Nola, the slower New York

Got back from my first ever real vacation Friday night. I’ve traveled before, but I’ve never really needed a BREAK, like I’ve been needing this one since the new year. I went to New Orleans*, Louisiana for a week. I used to go to school down there, and still have friends who go to Tulane and live down there. I flew down monday morning, got out of bed at an excruciating 4:45, and headed for Newark. I love travel; packing, flying, and all of the other things involved with it… Flying most of all. I love turbulence. I guess that’s weird, because really, if there’s enough turbulence the plane could be tossed out of the sky. But I like the bouncing around, my stomach jumping up and down, it’s quite exciting, a pleasant experience. 

Any hoo. I arrived in nola around 1:30, Mir was there to pick me up. We drove back to campus and I got to see her house for the first time. We lived together in Sharp during freshman year, and then she was in Herby as a sophomore, and now she lives in this house off campus, and plans to stay until she graduates. It’s an adorable house, three bedrooms, huge kitchen and living room, dining room too. All the houses are basically the same, and the one common factor is the wonderfully southern screened in front porch. A few chairs and one very comfy love seat on her porch. 

Tuesday I went to the quarter on my own. I took the street car ($1.25) to Canal and then walked up Bourbon, which, really you don’t want to walk on during the day if you can help it. Once the sun’s down it’s perfectly fine, readying itself for the onslaught of drunken tourists and college students of the evening. But during the day it is horrific. Nothing is open, except the occasional bar that is a restaurant during the day. And you can ask anyone, you’ll know as soon as you’ve turned onto Bourbon street, if not by the name tiled into the corner, then by the putrid smell of piss and vomit, left from the previous night, and nicely ripened by the hot mid-day sun. I walked nearly to the other end, before turning right and walking over to Decatur. Decatur is where the famous Cafe Du Monde is, as well as Jackson Square and the French Market.

Somehow, in the 8 months I lived in nola, I never made it to the market. It’s kind of a wonderful experience. It’s one of those things you can’t plan to take a trip to, because on the day you visit, it will inevitably be closed. I wandered over to it, and everything was set up. It is a wonderful juxtaposition of a nyc’s china town and a street fair, but much smaller. It covers what looked to be maybe a two block long area. There is food, though not much, and really nothing you’d like to eat. There are the never ending tables of jewelry, each table with the same exact stuff, lots of mardi gras masks and beads, the rings and earrings you could have found on St. Marks Pl last year.  But then there’s the random cool stands selling something you’ve never seen before. One fellow had a stand with a  bunch of tiles that had pictures of them. He was a photographer and he and his wife set up this business, she put the pictures of the tiles and kept them organized, and he sold them. There were the typical ones, of Cafe Du Monde, or of a fleur de lis, but then there were fun ones. There was “The Boot”, the infamous bar adjacent to Tulane, where “Girls Gone Wild” got a lot of their tape. There was one that the guy said was a sign over a tire shop which said, “No loitering, no crack selling, no cat selling,  the facts.” Another stand was a guy selling vats of what he advertised as pure shea butter, but really looked like lard in plastic containers. Because I’m who I am, I took some from the sample jar; comparable to butter. 

I moved on down to a cafe which had an outdoor seating area, and a jazz band was playing for the patrons. I took a seat, and ordered an ice tea. I don’t drink ice tea normally, but I suppose I wanted to feel southern, and I always imagine that’s what rich Cajuns drink while sitting on their porches, letting the mid-day sun pass. The band was pretty terrible. They played ensemble for the most part, but gave way to each other in each song for solos. The bassist was just terrible. From my experience with George, and Rene Miller’s Wedding band, I know that the bass is a background character, like the peasantry, not noticed until they’re not there anymore. The bass is the heart beat of any good jazz/blues band, and I stand by that, but this fellow just wasn’t. He didn’t bring the warmth to the line like I expected him to, and for his solos he always pulled out his bow and played (not well) the world’s easiest sequence of notes. At one point I think he got into “twinkle twinkle”. But, when he wasn’t playing his solos, I was able to disregard him, and pay full attention to the trumpet. He was amazing. And his voice, he sang in such a way that I had to mentally control myself, and not fall back into nostalgia. He sang “What a Wonderful World”. That song, sung well, and with the soul he seemed to possess, just gets me right in my coeur/core.

