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itsnuceuler
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Name: samurai
Birthday: 7/19/1982
Gender: Male
Interests: collecting taxes, meditation, swordplay, war, beer pong
Expertise: samurai-ing
Occupation: Engineering
Industry: Art
Message: message me
Member Since:
9/22/2003
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| New Orleans Day 2 (cont'd.):
"I guess we look kind of out of place, huh?" Jon says. We're in the back of Fernanda's Honda on our way back to the French Quarter.
"Haha. Yes, you do," Fernanda replies. Three asians trottin' through the ghetto in cargo shorts and colorful t-shirts; the only way we coulda made it any more obvious that we didn't belong is if we stopped to take pictures and look at maps. I might add that while I fear nothing and would have no problem continuing to walk through the ghetto, I was sluggish from fried chicken.
"So this is a bad area, huh?"
"Yes," she nods. "Those used to be the projects," Fernanda says, pointing to the construction area across the street. "It's gotten better around here since they took them down, but it's still not good." For the duration of the ride, we find out that Fernanda is originally from Brazil. She's been in New Orleans for 10 years and doesn't have any plans to leave. We talk to her about Rio de Janeiro, her hometown, and she gives us some tips on places to go while we're here. "Alright guys, I'm going to drop you off here." We're on the outskirts of the French Quarter, as promised. We thank her emphatically and repeatedly for the 500th time. "You're welcome," she replies. We hop out and shut the door behind us. Her car takes a right at the next intersection and a second later is gone.
We continue our walk back, probably looking a little more confident.
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| New Orleans Day 2:
The next morning we're talking to the concierge, trying to get some information on fried chicken.
"I was watching something on the Food Network about a fried chicken place," Jon explains to the concierge. "Supposed to be really good." She looks back at him with a blank expression.
"It's not Popeye's is it?"
"No. It's not Popeyes."
Five minutes and a few phone calls later we have a name and an address. Willie Mae's. "The mecca of fried chicken," she had told us. A cab drops Stella, Jon, and I off in front of a white one story building. The windows are boarded up with solid white planks. Across the street appears to be a long-abandoned office building. On the next block are small homes with metal wire fences marking the front yards.
The inside of the place looks like someone's taken their living room, replaced the couches and TV with ten small wooden tables and chairs and a professional wait staff. The menu has five or six entrees, but we all order the fried chicken, obviously. Jon orders the butter beans as his side, which he later realizes was a mistake when he sees that everyone else in the restaurant has gotten the red beans. Three pieces of chicken with a side is ten bucks. I imagine that all the other entrees were just for decoration. Filler for the menu. I imagine this is the kind of place where when you order the cheeseburger, the waitress backhands you or a heavyset black lady storms out of the kitchen and shoves you around a little bit.
At the end of the meal I don't hesitate to eat a forkful of ketchup and hot sauce because pieces of fried batter have fallen into it. Other patrons are probably looking at me sadly, shaking their heads. They offer me their food and drop change on the table. I won't bs you. The fried chicken is not life-changing. It's good, definitely. As far as fried chicken goes, it's the best i've ever had. Even the white meat was tender and juicy. But it's not the end of the world if you don't have it. Given the choice; sex or Willie Maes' fried chicken, I'd still usually choose sex.
We realize after lunch that there are no cabs out this way and with no other options, start walking back. It's not an impossible distance and along the way maybe we'll find a cab. A few blocks down the road and the scenery's getting rougher and rougher. Across the street there aren't even any buildings; just rubble. The aftermath of the hurricane, presumably. On our side of the street there are rundown houses and alot of people just sitting out on the steps that look down on their luck. We're about to walk a particularly bad looking block when a lady in a Honda pulls up next to us and gets out. She walks to a nearby pay phone with a key, unlocks it, and dumps the change into a small burlap bag.
"This is a dangerous neighborhood, guys," she tells us. We stop and look back at her. She's in her 30's, appears Hispanic.
"Oh, yea?" I mean, how do you respond to that without sounding 1) clueless or 2) arrogant and stupid.
"Where you goin?" she asks us. The French Quarter, we tell her. "I'll give you a ride." I take a look at option #2, the crowd of people on the next block that aren't looking too friendly, and decide at least in my opinion, we should take our chances with the payphone lady.
Jon and I acting completely natural
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| New Orleans Day 1:
There's no doubt about it; New Orleans is a party town in the same vane as Miami and Vegas. It's certainly not as refined. In fact, in many ways, it's the polar opposite of Miami and Vegas. It's grimy and dirty. There is absolutely no superficiality. Where Vegas and Miami put a premium on image and status, New Orleans couldn't care less. In New Orleans, everyone is in the same alcohol-soaked boat, the wealthy and the impoverished alike.
