I returned from New Orleans over a week ago – but, sadly, I brought a hideous flu-like bug home with me, so it’s taken me a while to get around to writing this blog.
The post is going to be largely a gallery of pictures, as I took so many, and have spent half this afternoon downloading them and sorting them out.
But if a horrible bug is the price I have to pay for visiting New Orleans, I’ll accept it. New Orleans is fantastic. From the massive Mississippi River that, from our hotel window, we could see rolling by, to the street cars, to the deep-fried cuisine, to the funny smells on Bourbon Street, I loved it all. The street musicians, the sunshine, the fabulous balconies, the bars and restaurants, the fantastic feeling of warmth and friendship, I loved it all.
The balconies of the French Quarter are gorgeous – I never got to the Garden District to compare them but it’s hard to think of their being an improvement.
The traditional details are stunning.
Alligators for sale. Real or contrived?
Bourbon Street by any other name. Both magical and sleazy but always fun. Probably the only city I know where a big machine comes out and disinfects the roadway in the morning.
The suggestion was that I should be pushed in first to see what happened …
The street cars looked great but I didn’t get the opportunity to ride one.
A musician playing trumpet on the banks of the river – as you do. As you do in New Orleans, anyway.
Somewhere to tie your horse while you drink in the bars.
One of my musical heroes, Antoine ‘Fats’ Domino. Walkin’ to Noo Awlins …
Beignets at Cafe Beignet. Fantastic. Delicious. They’re sort of a doughnut without a hole. (I didn’t miss the hole at all.) Hot and sugary, you can tell if the people before you at a table were eating beignets by the thin white coating over everything. (It would be icing sugar, in case you’re wondering.)
Christina Courtenay (Pia Fenton) and Liz Harris on the Choc Lit stand.
I never found out why. But I do qualify.
Dancin’ in the street. If you hear a jazz band marching along just go and join right in.
At Pat O’Brien’s on Bourbon Street.
An unusual apartment number.
If you’ve ever wondered what gumbo is, this is it. Somewhere between a stew and soup with rice. Some gumbo is much better than others. This pic shows the good sort.
Nicolas Cage’s tomb. No, I know he’s not dead. He obviously believes in planning ahead.
This may (or may not) be the tomb of the voodoo queen. I left her a penny and knocked three times, so she knew that I’d been.
The violinist was so good I nearly cried.
Dawn breaking over the Mississippi.