I also had a cup of gumbo. Yummy. Imagine: Andouille sausage, shrimp, and some kind of cephalopod, all stewed for hours in a tomato base, smothered in cajun spices, all sitting on a bed of rice. I enjoyed it thoroughly, paired nicely with my iced tea. I was engaged in conversation by a fellow drinking something the barmaid concocted for him, and puffing on a cigar. Rafael was in town from Florida on business. Though his presence did interupt the lovely afternoon I was having with myself, it was nice to meet someone new.

Skayy and her new boyfriend picked me up later on, and I went off to Bourbon (now sufficiently un-smelly) to meet all of her new friends and business acquaintances. One of them, who worked in a Jester (daiquiri place) named Jersey showed me a magic trick, scared the crap out of me, until, of course I coerced him into telling me the trick, at which point I lost all interest. But then that’s usually how it happens. Sometimes my powers of persuasion work against me. 

I spent the next afternoon doing the most blissfully slothful thing. I took a book, my turkish silvers, and a bag of teddy grams, laid on the love seat on the screened in porch, and read. I was so happy to have time to just read again. As an only child, I quickly fell in love with books, and I love to read for pleasure, but rarely have time to do it anymore, if at all. I can honestly say that I spent at least 10 hours over the past week wrapped up in the world of Henry VIII and of Katherine of Aragon, Princess of Spain, holy unaware of actual surroundings, except that I was warm and sunny. 

I really didn’t do much else. Lets see, I reconciled with an old friend, and returned to him a shirt I had been holding on to since the fall of ’07. I met up with another and got to see the scary crowd she’s taken up with. Yeah, besides my walking around, seeing friends and reading, I did little else. I’d say that’s quite a successful vacation. 

An aside, I’m so glad I grew up in a city. I’m happy it was NYC, just because I’m biased in that i did in fact grow up here, but really any big city would have done. Though, not LA. Or anywhere in Texas. Chicago would have sufficed, or San Francisco. I’m happy for this because of all the walking I do. If I need to go somewhere, for the most part, a store or to get out money, I’ll walk. If I feel like finding lunch on a nice day at work, I’ll walk. Or if I’m out somewhere in the evening, pleasantly buzzed, I’ll find my way home on my feet. Everyone I know from college, including my darling Mirla, they all have such a different culture as it comes to transportation. Just a completely different mind set. For the first few days I like it. Things move much more quickly. If I want to get to Magazine for some Mexican food, it’s a 2 minute drive. But then after that, it just gets mind boggling. I feel like things are moving too quickly, I don’t have time to look at anything, it’s just in and out and in and out of a car, constantly. I feel like an old person being bustled about. And I don’t like it. People always seem to think I got jipped, what with not being able to drive, when they all have their permits at 15 and licenses at 16. And yeah, I think it kinda sucks that I can’t go on road trips, and that it’ll be that much more scary when I start driving because I’m all old now and set in my ways, but I think it’s all worth it for the way I see the world. ar

Living Paris: Rene Miller’s Wedding Band

I arrived in Paris on Thursday morning. I slept all that day, and spent the following day acquainting myself with the neighborhood and getting myself registered at the Alliance Francaise. The next day, Saturday, I went off to explore the rest of Paris. I went right to the center, to Ile de la Cite to see NotreDame and check out that area. I had been there before, so it seemed like a good place to start out. I visited the church again, took some time to really see it though. If you can manage to get some alone time, anywhere inside really, where the dim of tourism isn’t surrounding you, it transports you. You really get a sense of place and time. This church, built almost 1000 years ago. You stand where people prayed hundreds of years ago. Very eerie, but cool at the same time.

Anyway, you can only spend so much time inside, so i headed out, around behind the church with no destination in mind. I saw some  people playing and making music on the bridge that connects the two islands. The sun had come out, so the bite of the wind was a little more bearable. I went and stood for quite a while and listened to the bands. They sung in french, german and english. Having been so recently thrust into this non-english speaking place, i clung to their words. I tried, as I had tried in Germany, to decipher whether or not they were native, or just had really good english accents. I couldn’t tell. The base player was gorgeous though. They placed jazz and blues and swing. It was awesome. Then they took a break and another group started. A jovial black man playing drums, completely ignorant of the bands’ dress code. A tall older gentleman playing the base.  A very tall, lanky fellow playing the tenor sax. And a small, attractive in a Bogi kinda way, man playing a small metal guitar, and singing with the most wonderful southern accent. I listened to their entire set, and at the end took a flier. They were called Rene Miller’s Wedding Band, and besides playing on the bridge whenever it was nice, they also had a regular gig at the Freedom Pub on Monday nights. I introduced myself to Rene, the guitarist, and promised to see them on Monday.

