name-tags with their names and “A Vision for the Future” printed on them. Dorothy and I tried to figure out who they were, and why they were wearing these name-tags. We thought there must be some convention in town, but the people didn’t seem to have any identifiable unifying characteristic. There were men and women (normal), people from America (normal) but also Australia and Europe (less normal but not too strange). There were people dressed in suits and people with cowboy boots, tattoos, and tons of piercings (now we are starting to get stumped). Finally there were people of all ages…there were seniors, middle aged folks, and people our age (22) and younger. Completely confused, Dorothy and I finally stopped a nice looking couple and asked what the name tags were about. They were a nice couple from Denmark (the man said “We’re from Denmark…you know…Europe? Across the water?” Yes, I think I vaguely remember hearing something about how fruit goes rotten faster in the state of Denmark or something) and the man explained that it was an AA retreat. He said: “this blue mark on my tag means I’m a drunk…well, a former drunk. That green mark on my wife’s tag means she’s not a drunk and is here to support me. There are 60,000 of us recovering alcoholics here in San Antonio for the weekend.” We had our explanation, and the strange mix of demographics all of a sudden made perfect sense. We thought for a moment about that number…60,000. And it seemed as if they were all on the River Walk with us. It was ok though, they weren’t pushy or loud at all…not like that damn lady running with her dog.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Texas pt. 1
Before getting there, Dorothy and I were concerned that our drive through Texas would be very long, but more than anything, that it would be boring. We hadn’t heard about Hurricane Alex yet. As it turns out, our drive through the lone star state wasn’t dull at all. The first bit of Texas that we saw was, naturally, the state sign on the side of the interstate. It said: “Welcome to the Lone Star State. Remember to drive friendly…the Texas way.” The sign was riddled with bullet holes. After a few more miles on the interstate, we noticed large black things appearing on the road. What were those, we wondered.
“They look like…”
“No way, it couldn’t be…there are so many of them!”
Well they were. Tarantulas. And they were many. And many ended up squished (given the size of the beast, I’d image these particular “squishes” were impressively loud) under our tires.
Before we knew it, we found ourselves driving under dark clouds with rain pounding down on the hood of our car, and lightning flashing all around us. We proceeded, very slowly, to a small town several hours outside of Austin, and found a cheap motel to stay at for the night. Dorothy was excited to hear her very first in-person Texas accent (Dorothy is a connoisseur, of sorts, of different accents). We walked into the office and were met with the smell of curry. Dorothy looked disappointed, as her prospects of hearing her first accent seemed to melt away with each waft of chana masala coming from the back room. A very nice Indian man came out to give us a room key and tell of a diner just down the street which he said was excellent. “They serve hamburgers and french fries!” His dinner smelled better. We fell asleep that night, happy to be sheltered from the storm and in such an obviously exciting state.
“They look like…”
“No way, it couldn’t be…there are so many of them!”
Well they were. Tarantulas. And they were many. And many ended up squished (given the size of the beast, I’d image these particular “squishes” were impressively loud) under our tires.
Before we knew it, we found ourselves driving under dark clouds with rain pounding down on the hood of our car, and lightning flashing all around us. We proceeded, very slowly, to a small town several hours outside of Austin, and found a cheap motel to stay at for the night. Dorothy was excited to hear her very first in-person Texas accent (Dorothy is a connoisseur, of sorts, of different accents). We walked into the office and were met with the smell of curry. Dorothy looked disappointed, as her prospects of hearing her first accent seemed to melt away with each waft of chana masala coming from the back room. A very nice Indian man came out to give us a room key and tell of a diner just down the street which he said was excellent. “They serve hamburgers and french fries!” His dinner smelled better. We fell asleep that night, happy to be sheltered from the storm and in such an obviously exciting state.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Santa Fe with a side of Frito Pie
Santa Fe, New Mexico is a lovely town. The weather is warm, but not too hot. The adobe-style houses nestled into the hillsides around the city seem to fit perfectly with the natural scenery. There are parks scattered throughout Santa Fe, with benches to sit on and hanging flower pots above. Downtown is full of small shops and art boutiques displaying photographs, paintings, and sculptures. You could easily spend a pleasant few days strolling around town, window shopping and browsing. And then, of course, there is the Frito Pie.
