22 Years Together: A Trip to the Big Easy

We met in April 2002, when Doug was experiencing flashes and floaters in his eyes and I worked in the eye clinic at Kaiser, in Richmond California, but that's another story. It doesn't seem possible to anyone who knew us then, but we would be pretty much joined at the hip since then. We married two years later.

It's our 20th anniversary now, and we had planned a nice celebration that started as being a cross country driving, and maybe camping trip to New Orleans, and then on to the East coast to visit my daughter and her family in NYC, and my son and his family in Connecticut. Perhaps we'd even include a trip to Niagara Falls, and stop to visit friends on the way back to California. Then, my love's legs started swelling up suddenly, and we hesitated to take such an ambitious tour of the states. We decided to fly, but only to New Orleans to test our ability to travel.

When we came in to show our doctor, he surprised us by looking down at Doug's legs, and exclaimed, "Well, it looks like there's an elephant in the room!" He then told Doug that it looked like he had congestive heart failure. "But," Doug said, "this shorter trip will be our honeymoon". "Second honeymoon", I added. The doctor looked chagrinned and said ominously, "Well, I guess I can't advise you NOT to take it. Take it while you can!....... but make sure to cut out salt, and get some compression stockings and raise your legs above your heart every chance you get, okay?" We both laughed nervously, and looked at each other like, so he thinks we'd better get one more happy trip in before the "big one" happens....?

I felt like we were kind of taking a chance, but Doug insisted on going ahead. We kept ordering the compression stockings from Amazon to get the right size. The first size was XL, but even with a friend's help, we could only get the heel up to his arch. 4X was the size that did it, even though with his feet size 20 (that's not a typo), compounded by the swelling, I worked up a sweat each time we changed them, having to put on the air conditioner and take off one layer of clothing at a time. He didn't seem to mind that.... It was handy that the last time we bought a new bed, we opted for an "adjustable" one, AKA a pretty "hospital bed", so he was able to elevate the end of it to relieve the swelling and encourage the fluids to go back up to his heart.

This story is not about harried times in the airport, like my last two stories entailed. I almost scared myself out of flying again after those escapades! This trip went smoothly in the airport, where attentive wheelchair pushers sped us to the gates, and Doug made sure he was supplied with $5 bills to hand them out for the ride. After take-off, there was only a "little" turbulence. The guy sitting next to me was a cartoonist, and tries to make funny things for TikTok. I could see one character that he made that looked something like Sesame Street's Grover, who, when the plane rocked in the rough turbulence, the little guy looked like he was losing his balance!

We landed at MSY, New Orleans' airport at 3 pm, and got a 30 minute cab ride to our hotel in the French Quarter, La Galerie. Upon opening the door to room 401, I said, "What the heck!" Over by the window there was a huge behemoth of a thing with gears and levers and a dark brown polished log the width of a wooden telephone pole attached to the wall.

When I posted photos of it on Facebook, I got many comments with guesses of what it was. My sister said, "Don't mess with it!" It turns out, the concierge said, that it used to be a part of a freight elevator back in the day. I was fascinated with it, and it was a perfect opposite to the nice comfy king-sized bed with a white bedspread. We just had to be careful not to trip over the base of the ancient beast.

The phone rang in the room, and they said that the mobility scooter we had rented had been delivered a day early. I rode the elevator down to get it. It was a larger one than Doug was used to, but we had ordered it to give it a try. The steering mechanism was kind of floppy, but it finally held in the right position and I headed for the elevator. I drove in, but it was a tight fit in there, and it must have been on "bunny speed", rather than "turtle", and I ran into the inside wall of the elevator. Then the door started to try to close as I backed up to readjust. I pressed the <> button, pulled it more forward, and the doors closed. The knob for turtle/bunny speed went round and round, so I turned it to the left and hoped for the best. As the doors opened on the 4th floor, they kept trying to close on me again, and I started to regret getting the larger scooter. Doug agreed with me as he held the heavy door to our room open for me and I toodled in very carefully and tried to park it. He figured out how to charge it more fully, and noticed that there was a little garbage left in the basket. "They must have just picked this up from someone else and thought they'd drop it off early since they were in the area", I said. After all of that, we decided to have a drink, and I walked down the hall to get some ice. While I was gone,Doug had found that the hotel is connected to a restaurant called La Coterie, so we decided to manuever the extra large scooter down there, Doug driving this time. That helped us make the decision to exchange the scooter for the smaller one the next day. At La Coterie, we discovered the most delectable char-grilled oysters. I don't even like oysters much, but we were found sucking all of the tasty cheese off of the sides of each shell.

Every day, we returned to have at least a half dozen of these delicacies. We left the cart off in the lobby with the concierge, and told them that we'd be getting another one tomorrow.