There wasn't really a big business area that I could see. By my count there were more strip clubs than office buildings. Generally speaking, when the people on your plane are more likely to be getting lapdances than holding business meetings, you know you're on your way to a party town. The thing about those kinds of towns is that I'd have a good time visiting for a weekend, but I'd never really consider living there. They don't seem to have a balance, like a sumo wrestler on a seesaw with a 5th grader. But still, they're good for a short rush.
On Thursday night, Stella and I find ourselves outside "The Blues Club" on Bourbon. We've already decided to go in but the guy outside the front door is waving to us, urging us to come in. He seats us at a small table to the left side of the main stage. The place is simple and dimly lit; filled with small wood tables and chairs, a tile floor, exposed ducting in the ceiling, and your basic bar. The stage is in the middle of it all and a small, 16' x 10' dance floor is right in front. By the look of it it's certainly simple and unimpressive, but the music coming through the speakers and filling the joint is anything but. I don't really listen to jazz or blues, but this shit is good. The singer is a tall, lanky black guy who sounds like he's straight outta Motown. Stella says she got chills listening to him.
The next spot we go to also has a live band but they don't impress us like the other one does. We head up to the 2nd floor balcony to see if girls are taking their shirts off for shiny plastic beads. There aren't any, but then again it's only Thursday night. Stella spends alot of time taking pictures of everything.
"They're all we're gonna have left of this trip in the future," she says when I tell her she should relax.
"Except for our memory," I say.
"Well this will help us remember," she replies. As it turns out, she's right. We're gonna need the help.
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| Chicago Day 2:
Chicago deep dish pizza is awesome. Maybe I haven't had the right New York pizza yet, but right now Chicago's got the numba one spot. The crust is crunchy on the bottom and soft in the middle. The layer of cheese and sausage is basically as thick as the crust and they're both de-freakin-licious. Chris says that Chicago pizza is more casserole than pizza. Whatever it is it's awesome.
After lunch we take the elevator to the roof. It's the 40th something floor. The elevator doors open to reveal a spectacular view of the city to the south and the lake to the east. In the center of the roof is swimming pool and the deck is lined with sunbathers, every one with their chair facing the city. It's sunny and warm. In the sky are scattered white clouds; the kind you'd stare at for hours when you were a kid trying to make out shapes. On the lake are packs of tiny sailboats moving together like families. In my pants are the former contents of my bladder because I just messed myself from the utter coolness of this spot.
We spent almost the entire afternoon up there. As much as I wanted to get out into the city and uh, see, uh, those things. Actually I'm not sure what I wanted to do in Chicago anymore. But I think it worked out.
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| Chicago Day 1:
Despite my best efforts, we make it to Chicago on Friday morning. Michelle, our hostess for the weekend, has an apartment 36 stories up right on the lake. When you look out her window you see a boat dock and alot of water. The lake looks like an ocean. There's no visible end to it, even from way up.
"Hey," Stella and Michelle exclaim excitedly when Michelle answers the door. It's been a couple years since we've seen her; since Stella finished up her internship in Charlotte and we moved back to VA. In the years since, Michelle moved from North Carolina to South Carolina to Chicago. We've moved from North Carolina to VA to South Carolina and back to VA.
After spending a little bit of time catching up, we meet Michelle's boyfriend Chris and his friend Jason.
"Good to meet you," Jason says as he shakes my hand. I tell him likewise. "Have a little trouble with your flight?"
Damnit.
"Haha. Just a little trouble."
We shoot the shit for a little while and then decide to head into town. We catch the next bus and five minutes later Stella, Michelle, and I are walking around downtown. Chris and Jason are going to Day 1 of Lollapalooza. Radiohead is headlining. We'll meet back up with them later, but Stella and I really want to do some touristy stuff for awhile; take pictures of tall buildings, stand in the middle of the sidewalks holding large maps, cross streets at the wrong times, etc.
There are plenty of people walking around the city, but it doesn't feel crowded, mostly because the sidewalks are so wide and clear. No street vendors or carts or hustlers pushing dvds or bums, even. It's almost the polar opposite of New York. It's so clean that I feel like people don't actually live here. You know what I mean? Kinda like northwest DC. Michelle was probably just taking us around the tourist part of the city. But even so it's Friday morning and people should be busy heading to and from work, but the crowds still seem like visitors. No one's in a rush, no one's yelling into their cellphones; it's weird. Not what I expected for a huge metropolitan city.
At the lounge at the top of the John Hancock building, we take a seat at a window and have a few drinks. The Hancock building is the 2nd tallest building in the city, I think, and the lounge/restaurant at the top has glass windows all the way around.
"This is pretty nice," Stella says, admiring the view.
"It's disgusting," I say, sarcastically.
Apparently the girl's bathroom has a view that's as good or better than you get at the bar. So when Stella and Michelle head to the bathroom to pee and take pictures (of the city), I do the same (minus the pictures). The guy's bathroom has no windows, though. Just an ugly tile wall. It smells like pee. Other than that and the extravagant drink prices, the Hancock building was nice. Excellent spot to hang out and get a bird's eye view of the city.
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