the last time i saw jesus, i was drinking bloody marys in the south

Seeing as I'm 19 days behind on the New Orleans part of the trip, and taking advantage of the rain from Dolly, I thought it would be a good morning to stay indoors and blog a little, and maybe catch up to only 12 days behind.

Brie's first week here was nice and lowkey. We mostly worked during the day, sometimes at home and sometimes at coffeeshops. Working here has been a big improvement over trying to work in Rome last year, where I didn't have easy access to the internet and all the coffeeshops were full of loud tourists. I'm not necessarily working that much better, though.

Brie picked up a handy little skill while she was out here. Infused by the jazz soul of New Orleans, and finding that this little piano in Pat O'Brien's Pub is stuffed full of garbage bags so that people won't play it, she learned how to play guitar. In case she's planning on whipping it out at a party soon, I won't ruin the surprise by telling you that she can now play "Poughkeepsie," "Long Lost Brother," and a song with a refrain that includes a phrase that sounds like "free, free of the danger." This is Brie rocking out:


I'm a little jealous of her rocking-out hair.

The other thing we managed to find time to do was eat and drink, necessary activities raised to the level of art in New Orleans. Although, just as a warning for the future, the combination of seafood gumbo and hurricanes is a bad idea. Bad. Idea. So what if Brie learned how to play a new musical instrument? I learned a little something in New Orleans, too.

A much better combination of food and drink is beignets (ben-yays) and hot chocolate at Cafe Du Monde on Jackson Square. When I was 16, Adam Curry and I drove to New Orleans from Mississippi for one day, and this is what I remember. Beignets. Powdered-sugar-covered pieces of heaven. There are a mass of outdoor tables, and the floor is white with sugar, and you can get a plate of beignets and two hot chocolates for six bucks.

Brie's beignets:


When Heidi Spencer (née Hazen) arrived the following Friday, it was a nice excuse to completely stop working for a few days (read: stop attempting to pretend to work) and just see the city. We got dinner at Bywater Barbecue (where the street "Desire" is, as in "A Streetcar Named" though now the only public transportation that runs to Desire is a bus) and then decided to show Heidi the beautiful courtyard with the flaming fountain (and the hurricanes, I suppose... I did NOT have one) at Pat O'Brien's. When we walked in, it was ten times more crowded than it had been the weekend before when Brie and I went. We had to push through people to get through the courtyard. The other thing that was rather remarkable was that the crowd was almost entirely silent. Everyone was signing to one another. Apparently the National Association of the Deaf had a convention in town. It was kind of amazing. Fueled by hurricanes, we returned home to make a Happy Birthday video for Yvette 3.0, the missing member of our little traveling quartet.

Saturday morning we somehow managed to get up early (before 8!) to visit the Crescent City Farmer's Market in the warehouse district before breakfast. Because Heidi likes farmer's markets. This one wasn't too impressive, though. Maybe we're spoiled.

We finished with the farmer's market earlier than we thought we would, so we drove across town via Magazine Street and saw Audubon Park and the outside of the zoo. We also stopped at Whole Foods, because we needed water and cash, and because Heidi can't resist the mother ship. Then we came back to the apartment and got ready to go to jazz brunch at Commander's Palace, one of the nicest restaurant in New Orleans, serving tourists and riverboat captains since 1880. It was Yvette's birthday breakfast so we thought we should make it good. Brie had steak and eggs, I think, which she liked, and Heidi and I both had the "Louisiana Sportsman's Brunch." Because it was brunch, and we're sportsmen. It was, like... pecan pancakes with peaches and "duck debris." It sounds completely weird but it was actually pretty great. For dessert I had a cloud-like souffle. The spirit of Yvette had three Bloody Marys. Our toast:


I tried to drink mine for her sake but it was just too much for me at 11:30 in the morning. A trio of jazz musicians played for the room and serenaded each table, which was fun. The trumpet player sounded like Louis Armstrong. The guitar player had halitosis, according to Heidi, who was sitting across from him when he was singing.

The last time I saw Jesus
I was drinking bloody marys in the South
In a barroom in New Orleans
Rinsin' out the bad taste in my mouth

She wore a dark and faded blazer
With a little of the lining hanging out
When the jukebox played Miss Dorothy Moore
I knew that it was him without a doubt

I said the road is my redeemer
I never know just what on earth I'll find
In the faces of a stranger
In the dark and weary corners of a mind

She said, The last highway is only
As far away as you are from yourself
And no matter just how bad it gets
It does no good to blame somebody else

Ain't it crazy
What's revealed when you're not looking all that close
Ain't it crazy
How we put to death the ones we need the most

I know I'm not a martyr
I've never died for anyone but me
The last frontier is only
The stranger in the mirror that I see

But when I least expect it
Here and there I see my Savior's face
He's still my favorite loser
Falling for the entire human race

~"Jesus in New Orleans"
Lyrics by Karin Bergquist & Linford Detweiler