Madame Lily Devalier always asked “Where are you?” in a way that insinuated that there were only two places on Earth one could be: New Orleans and somewhere ridiculous.
~ Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume
Kathy and I headed south, once again, on Highway 65, driving toward what my friend Fred calls, “One of the great American cities.” The day was hot as we passed the fields of wheat, beans and cotton, dotted with shotgun shacks and detention centers.
Our final destination in a few days was the white beaches of Northwest Florida, an annual trek that never gets old. This year, however, we left early for a short stay in New Orleans, where we had gone 33 years ago for our honeymoon – the last time we were there.
On that trip, I convinced my new bride to try raw oysters, which she actually liked. Neither of us will eat them anymore, though. It just makes us uneasy when food comes with a death-warning label.
The rest of that trip was great, with the exception of a loss to Texas on Labor Day.
Back to 2013, and I looked at the road ahead to see a couple of SUVs pulling up to a T-bone intersection on my right, getting ready to either turn right and slow me down, or stop and let me fly on by. I paid no mind to the white minivan that had stopped and was waiting to turn left.
With very little hesitation, the first SUV began coming out, which caused me to immediately slow down. And that might have actually been what saved us because, unbelievably, the white minivan began slowly moving forward into our lane.
I could see the clueless driver now as I braked and swerved into the northbound lane. It was a woman and she was talking on a cell phone.
The Accord handled beautifully, with only the slightest fishtail from the rear, and the incident was over in a gasp, much quicker than our lingering thoughts of what might have been.
Kathy and I were both pretty shaken, then we were angry, and even entertained going back after the stranger we almost met head on. But I kept driving south, and soon saw the familiar bat on the water tower telling me we would soon enjoy the safety of a four-lane interstate.
Some four hours later, we were passing the choppy surface on the west side of Lake Pontchartrain, whose south edges had broken through its levees in 2005 after swelling from Katrina. Eight years later, there’s still evidence from the nation’s costliest hurricane.
I took the Superdome exit and somehow guessed a few correct turns that luckily took me to the French Quarter and the historic Hotel Monteleone. We stepped out of the Accord and into the hotel’s gorgeous elegance of golden marble and sparkling chandeliers. I checked in with the European lady at the front desk, and we were soon following the bellman to the elevators.
The window from our room looked down onto Royal, where I spotted “Lucky Dogs” again. Not to worry this time because the Monteleone rooms come complete with a mini bar. There were no hot dogs, so I went with the next best thing: M&Ms, cashews, and a Heineken. Kathy chose a Diet Coke.
After being somewhat but not totally rejuvenated, we headed to the French Quarter, where on the wet street, I was disappointed to see that “Lucky Dogs” had disappeared for the night. Not that my overprotective wife was going to allow that delicacy anyway.
We began walking east on Royal through a light mist.
To be continued...