Monday night, after class I looked up the address of the Freedom Pub and figured out how to get there. I had to change metros once and got out at L’arc de Triomphe and walked down the Champs Elysees to Rue de Barri, where the bar is located. There were flags from any and every place that speaks english hanging outside. I went in and didn’t see anyone. I went and sat at the far end of the bar, there was a big dog that I said hi to. I got up and walked back to the front, and saw Rene. I said hi, he recognized me from the bridge, sat me with a group of German tourists who had also come from the bridge. I got away from them quickly and sat at the bar. After one set the base player came and struck up a conversation. George is his name, he and I still stay in contact via email. The sweetest man, South African, amazing musical. He let me play his base once, it was such an experience. When you play the base, though it stands on it’s end pin, it’s body rests against yours. When you pluck the stings the entire base vibrates, which transfers to your body. It’s a very sensual experience, without being sexual, if that makes sense.

After that night I starting seeing them as often as possible, especially as the weather got nicer, they were on the bridge as many as 4 days a week, and every Monday at Freedom. I actually met my French friends at Freedom, they had come to drink, and we met while having a cigarette outside. To Jean Guillame’s credit, he though I was French, and starting talking to me. The nodding and smiling really can only take you so far….

A girl from London, in Paris for the same reason as I, but for a longer period of time sang with them sometimes. She had a perfect voice for the songs they did. At the very end of my stay they did a stint on Rue Muftard(sp), which is an awesome little street that cuts through the 5th. On the weekends the street becomes an outdoor market, everything; cheeses, wines, fruits and veggies. So the band set up in a little alcove along the market and played. It was awesome. I hung out with them all morning, got a kg of cherries from the market and munched while I listened. Others had set up to play along the market as well, I wandered and sampled, buying a few CDs. Later in the day there was a music parade. Different bands signed up to play on these old fashioned buses filled with people, and drive through Paris for an hour. The band got me on their bus. Very shortly after we started moving, our bus broke down. Too old I guess. So, after a while another bus came and got us, but it was a regular city bus. We all piled on and the band played in the middle where the back doors are, while we drove around Paris. It was such an experience. It was my last weekend in Paris, and it couldn’t have been better. For the outside the bus looked totally normal, just running it’s regular schedule. But then you notice there’s a band in the middle! It was so surreal. My two favorite things, Paris and that music, together. I could not have asked for anything more.

 

**To the best of my knowledge Rene Miller’s Wedding Band is no longer together, they broke up shortly after I left Paris. I have not kept up with Rene and I don’t know what he’s up to. I correspond with George regularly, and though he is rather cryptic, from what I can gather he and his son have started a new band which plays around paris. George sings and plays guitar, his son, Adam plays the base, a few of the other alternates I remember from other bands and Rene’s fill in the other spots. Some day soon I hope to get back to Paris and regain my group-y status. Hopefully I will go abroad with school to Paris soon!!

Living Paris: La Tour Eiffel

One of my favorite things to do, I did it almost every Sunday afternoon/evening, was to take the Metro to le Tour Eifel and walk home from there. It was still very chilly in Paris, so I’d get all bundled up and head out. There’s no direct metro route from my apartment to the tower, so I’d have to take a few, it takes about a half hour to get there. The metro lets me off a few blocks away, on the other side of that garden. I’d walk through that and under and through the legs of the tower and over to the Seine. There is a crepe stand there, kind of expensive, but understandably so, based on location. I’d take my crepe and walk along the Seine. I would cross a few times, there are some truly gorgeous bridges along that route. The entire time I’d have le Tour Eifel at my back, and every hour, on the hour, it sparkles. It’s kind of cheesy, but really beautiful if you accept it for the tourist attraction that is it. Even more gorgeous when the day’s not clear and there’s some fog about. That is truly beautiful, but my favorite part of the walk is the trees along the Seine. At a certain point the trees have been covered in tinkling lights. They are just white lights, I don’t recall if they twinkle or not, but they are so petite you cannot see the wires or anything at all. Its so sweet and makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Living Paris: The Perfect Date