In the morning, we woke to loud sounds of rain on the roof, and heard on the news that we were experiencing a hurricane. There was even a report of a tornado north of us in Slidell that was tearing roofs off several buildings! The coffee down in the lobby was really good, so I brought us each up a cup and we ate some muffins that we brought with us. As I came back to our room, a family was being moved to another room because their ceiling was leaking on their bed. I came back into our room looking up at the ceiling, but ours was fine. We decided to walk with our umbrella back over to the restaurant for breakfast, and while we were there, we watched with others, through the window, that flooding was starting up over the curb. Everyone decided to stay put. Before noon, some were ordering cocktails, not wanting to venture outside. When it seemed as if the storm was calming down, we walked carefully together again, huddled under our small umbrella back to our hotel to watch the news. We got into a bottle of wine we had stashed for a later time.

Later in the day, the rain had stopped pounding on the roof, the weather station said things had calmed down, and we got bored with being in our room, (it was the French Quarter Fest after all)! We decided to venture out again to the corner restaurant. Evidently everyone in the neighborhood had decided to go to dinner too. Some had reservations, and some, including us, didn't. The hostess, a nice African American woman, was looking a little frazzled, and this was getting on her last nerve. To appease all of us, she reached into a drawer and brought out handfulls of colorful Mardi Gras beads. "Is there anyone who doesn't have beads yet? Y'all gotta have beads", she said as she walked around bestowing each of us with a few purple, yellow and green necklaces. She finally resorted to making a list. "You know because of the flooding, a lot of my co-workers called in sick. Now I'll be getting y'all seated as soon as I can." She then walked out the door and across the street to sit on the stoop and take a self-imposed smoke break. We were all kind of surprised, but couldn't blame her. In a couple of moments she came back to continue to do her colleagues' work of clearing tables. She had told us that we were going to be next, so I was standing near her podium when a couple walked in. They were unsure what to do, so I picked up the hostess's pencil. I asked, "Could I get your name to add to the hostess's list? She has a list right here." When she came back to get us, I explained what I had done. She hugged me and I hugged her back. She seated us and we of course, had another half dozen char-grilled oysters plus some salmon.

Next day the new scooter was delivered, the streets were dry, the sky was blue, and it was April 11th, our 22nd anniversary of when we met. We headed out for a long day. I had lived in New Orleans back in 1976, and I had sold my crafts: patchwork denim clothing and jewelry at a flea market in the French Quarter down by the river, the Mississippi--in case you didn't know. Everyone rented parking spaces as stalls, and we set up our tables. Some folks sold their produce or homemade baked goods or their crafts, or played music. Doug and I went looking for this place, passing by the long line at Cafe du Monde and forgoing a beignet, trying to find it. It wasn't to be found. We ended up eating brunch at the French Market Cafe, and then walking through what is now called the "Original French Market", which is an enclosed marketplace with a bunch of stalls, where vendors were selling things such as small alligator heads, cheap Asian imports, and other "eclectic souvenirs and trinkets" as it said on their Google ad.

Later that day, it took a while to figure out where the handicapped entrance was, but we finally went in to the New Orleans Jazz Museum.

I asked the person selling tickets "Do you know of anyone who would have lived here in the French Quarter in 1976?", and I told her why I wondered. She said, looking kind of insulted, "Well I certainly wouldn't know, since I'm just 62 years old!" I said, "Of course not! I just thought you might have some older people working here!". "No", she said, "We don't." I walked away feeling all of my 73 years.

When we first walked in, I noticed some very rustic instruments, like a washboard and a can attached to a piece of wood with some taut strings for plucking.

I remember stories of my Grandpa being in a band like that. Our favorite sections of the museum were mainly devoted to Fats Waller, and the music of his time. His music played in the back ground while we strolled around. (Well, Doug rode his scooter.)

We set off back to our hotel to rest up for our excursion on the Natchez steamboat later in the evening. It turns out that when they say that they set sail at 7, but you can arrive at 6 for cocktails, you should arrive at 6.

We got there at 6:45, and were the last to be seated for dinner. When it came time for the bread pudding dessert, it was all gone and we were told that we had 15 minutes to finish, since there was another seating for dinner happening soon. We walked outside to sit down and watch the lights of the shoreline go by (some of them of oil refineries), and listened to some jazz that was lilting from the above deck. Not exactly a Viking cruise.

