I swear I saw Blanche Du Bois but... where was her creator?

It was the second day in New Orleans; the faded face, bleached hair (or was it a wig?) too much eyeliner, skewed lipstick and a gentle accent. She sold us our tickets for the city tour, 'thank you so muuch for visiting aar wonderful city, we really appreciade it.' She made me feel like a kind stranger.

But let me back track. Early in the morning, we parted the hotel curtains and went into shock. It was raining, something we hadn't seen since we hit the shores of the USA. Krista was due to fly in at 10am and with Rand McNally's help, we worked out the route to the airport.  A minor detour before we hit the right road, following the signs to the airport telling us to keep in the left two lanes. Mistake: a mile or so down the road it told us to take the right turnoff... too late, we were faithfully devoted to the left lanes and traffic was heavy. An interesting discussion ensued as the driver, the navigator and the back seat driver offered three different opinions as to what to do next (not the first time this had happened). In the end the driver (Kathie) won out.

Louis Armstrong at N O airport

We arrived at the airport in time for Maxine to do the banking she had not been able to do the day before and we all sipped cafe au laits, discarding them half drunk, a) because we didn't like the flavour and b) there was too much of it. You cannot get a small cup of anything in this country.

New Orleans art

Krista's priority was beignets at Cafe du Monde. This time we chose Royal Street as our conduit through the French Quarter. It's full of art shops and gift shops, no adult entertainment anywhere. Probably walked past Truman Capote's previous residence at number 711, and Thornton Wilder’s pad at 623 Bourbon Street, the day before. (I dread to think what that has become.)

As I was to discover, there is little inclination to indicate famous authors' links to New Orleans. For instance, I was keen to see two of Tennessee Williams's early apartments in the French Quarter. The one at 722 Toulouse Street with its rose-coloured stucco walls, now houses The Historic New Orleans Collection. I don’t know if he is commemorated inside or not, since we didn’t go in. There is nothing on the outside however.

Courtyard of 722 Toulouse St

Another residence (623 St. Peters Street) where he started to write ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’ is a gaudy gift shop with cheap-looking long strings of beads hanging all over. Not a brass plate or even a paper notice in the window that Tennessee Williams ever lived there. Jeez, he won the Pulitzer Prize...twice for goodness' sake! Not to mention many other awards. The next day on our city tour, the guide casually pointed out Ann Rice’s address (1239 First) in the Garden District. He did not mention Tennessee Williams had also lived in the area, much to the shock and awe of the resident socialites who did not approve of the “flexible quality”  in his “sexual nature.” At least the city’s literary festival is commemorating TW’s 100^th year in March 2011, and after my suggestions in the survey they sent me, they might spring for a few brass plates or those famous blue plaques like they have in London to honor its famous writers. 

At least one author is acknowledged, although we didn’t find Pirate’s Alley from where The Nobel prize winner, William Faulkner shot his BB gun out of the window. Faulkner House Books is a new and used book store in the tiny place where he wrote his first novel. It is near the back of St Louis Cathedral, an institution that Lillian Hellman attended as a child. Famous for not only ‘The Children’s Hour’, ‘The Little Foxes,’ and my favourite, ‘Pentimento’ but also for her left wing activism. As a result of standing up to the House Un American Activities Committee in 1950, she was blacklisted by Hollywood movie studios for years. She had a long time relationship with Dashiell Hammett (he of ‘Maltese Falcon’ fame). Didn’t find any reference to her in the New Orleans tourist literature either.

As you may have guessed I love some of these authors, and witnessing New Orleans’ obsession with voodoo, death and cemeteries (especially near Halloween) can understand some of their obsessions, Ann Rice and her vampires for example.

At last we reached Cafe Du Monde and ordered their famous doughnuts without holes, aka beignets. They discourage you from wearing black on account of all the icing sugar that billows out every time you take a bite.

They are very good and it is quite a conveyor system they have churning  them out. Glad we weren’t there at the height of the tourist season, it was busy enough as it was. A jazz trio was playing on the sidewalk. At last... the sound I was expecting to hear all over New Orleans, Dixieland jazz.

While there we spotted the ticket office and encountered the aforementioned Blanche Du Bois look-alike.

Made our way to the French Market; lots of pumpkin and squash on display and big luscious peaches which I would have loved to buy but no one was around to pay my money to. Wallets, sarongs, jewellery etc. are also sold there.

Glimpsed St Louis cathedral as we wended our way to Decatur Street and lunch. Sampled more Italian-New Orleans cuisine, namely a Mufaletta sandwich.
A recipe goes like this

• 1 loaf Mufaletta bread (or Italian bread)
• 1 cup olive mix
• 1/4 lb sliced ham
• 1/4 lb sliced mortadella
• 1/4 lb sliced Genoa salami
• 1/4 lb sliced provolone
• 1/4 lb sliced mozzarella

The key ingredient is the olive salad mix, ideally spread on the bread an hour or two before eating so it soaks in. They are huge, and delicious. We shared  a whole one between four of us, but you can order a quarter or a half. Same thing with the po’boys, a classic New Orleans sandwich on French bread; you can purchase a foot long or half a one. We shared a shrimp po’boy. The shrimp is fried.

 

We needed a rest after all that eating and walking (11,507 steps) 

The evening saw us board a street car for the first time. It runs straight past our hotel, down Canal Street to the waterfront, ideal for reaching the SS Natchez for our steamboat cruise.

We watched the sun set beyond the bridge, and the starlings wheeling around the Sheraton and the Marriott hotels, drinking our beers, wondering if we were ever going to cast off. The first dinner seating was over by the time they cranked up the paddles. We had chosen the second sitting at 7.30. Jazz played on one of the upper decks and we helped ourselves to the buffet roasts etc. Nothing gourmet but adequate. 

At some point the band played ‘Petite Fleur,’ a composition written and played by Sidney Bechet, New Orleans born, and an old favourite of mine. Took me back to our digs in Sheffield in 1960, bopping around the living room.