New Orleans 1

Now then, what is the FIRST thing you think of when I say "The Big Easy"?
 
If you're a woman, the answer is probably "Dennis Quaid's buttocks" but do try to keep your mind off sex for a minute.
 
So yes - New Orleans!  The Birthplace of Jazz!  The Big Easy!  Dennis Quaid's Buttocks!!  It was all terribly exciting.  Or at least it WOULD be as soon as our 9-hour train trip was over.  The train itself was the famous "City of New Orleans" that Arlo Guthrie sang about...

"Good morning America, how are you?
Don't you know me? I'm your native son,
I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done."

The City of New Orleans left Memphis on a horrid rainy day at 7am, after a particularly stressful journey to the station due to the fact that the F*CKING taxi companies are F*CKING useless in Memphis.  We waited half an hour for a taxi, only to get abuse from the company when I called them up to remind them we were still F*CKING waiting.  Eventually I flagged down a cab in the rain on the street, but I am still fuming about it, even as I sit here typing this today.  Hang on, I need to swear one last time.  F*CK!  Ahhh that’s better.
 
So we made it to the train just before it left, but due to our lateness, Caro and I could not sit together.  I ended up sitting next to a student called Jeremy who went to the same college as Kim and Ann from Chicago.  He was on his way to New Orleans to catch up with friends, which (given that he was a student) I took to mean getting wasted and eating pizza.  I speak the language of youth, oh yes.
 
Jeremy was actually pretty cool, even if his favourite program was Battlebots.  We had a pretty good chat during which I berated him and his fellow countrymen for using the phrase "one hundred twenty" (or whatever) instead of "one hundred AND twenty".  He insisted that the "and" was implied, and I told him that Americans couldn't expect to be readmitted to The Empire with an attitude like that.  He took this upsetting news quite bravely, bless him.
 
But Jeremy and I weren't having nearly as good a time as a couple behind us who were making a hell of a noise, carrying on, cackling and shrieking with laughter.  Yes, of course it was Caroline and HER new friend, Priscilla.  Priscilla was a sweet Memphian woman in her forties, and Caro had her in stitches telling her of our travels.  I'm still not entirely sure what was said, but whatever it was, I'm sure it was at my expense.
 
Priscilla, Caro and I decided to have lunch on the train together, which is a bit of an adventure on Amtrak because Americans don't do things by halves.  No sad little sandwiches and plastic cups of tea for these people when travelling.  They have fully-fledged restaurants on their trains, just like in “North By Northwest”, so we sat with our pathetic little serviettes on our laps as waiters wobbled dangerously past laden down with bowls of soup and po-boy sandwiches.
 
Now I didn't know what a po-boy was, but in my role as culinary adventurer who will eat anything so long as it doesn't have tentacles or eyes, I ordered one.  It turned out to be a meat sandwich (Priscilla told me that the meat can be anything from shrimp to chicken) which consists of a large amount of gravy.  It was po-boy-licious and I found my previous attitude toward Amtrak improving.  Meanwhile, Priscilla had Dirty Rice, which is spicy rice with red beans - I had to try this too and then I remembered the words of that guy in Memphis…

“You’ll come away from N’Awlins faaaaaat….”

Oh well.  F*ck it.
 
The thing about travelling about by train is that it forces you to talk to new people - certainly Caro and Priscilla didn't seem to be resisting this and we were soon joined by someone else.  A woman called Jana who sat next to me at lunch and immediately covered the fact that she essentially knew none of us by launching into a discussion of Greek Art.  
 
Jana was lovely.  It turned out she was 71 and had been everywhere in her life, including Edinburgh.  She  announced that on arrival in New Orleans she would be taking part in a Gay Pride Parade which is not the sort of thing you expect from Little Old Southern Ladies.  Anyway, between Jana and Priscilla, Caroline and I were well entertained and we found the long trip just slipping away.  Even after lunch the three of them carried on their conversation while I popped back to the observation car to watch the swamplands slip by and to see if I could spot any alligators (I didn't, although there were loads of herons).  I also spotted a "Piggly Wiggly" which has was one of my major ambitions on entering the South.  Don't ask me why.
 
We finally got into New Orleans by 5pm, and Caro said goodbye to her new friends after giving them details on where we were staying.  Then WE had to figure out how to get there which involved getting into a long discussion with a very camp man at the tourist desk, who tried to call the hotel for us to find out if they had a shuttle.  But first, he had to have an argument with the man who was hogging his telephone.  It all got rather shrill.  
 
“Oh, that man is a MESS," our helper hissed.  "I really shouldn't lend out the phone like that."  He went on to tell us how much he hated his job.  “Dealing with irritated tourists all day?  Please!” he complained.  Then he glared at me, "You English are the WORST," he added, meaningfully.  "I tell them I hate the Queen just to upset them."  Seeing I wasn't unduly upset, he warmed to his theme, "I mean, honestly, they're always telling me how New Orleans isn't NEARLY as good as England - why don't they just go back home?!"
 
I've noticed this myself about the English tourists.  We do seem to spend a lot of time whining about how things aren’t nearly as good as they are back home.  What the Americans don’t know is that when we’re home we spend most of our time complaining about England.  That’s the thing about we English – we’re not happy unless we’re truly miserable.  If you see what I mean.
 
"Mind you," he continued, "I'm originally from San Francisco myself, and I find myself saying the New Orleans isn’t nearly as good as California.  The irony.  God is punishing me."  Unfortunately he was then cut short by our taxi arriving.  It took us to the Hyatt Regency which sounded awfully posh but was actually just your average hotel.  Wow.  Don’t I sound like the huge travel snob all of a sudden?
 
However, the reason I say the Hyatt Regency was average is that after two days (due to a screw up on our part) we had to check out of there and go to The Monteleone, which is bang in the middle of La Vieux Carre or French Quarter as we Anglais know it.  While the rooms at The Monteleone are pretty much the same as hotel rooms everywhere, the setting was AMAZING.  The lobby had huge chandeliers, an amazing old grandfather clock and imposing pictures of the hotel's founders peering down at us.  Adjoining the lobby is the locally famous Carousel bar, which indeed slowly rotates.  (Not that this is anything amazing, I've known The Hebrides bar in Edinburgh to do the same thing at the end of the evening.)
 
Then you step outside and – open mouth (wow!) close mouth – The French Quarter is just amazing.  I wish you could see it now.  I wish I were still THERE.  There's just so much - and there's all this - and - and - and I can't explain.  It's like stepping back 200 years, but not in some horrid trip to a crusty old stately home way.  New Orleans is alive and jumping.  There's stuff going on everywhere - we passed a bar and heard the blues, past a guy on the street corner playing jazz on his trumpet and in the middle of the next street were a couple of guys singing "Stand By Me", "Sea of Love" and "You Send Me".  

"Hey lady," one of them shouted to Caro, "it's okay to help out somebody if you want - I mean, me an' my grandad are out here singing our ass- uh butts off."  So she gave them a couple of dollars despite the fact that she's just given them a dollar five minutes previously.