The following day, we had tickets for the World War II museum, so we went down Decatur St, which is one way, toward Canal St. Suddenly, a fire truck started blaring it's horn and sirens and was coming our way. There was a limo in front of it, and since the fire truck's noise was so insistent, that driver held his hand on his horn and took a chance to race through a red light across the two lanes of Canal. We had already made it to the island in the middle and thought we were safe, but we heard the deafening siren within inches of us! Doug had to think quickly and jerked his front wheel to the right so as not to be hit, as the very long fire truck surprised us, cutting the corner and making a tight right turn into what would have been oncoming traffic, if there had been some! After that close call, we started noticing all of the ill-repaired sidewalks and streets. Doug kept requesting that I go a little ahead of him to "run interference" for him. I watched for dangerous holes, and cleared a path through crowds as I walked ahead. My Apple watch was very proud of me for all of the steps I racked up on this trip.

The National World War II Museum was Doug's favorite, and he'd like to go back there again.

They start you off with a realistic virtual ride on a vintage train car, complete with steam coming up from its side as you board. Inside there are video views of farmland out the windows, and stories of different men and women who decided to enlist. We paid a little extra to see the 4-D movie, narrated by Tom Hanks. As we waited in a big room to enter the theater, it was discovered that one man there was a WWII veteran. The volunteer who was in charge proudly intruduced the 97 year old vet to us, and treated him very kindly.

He was rolled in a wheelchair into the theater first. "And next will be you, sir," Doug reddened a bit, and thought to himself, that the only time he had been wounded was by a police baton in a war protest! He's found that he gets lots of undeserved respect just by being in his scooter....

The 4-D film was great, including more steam, and loud booms (I only jumped once), and props came down from the ceiling and up from the floor. It described all about how the war came into being and how the U.S. finally came into it. A good lesson for me, since I wasn't that attentive in history class. Plus, Tom Hanks is easy to listen to. We sat in the diner at the fountain for lunch and visited with a nice man sitting next to us about his job counseling at a Christian homeless shelter in Florida. Walking and riding around in the museum was very interactive, with videos of bombers flying overhead, and sounds of soldiers talking on their radios, while we watched and read accountings of different battles. Even I would like to go back again some day.

Next day, we went out searching for the perfect beignet. These are deep fried pastries usually covered in powdered sugar. Most folks go to the Cafe Du Monde, but the line was always too long. We think we found the best one in the Musical Legends Park at the Cafe Beignet on historic Bourbon Street.

We got to sit outside at a wrought iron table in a shady spot, and listen to live jazz and get properly covered in the powdered sugar. We shared the 3 pastries for only $3.50.

My cousin Lonni had miraculously planned to be in New Orleans at the same time. She was treating 2 sons to a class at the New Orleans School of Cooking, so we decided to go too. We all sat at a table facing the kitchen, and were served glasses of wine to go with the meal that would be prepared. We faced the kitchen, which was like a stage, and had mirrors above the burners, just like on a cooking show.

Our instructor, Tom, entertainingly showed us how to make a "roux" (roo), something that is used for thickening in many Southern recipes, using only butter and flour. (He emphasized that butter is a favorite ingredient of his). He used the roux to thicken the yummy Shrimp and Artichoke Soup and Crawfish Etouffee. For dessert we had Pecan Pralines. While stirring and stirring the roux to make it the right color, he showed us his expertise as a New Orleans historian, so there was never a dull moment. On the way out, I asked him if he remembered the old French Market. He recommended that I speak to his colleague, a NOLA native, and finally! - He said, "I used to go to the original market all the time! It's just not the same since they've enclosed it." So the mystery of my missing French market was solved.

Sunday morning, we headed for Mass at St Louis Cathedral. Loud jazz music played outside, maybe even more so, since the French Quarter Fest was still going on, and Jackson Square is just across the street. Partiers were walking around on the sidewalk out in front with colorful glasses of booze. Once we went in the door though, the music from the big pipe organ drowned everything out. Once again, Doug was singled out, and the usher directed us down to the front, where he could park his scooter and then sit in a pew. We looked up at the altar, shining with gold and candles lit.

There was even a cardinal who did an inspirational homily. They made an announcement about a concert that would happen right there in the cathedral at 3 pm. We planned to come back.

When the pipe organ played again as we left, we looked up at the ceiling with all the murals of the life of Jesus, reminding us of the sistine chapel.

There was time to eat lunch before we had to meet up for a walking tour, so we grabbed an outside table at Stanley's, from where we could people-watch while we ate. Our order was rather daring. It was called Eggs Stanley, since it was basically Eggs Benedict, topped with Cornmeal Encrusted Oysters. Delish! Of course we shared, but we each had our own Bloody Mary, served the way they do in New Orleans, not only with olives and celery, but also with marinated string beans.

Right out in front of us there was a black guitarist singing Reggae music.