Friday night, I went with a few friends to Cab, short for Cabaret, just about the hippest club in Paris. It’s located next to the Louvre, in Place du Palais Royale. Totally not my scene, at all, but I was with friends who were going and I figured I may as well. Got in, very loud. In my opinion the only way to enjoy a place like that is to get raging drunk, so I did. I was dancing, turned around and there was a guy standing there. He asked to dance, I acquiesced, and we talked. He proposed at one point, totaly acceptable, he was drunk as I was. At one point me dragged me over to his table, he was at Cab to celebrate a friend’s birthday, so I joined in on the toast. We danced, went outside to smoke, talked and at the end of the night, he not only got mehome safely, but all of the girls I was with. I thanked him with a kiss and my number. He called the next day, we set up a date, brunch on Sunday. Around 3 he came and picked me up. We took the metro to Pain Quotidian (which happens to be one of my favorite brunch places here, at home). We had a full brunch, yogurt, pain, croissants, cereal, tea, juice, and more I’m sure. He was so chivalrous, it was amazing. After brunch we walked around the city. It was barely raining, he held an umbrella for us. We walked everywhere. I wasn’t really paying attention to where we were going, but I do know that at one point we were up near the Madeline, and we parted ways down by the 14th, which is were I lived. I remember, he showed me where Jacques Chirac, former president of France lives. After a few hours of roaming, which included stopping at sights and kissing in front of them, we stopped and had a drink. I had chocolat chaud, and he had some green mint thingy. Kind of odd, but it was tasty. We talked about everything, about his family, mine, how he thought american accents were hot, but french weren’t and how I thought the opposite. It was actually raining at that point, we ran to the metro so I could go home. I got out a ticket and went through, I guess I assumed he was taking the metro as well, but he swiped through and ran after me, he wasn’t taking the metro! So He wasted a ticket on me. Aw.

We kissed goodnight, and that was the end of that. I never heard from him again, I never called him. It was an absolutely perfect day, and somehow, contrary to the typical female reaction, the fact that he never called was ok. Perhaps because I wasn’t in Paris long enough for a real relationship, or maybe because I didn’t want him to fall off the pedestal I had put him on, I dunno really, but it truly was perfect.

Living Paris

Hello all you franophiles, Welcome!

I don’t know what it is, but I absolutely adore France, more specifically, Paris. Perhaps my parent’s combined love for the place melded in to complete obsession, I guess I’ll never know. I spend a fair amount of my time finding ways to get there, or get back there. The first time I went I was about 9, went for 2 weeks with my parents. It was love from that moment on. We went again when I was 14 or so, and then I spent a year in Germany and met them in Paris for a week when I was 16. And then I went this past spring for 3 months. All of the other times I was with my parents, and I was fabulous, but it was completely different to be there alone. I had a fabulous time. I stayed in a vacant apartment of friends of friends. I went to the Alliance Francais four times a week for a few hours, and the rest of the time I just roamed around. I’d take the metro someplace and meander back, or start off walking and hop on the metro when I was done for the day. Being in Paris alone is a completely different experience. I felt like I got to know the city. I was there was almost 3 months, and I probably did less “touristy” stuff that my dad usually crams into 2 weeks, but I feel like I got so much more out of it. I had a routine, a boulangerie I went to every morning for the best baguette I’d ever had. I made friends with a band, and hung out with them, made friends with a few french 20-somethings and enjoyed Mardi-biere every week with them.

I had an utterly magificent time, and I think all the time about going back. I didn’t have a long vacation, I had a life there. It was basic and simple, but it was just what I wanted it to be and I loved it. So I would like to share it; partically to share with you, but more so to relive it myself.

So please, read about the Paris that I discovered, maybe it will inspire you to go and discover her for yourself.

There’s so much to say,

Kake

Mexico – Fall 08

Mexico was quite a trip. It was truly an adventure. So much happened, good things, horrible things, amazing things… It really was an eye opener. More planning will be put into the next trip I take, definitely more.

