I am going to turn my blog into a travel diary of sorts. I am really bad about updating it, but now that I have hours upon hours on airplanes during which I can work (boring), read (averaging about ½ a book per flight I am wearing out my library card), and listen to my tunes, I reckon I can also create documents that I can simply cut and paste into this blog. Plus, I have a terrible memory, and some random shit happens to me on the road, stories that, left unrecorded, will slip away if not caught in the net of my blog.
And I certainly can use practice writing.
When I travel, I try to make it as exciting as possible. I like to eat at cool restaurants and run in the great outdoors and shop in locally owned stores. Though I respect the joys of eating at Panera Breads all across this land of ours’ (internet access is always free and always works), I enjoy discovering quirky eateries and learning new neighborhoods.
Last week I was in Little Rock, AR. I hate this town. Ok, that’s not exactly fair. I hate Hertz at this airport in this town. Every time (ok, twice) that I’ve flown in and tried to pick up my car, reserved with GPS, they never have GPS. Whoops, we just gave away our last car with GPS! Whoops! Can I give you directions? Would you like a map? No, woman, I’d like a little computer telling me where to go. Argh.
I landed in the early evening and checked into the Hilton (in name and toiletries alone – overall a slight disappointment). After a quick search online, I discovered Loca Luna’s as a vegetarian friendly restaurant that uses local produce in a cute little neighborhood… which looked cooler on the map than it did in person. It was a tricky place – the front door evaded me and I stood waiting for a long time at the back door before a waitress asked me “honey, you waitin’ for a seat?” and directed me to the host. I was seated outside, alone with my book in tow. Within minutes, the host seated two ladies who I think are gay too (guessed by the universal cues: smoking, baseball hats, baggy clothes, and 2 Miller Lights. They were also a little chubby. Why my mother believes that lesbians are always skinny, I’ll never know. Hasn’t she seen Rosie O’Donnell?) Dinner was rather nice – I ordered a vegetable and rice skillet, and it was a literal order. It came in a skillet, handle and all, hot off the stovetop. For dessert, I had a decadent dark chocolate crème brulee, which wasn’t eggy at all but like a dense mousse, topped with caramelized sugar and whipped cream. Delightful!
For shame, I didn’t make it to Central High. It is the 40th anniversary of that day when segregation ended in schools and a few brave students, escorted by men with guns, entered school. I wanted to drive past the school, but I was on a tight schedule and it was seeing a landmark or eating lunch. Had I more time, Central High and the Clinton Library would have been on my tour de Little Rock. Instead, I dined at Starving Artists Café. As the title suggests, it’s run by a group of hungry (for money) artists. I had mushroom soup and a lovely, if small, salad of greens with toasted pecans, gorgonzola, and apples. Yum. The joint is covered in art for sale by local starving artists. My eye has not been formally trained in art, but I’ll leave it at this: there is a reason some of these self-appointed artists are hungry.
From the Rock, I flew to New Orleans. My car (Hertz again) had GPS but smelled a bit like Katrina. I had a bare bones Corolla, but that car gets gas mileage to brag about! It was 7pm and I decided to wing it, to drive home the backroads I used to take when I lived in the City That Care/Government Forgot. You know, it’s really not that nice there – still. Two long years and there are tons of boarded up houses, businesses closed for good, cars abandoned on the side of the road… though they might be recent abandonments, truth be told. I drove to Flying Juan’s Burrito, the one on Carrollton and Canal, and ordered a Veggie Punk burrito. It took what felt like an hour to get my take away order. In the meantime, I watched the bartender mix margaritas and pour them into paper cups with lids and straws to boot. Sometimes, I really miss the drinks-to-go policy in NOLA. It cracks me up, the freedom that I feel when I am allowed by state law to walk around in public with an open container of booze. The drive-through daiquiri bars are my favorite. Well, if people wouldn’t drink and drive, I’d like them much more. Just pick up your drink and drive home, then drink. “One for the road” literally translated into action, I suppose.
I stayed at the International House on Camp Street, on the other side of Canal from the French Quarter. My room must have had ceilings 15’ high. I love New Orleans architecture. Aveda-stocked bathroom and a robe for my relaxing pleasure all added up to a great hotel. The next day, I got up early for a conference call and then drove over to Audubon Park for a run. The path around the park seems to have shrunk, that or I was a lazy runner when I lived there. The park looks good, but on my run past the zoo I couldn’t help but wonder about the animals when Katrina hit. Did they starve to death in their cages designed for the general public’s viewing pleasure? Then I started to get sad.
Whole Foods on Magazine is up and running as it was before the storm. It was busy, too. In fact, that’s the only place I actually saw other people. I drove around the Quarter and it was empty, a ghost town. I know it was a Wednesday afternoon, but I expected to see a few shoppers. Nothing. Creepy!
I had lunch at Thirteen on Frenchman and again, I was the only one around. Me, the bartender/waitress, and the cook. Good food for standard lunch fare. It was a strange experience to be there again, and to explore New Orleans all alone. I had an appointment in Slidell, and I drove past New Orleans East on I-10. The damage out there is exponentially worse than anything I saw downtown. Even from the highway, the scenery was depressing. Shopping plazas closed for good, Six Flags a skeleton of an amusement park, and highway signs broken in half, left for the driver to decipher the full exit name. Across the lake, Slidell was fine, undamaged. What a few miles can do for your property.
Monday, September 24, 2007
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