A dapper looking man caught our attention, all dressed up in a cream colored suit and hat, with a gold handled cane. He leaned against a lightpost smoking a cigar. Doug thought he looked like the perfect 19th century Southern gentleman.

Time was a-wasting, and we had to hurry over to meet up with our walking tour guide. She called us, to make sure we weren't lost (which we were) but we made it just a few minutes late.

She was an outgoing young woman, looking slightly pregnant, with tattoos on her arms and wore a big floppy hat that amazingly stayed on her head in the breeze off the river. She was a real history buff, and told us stories of all of the hurricanes that had come through and damaged New Orleans, yet folks just kept coming back and rebuilding, including her family. She and her husband will be relocating just across the river to Algiers before their baby is born, where it's quieter and more child friendly, but still has the beautiful architecture and jazz. It's reached by a ferry boat. As we walked along, she had to find spots where we could hear her over the music and festival crowds. She had us all look through a wrought iron gate into a courtyard, and showed us the tile in front of it which said, "Widow S. Giallazza Stalls For Rent".

Some of the letters were missing, but in this Italian neighborhood, the widow Giallazza made herself a living by renting out rooms, mostly to artists. There are many gardens and courtyards that are all but hidden behind the storefronts all along the streets of the French Quarter.

Just in time, our guide finished her tour right near Jackson Square, so we hurried over to listen to the Hayden concert at three. Since we knew where to park, Doug toodled down the aisle, parked in the handicapped zone, and we sat behind an older couple entertaining their two grandsons with crayons and paper. An orchestra filed in to play, and a huge choir filled in some risers. We were sitting about 12 feet from the cellists, and Doug pointed out the 2 oboeists to me, since I had tried in vain to play one in high school. It all brought back memories of counting out the measures and trying to come in with your part at exactly the right time. The conductor, a young woman in a slim dress, came in and got the attention of the musicians with her eyes and hands...no baton, I noticed. She gracefully led them through Hayden's "Mass for Troubled Times", which seemed appropriate for the times that we're in. The choir and orchestra played beautifully, and then when the conductor bowed, and the applause ended, we found that the boys in front of us were the sons of the conductor and their grandparents were her proud parents. They talked to us with kindly Southern accents, and were interested that I had lived there in the past.

It had been a long day, so we headed back along North Peters Street, which had become our main road to get to almost anywhere we needed to go. It's filled with souvenier shops, and hawkers that try to get you to come in. I tried my best to avoid a cosmetics shop that always tried to snag me by handing me a free sample of lotion. Every time, they'd look at my face and say "Come on in, I'll give you a free treatment to tone up the skin under your eyes. It'll be a miracle!" I knew that the "free" part would be followed up with a hundred dollar jar of cream. It was kind of disturbing though, that they all noticed the bags under my eyes...

The Festival was in full swing as the day went on. As we made our way back to our hotel, we noticed more than ever, the public drunkenness and skimpy clothing that everyone considered their duty to fulfill when they were in New Orleans.

While we were resting and watching the news in our room, I decided to write a little note to the hostess at La Coterie. I found a little piece of notepaper and wrote that I'd like to explain why we seemed to connect with each other so well. When I worked at Kaiser in Richmond, I had a great fondness for many of the patients there. Kaiser had imported several Black folks from Louisiana to come to work in the shipyards during WWII building the famed Liberty ships. The descendants of those immigrants were some of my favorite patients. We'd gab with each other while I readied them for the eye doctor, and I loved their slight accents which still lingered. Dionne, the hostess, brought back memories of all of them.

We walked back over to the restaurant next door for our final dinner, since we'd have to leave at 3:30 in the morning for the airport. As Dionne graciously seated us, I said, "I wrote you a little note.", and handed it to her. Later on as we were eating our char-broiled oyster appetizer, she came over and said, "I read your note.", and gave me a hug. "I just wanted to tell you why I think we've bonded so easily", I said. Doug said, "Maybe we should just move here", and Dionne said, "Yes! And then we could go out together all the time, and we could be Besties!" We both laughed, and hugged again, this time with tears in our eyes.

Since we had to get up so early, we got very organized, set out our clothes, and packed everything we could. I set about 5 alarms on my phone to remind us why we were getting up while it was still dark and we were half asleep. We rolled the scooter out into the hall at just the right time, and said "good-bye" to the room with the behemoth, and thanked it for a nice stay. In the lobby, the concierge called us a cab while I made us each a cup of the nice coffee, and Doug parked his scooter in the corner to be picked up. Outside, there was still evidence of the wild partygoers on the streets, but the trusty garbage men would be by soon to clean up after them. Party town that it is, we think we'd still like to come back to this city full of history and great food. And now Doug realizes that if he can dodge a fire truck, he's well enough to plan yet another trip in the fall.