For the first time in the entire trip, we were able to sleep in, and what an appropriate morning to do so. I lifted my head up off the pillow and was instantly smacked with a “What happened last night?” headache. Please, no bright lights, and no loud noises. In my near vegetative state, I gravitated like a zombie toward the nearest pot of fresh coffee, which happened to be about two blocks away at Starbucks. I picked up a paper and two cups of liquid boost juice and carefully balanced all three while stumbling back to the hotel.
Having seen the city at dusk, I was still not satisfied. A return visit to downtown New Orleans was necessary before we could continue on our way. After a quick update, a shower, and some coffee, I regained my Magellan-esque adventurous spirit and we hopped in the wagon.
We followed the same route forged by our taxi driver the night before, and after some wondering aka getting lost (which by all accounts, was perfectly suitable to the whole experience), I found a terminal and deboarded for a foot tour of The Big Easy.
Our initial plan was to hit up the Acme Oyster House, a local eatery famous for its…yeah. However, upon reaching our destination, we discovered a line stretching out the door and down the sidewalk. Not to be discouraged, we decided to hoof it around the French Quarter in search of a similar yet equally tasty location.
A few words about the French Quarter: The French Quarter is rows and rows of long, bustling streets with street performers on nearly every corner. We happened upon a group of vagabonds playing what I can only describe as dark, moody jazz, and watched as an accordion player, a violinist, a banjo player, a guitarist, and a bassist serenaded the crowd without missing a single note. The next block showcased the Neil Peart of bucket drummers, while the subsequent block had a 70 yr. old lone guitarist laying waste to blues scales.
The shops in the French Quarter are a combination of fine antique stores, fine furnishings, fine apparel, and well…you get the idea. We wondered in to an antique jewelry store and saw things no one should ever be able to afford, including a broach worn by Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.
Walking down the street at 11:30am, Marc and I noticed several trends among our fellow travelers. Nearly everyone was smiling, and about 70% of people were carrying some sort of drink, be it a beer, daiquiri, or bloody mary (which each had several stalks of picked green beans poking out of the top like a hand in the “Thriller” video). It seemed as though the entire city had a slight buzz going at all times. You would be hard-pressed to find someone unwilling to strike up a conversation. Knowing this, we picked up a round of daiquiris and began chatting with some of the locals about the best place to find oysters on the half-shell.
A bouncer beckoned us into his bar, mentioning something about a 3-for-1 special, but we could not be deterred from our mission, so we retorted with a few questions of our own. Trey recommended a small but eccentric looking hole-in-the-wall called Oceana Seafood. We walked about four blocks up the road and asked the doorman of Oceana if we could bring our drinks inside. Yes, you say? Well then Oceana it is.
I didn’t realize it until that day, but I had never actually eaten an oyster until I got to New Orleans. A good oyster does not taste like fish, or salt, or anything for that matter. These oysters had a texture like an egg yolk, and each hunk of oversized, marshmallow-soft meat effortlessly slid off the shell and into our bellies. Each one had a hint of sweetness to it, countered by a small squirt of lemon juice. Cocktail sauce was there, but we didn’t need it – these oysters stood alone. We ordered a dozen, and could have easily ordered a dozen more, were it not for the filling platters recommended by Raven, our vivacious waitress (Irish, Trey, Raven…why does it seem like everyone down here has a cooler name than us?).
I ordered a platter of crab cakes and substituted the fries for a New Orleans classic: red beans and rice. Marc ordered the “Taste of New Orleans,” a mish-mash of sausage, beans, rice, gumbo, shrimp, and whatever else was left in the pot. The red beans were flawless, and the crab cakes were exploding with flavor and covered in lumps of fresh crab meat mixed with a thick seafood cream sauce that tasted somewhat akin to She Crab soup. Marc’s platter (pictured below) was equally delicious, and packed enough punch to cause him to reach for his fast-melting Pina Colada more than once.
Feeling like another bite could potentially put one of us in cardiac arrest, we happily left Oceana and made way for Canal St. One of the things we wanted to see before leaving was the historic cemeteries, and although it seemed odd when Marc asked our waitress where the nearest one was, we felt a little better when our neighboring patrons at Oceana did the same thing.
Heading toward the trolley station on Canal St., I looked down and noticed antiqued beads wedged between the bricks of Bourbon St. I looked up and saw colorful beads hanging from the cable car wires. It was like a plastic graveyard, but boy did it speak to the character of this town.
Instead of taking a long trolley ride to the end of Canal, we decided to hop in the car and see the cemetery for ourselves. The Greenwood Cemetery was our final destination, and the pictures do it better justice than words can alone. Although we hoped to find the resting place of Marie Laveau, New Orleans’ famous Voodoo Queen, we soon discovered that her grave was actually located at the St. Louis cemetery. We parked the car and scrutinized the headstones of thousands of large stone graves. Each one was a temple in its own right.
It had been a long day, and an even longer trip, so with the sun beating on our necks, we decided to hop in the car and head back to the hotel. I felt like we had seen about one percent of everything New Orleans had to offer, but the other 99 percent would have to wait until another time. The rest of the day consisted of a final trip to the Manhattan Seafood Market, and a lot of much needed relaxation. As the sun fell on city, we closed our eyes and looked forward to the next leg of our trip.
Easy come, Easy go,
CPS
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