2:15am, waiting for the shuttle… No shuttle… Where’s the shuttle? We wait outside of a gay bar, a couple, very drunk, and cute engages us in conversation. The one is a bit more sober, take a picture us, the other is hilariously smashed, encouraging our adventurous natures, letting us know how smart we are to be doing this now, etc. We took a picture of them (only fair) and then hopped on the shuttle. We got there around 3:30, only took 40min to get out to JFK. And then we encounter first bump in the road… apparently, unbeknownst to us, JFK International closes… and doesn’t open in the morning until 4am. So we wait around til then, and then have to wait 15min until the check in desk people come in. Then another 15 minutes waiting for the security things to open. And then, when we finally make it all the way through, starbux and McDonalds are not open yet. Waiting is one of my least favorite things to do. Lets just get that straight from the get-go.

Our flights run smoothly, we get to Mexico City International around 2pm, taxi to Tapo Bus Terminal, theres a bus to VeraCruz at 3, get our tickets, something to eat and we’re on our way to VC. The bus ride, though I slept through most of it, was beautiful. Mexico is basically made up of mountains and beaches. There seems to be one road that goes through the mountains that connects MC and VC. There are no exits on this road, there are no gas stations, and there no modern signs of civilization, though there are many donkeys and goats. The mountains are so high up, that for a hour or so we were in clouds. It was frightening at times, barrelling down these teeny roads, moutain-side out one window, pure nothingness through a cloudy haze out the other.

We got checked into our hotel (after buying big ol’ bottles of water outside the bus station) around 9, jumped into bed and watched what we were grateful to find, american tv… bad american movies, but it was English, and that was enough.

We explored VC the next few days, found the Zocalo, went to the Aquarium, and checked out the Fort. Those were pretty good days. We found the climate to be wonderful, we couldnt swim in the ocean, the water smelled and was poluted, but our hotel had a pool that was quite satisfactory. One of the things we had planned to do was go to El Tajin. El Tajin is ruins, pyramids, the only ones of their kind in the world. Sounded pretty cool. Like all of our other research, our information came from the internet, this happened to come from a travel website. It said El Tajin was a half hour bus ride away from the Port of Vera Cruz, where we were. So we went to the bus station early one morning, got tickets for Papantla, the closest town to El Tajin. Got on the bus at 11:15am… and 5 and a half hours later, we deboarded… no bathroom. No food. Just sitting, getting more and more pissed off. The bus driver was nice, funny. He managed to eat an orange while driving the bus. At one point the cops stopped the bus, came on and asked to see our papers. Luckily we had brought our passports with us that day. The cops took 3 guys off the bus, obviously we had no idea why. We start moving again, and 20 minutes later, the cops stop us again, the let the three guys back on the bus again. Very odd stuff.

So we get to Papantla, find a bathroom and a quick snack. The ticket guy draws us a quick map to show us where to get the city bus to El Tajin… Shittiest map EVER! It was two intersecting lines with a dot on one of them. Luckily we found a person who wanted to help and showed us the bus stop. Got on that bus, supposed to be 10 min, it was 45. Get to El Tajin. FINALLY! We made it. All has not been in vain. Our spirits were lifting. Then Mac sees a sign. “El Tajin, hours of operation, 9am-5pm” Mac takes a look at her watch… Guess what fucking time it is. 5 fucking 10pm. It really cant get any worse at this point. We take a picture with the closed sign and take a taxi back to the bus station in Papantla. Once there we go to get tickets back to Vera Cruz. We missed the most recent bus, left at 5:07. And then next bus… no, that can’t be, its not possible that another bus to VC doesnt leave for SEVEN HOURS. That is not plausible… Unfortunately, however, it is true. We sit, we wait, and play cards, and smoke god knows how many cigarettes, though we had officially quite the day before… 6am the next day, we finally get back to Hotel Villa Del Mar, and sleep. If that was not the day from hell, I honestly don’t know what could be.

After that we were desperate to get out of the area. We found an internet cafe and searched for a beach near by to escape to. Cancun was the only place that had a bus from VC to it, but the ride is 20some hours and in the oposite direction of the airport we would eventually have to get to. Damn… we give up. Go back to the hotel, decide to check out Boca de Rio, the next town south of VC, said to have gorgeous beaches.