Dorothy and I decided, before setting off on this trip, that when we ate out, we would try to eat the local cuisine of whichever place we found ourselves in at the time. That meant deep-dish in Chicago, barbecue in Memphis, po’boys and jambalaya in New Orleans, etc… Well, New Mexico’s culinary contribution to American cuisine is without a doubt, the one, the only, Frito Pie. The dish is deceptively simple for such a full-frontal assault on the taste-buds: It consists of Frito chips buried under a thick blanket of chili and cheese, all topped off with diced onions. On our drive to Santa Fe, we would pass billboards which screamed at us: “Try New Mexico’s world famous Frito Pie!!! You won’t be sorry!” Really? I won’t be sorry? I’ll let my bowels be the judge of that.
There was no question that we had to have it. What we still needed to decide was where to get it. After much deliberation and extensive research, we found that there was really only one place that would do…
And then we had it…
But wait, you say, that just looks like a regular bag of Frito chips. Oh but you’re wrong. Look closer, my friends, and the secret of the Five and Dime Frito Pie will reveal itself to you in all of its glory and wonder…
That’s right. You’re eyes do not deceive you. All of it—the fritos, and the chili, and the cheese, and the onions—are piled together inside of the chip bag itself. The bag itself! It’s genius or maybe it’s madness. It’s something at least…there’s no denying that.
Sitting under the florescent lights at the back of the Five and Dime, I held my very first slice of Frito Pie heaven. Did I feel it was nothing less than my solemn duty to eat New Mexico’s finest creation? Yes. Did I feel slightly ashamed and dirty that I was shoveling it into my mouth? Of course. Was I worried that the molten hot chili was slowly melting the inner-lining of the Frito bag into the terrifying concoction that I was presently consuming? Absolutely. Would my taste buds, during that unrelenting onslaught, have been able to tell if the lining was, in fact, melting into the “food”? Not a chance.
Frito Pie…simply the best.
Dorothy and I decided, before setting off on this trip, that when we ate out, we would try to eat the local cuisine of whichever place we found ourselves in at the time. That meant deep-dish in Chicago, barbecue in Memphis, po’boys and jambalaya in New Orleans, etc… Well, New Mexico’s culinary contribution to American cuisine is without a doubt, the one, the only, Frito Pie. The dish is deceptively simple for such a full-frontal assault on the taste-buds: It consists of Frito chips buried under a thick blanket of chili and cheese, all topped off with diced onions. On our drive to Santa Fe, we would pass billboards which screamed at us: “Try New Mexico’s world famous Frito Pie!!! You won’t be sorry!” Really? I won’t be sorry? I’ll let my bowels be the judge of that.
There was no question that we had to have it. What we still needed to decide was where to get it. After much deliberation and extensive research, we found that there was really only one place that would do…
And then we had it…
But wait, you say, that just looks like a regular bag of Frito chips. Oh but you’re wrong. Look closer, my friends, and the secret of the Five and Dime Frito Pie will reveal itself to you in all of its glory and wonder…
That’s right. You’re eyes do not deceive you. All of it—the fritos, and the chili, and the cheese, and the onions—are piled together inside of the chip bag itself. The bag itself! It’s genius or maybe it’s madness. It’s something at least…there’s no denying that.
Sitting under the florescent lights at the back of the Five and Dime, I held my very first slice of Frito Pie heaven. Did I feel it was nothing less than my solemn duty to eat New Mexico’s finest creation? Yes. Did I feel slightly ashamed and dirty that I was shoveling it into my mouth? Of course. Was I worried that the molten hot chili was slowly melting the inner-lining of the Frito bag into the terrifying concoction that I was presently consuming? Absolutely. Would my taste buds, during that unrelenting onslaught, have been able to tell if the lining was, in fact, melting into the “food”? Not a chance.
Frito Pie…simply the best.
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