So we go to next day, bus ticket is like 75cents. The bus ride takes forever, like 45 min. And we’re let off in a residential area. So we start walking in what we think is the direction of the beach. After a few blocks the street opens up and the beach is there, waiting for us. We see golden sand!! Yay! And then that golden sand starts attacking us… The wind blew it everywhere. By the time we retreated and got to the shelter of the houses, we were covered. Eyes, faces, clothes… It was horrible. Though, while out there, I managed to keep my eyes open long enough to see that the golden sand was pilled up on the asphalt in front of the nasty brown sand that actually faced the still polluted water. Boo. I bet the same jackass who misled us about El Tajin also wrote about the gorgeous beaches in Boca del Rio.

So there was no possible way we could stay in the area now. We went back to that internet cafe and did more research. We triple checked all the reviews, taking no chances this time. We found that Ixtapa/Zihautenejo, on the southern pacific coast, while it does not have a nonstop bus from VC, does have one from MC. That bus website was down so we couldnt figure out times. But we knew we could at least get there. So we left early friday morning, got on a 10:15 bus to MC. Got there around 3, and got in line for the other bus tickets. I guess we really should have seen it coming… The next bus to Ixtapa was at 10:15… 7 hours later. Fuck! Fuckity fuck fuck. We bought more cigs, after having quit, AGAIN, the day before. Sat down and called our mothers… I did my best to keep a stiff upper lip while talking to them… Crying when youre talking to your mom just makes you cry harder… so I waited til I was off the phone to do that. Poor Mac couldnt reach her mom, and you know how that feels… So we sat and cried on the floor of the bus station for a while. Until, of course, the lady with the broom made us move so she could sweep. Fucking jeezus! We went outside and smoked. Oh, and the topper, the bus ride is 9hours long… In the end it turned out okay… luckily we didn’t follow our first instinct, which was to cut our losses, head to the airport and go home right then and there. The bus was awesome, a sleeper, with tv, fully extending chairs, the works.

 

We woke up the next morning in Ixtapa, walked to our hotel, and went and swam in the ocean. It was incredible. It was so warm, and strong and this gorgeous clear blue green color. I could almost see through the waves right before they broke. The sand, in the morning, is comprised of little bits of shell and rock, coarse enough that I could actually pick up a handful of “sand” and pick out individual shells. But later in the day, its completely changed. Its still coarser than the sand here, comparable to corn meal, but much finer than it had been in the morning. Its amazing, the two sands are so different, I saw them at different beaches and though the sands were completely unique to the beaches where I had seen them. Only later did I realize they all experience the two kinds. Very weird.

On Sunday we went to Ixtapa Island, took the early tour and had our guide all to ourselves, Daniel. He was sweet and very helpful. We drank, played in the water, and had our first ever experience on a jet skii (sooo awesome). We had lunch there too. They served this amazing fish, it was so simple and pure, for lack of a better word. Just fish, but not fishy… if that makes sense.

For the next few days we were just beach bums… We played in the ocean in the morning, or did hw, watched tv during the peak sun hours, and then played in the water. Besides Mac getting an eel wrapped around her arm for a few seconds, we had next to no interaction with marine life, which made me very happy.

We got our tickets to back to Mexico City in advance, to avoid anymore uncertainty… I don’t think we could have handled it… Got them on Monday night, for Wednesday 7pm, which got us to MC by 5am Thursday morning, airport by 6, through security by 6:30, and then our flight was at 10:30. We had to check out of the hotel at 1pm, so we had 6 hours to wait, plus airport waiting time, but it was ok because we knew ahead of time what would be happening. The waiting, though undesirable, was planned. So we hung out in the outdoor shopping area across the street from the hotel, were Frank’s Corner (Canadian guy, where we watched the debate and ate some seriously yummy food) is, playing cards, doing hw and eating cookies.

Bus ride back was smooth, saw a hot pepper on the floor in the bus station, very odd, took a picture. Wait in the airport was fine, had a cup O noodle, shrimp… Tasty, considering we hadn’t eaten anything cept cookies since breakfast the day before. Flight was fine, changes our seats to those awesome exit window seats with no chair in front. Landed 10 minutes early, air train to the A, waited 25min for the train, hour all in, A to fulton, 4 to brooklyn bridge, 6 to astor, 5 minute walk, and then:

 

HOME SWEET HOME.