New Orleans Day Three: Jesus Sees Everything on Bourbon Street

Greetings, gentle readers, and welcome to the third post in my action packed recounting of the recent trip the Long Suffering Wife and I took to New Orleans! Let's get started, shall we?

As we prepared to leave our hotel, we saw a commotion across the street. There were a number of trucks, lots of people, and general bustle evident nearby, where we were told there was a crew "making a movie or something."

The closest I'll ever get to the Big Time.

When the Long Suffering Wife heard about this, she begged me to let her go be an extra in the "movie." I assured her that it was probably not a movie, and that, more likely, it was the convention and visitors bureau filming a "come to New Orleans -- we swear we're working on that vomit smell thing" video. The LSW persisted, but my resistance was adamant, especially when I saw this sign:

"Fliming"? Gross!

She might have gotten her way, had not some foolish bureaucrat in the city planner's office made a heinous spelling error on a semi-permanent sign. As it was, that was enough to reinforce my resistance, so the LSW and I set out for the day's planned adventures.

Mass transit cutie

We caught a streetcar near Canal St. and St. Charles for a destination in the Garden District. The first event for the day: a walking tour of the district, where the "Americans" made their homes in the late 19th century, as well as some cemeteries and a very famous eatery, the Commanders Palace.

Bone ovens.

The first stop on the tour was the Lafayette Number 1 cemetery, home to the traditional above-ground crypts that everyone associates with New Orleans. Our tour guide -- the same guy from the previous tour of the French Quarter, oddly enough -- told us how the crypts work. Essentially, there are two levels inside for two caskets. When someone new is buried in the crypt, the workers take the front panel off, open up the crypt, and remove the older of the two caskets inside, dumping what's left of the bones and stuff into the bottom of the crypt. The second-oldest casket is moved down a level, the new one is put on top, and the crypt is sealed back up. Over time, the 120+ degree temperatures inside essentially reduce the body to a pile of dust and ash. Pretty effective, if a bit gruesome.

Firefighters' group crypt

Wealthy families and benevolent groups could afford larger group crypts, like the one seen above, which was constructed for a group of firefighters.

After scoping out the permanent homes of the dead, we moved on to some fine examples of 19th century homebuilding by touring the magnificent homes of the Garden District. I took literally dozens of pictures of dozens of homes, but I'll spare you all of that and just show some of my favorites, like the so-called "Swiss Chalet" below.

Oooh, lacy!

And, what would a tour of the Garden District be without a look at the homes of the rich and famous, right? In addition to several of Anne Rice's houses, we also saw one that I was most excited to see: the erstwhile residence of one Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails fame, seen here:

Trent's digs

Some more walking brought us to the home of what our guide described as one of the bigger jerks who owns a house in the District: Nicolas Cage. Our guide said that the house was once a Catholic church and was owned by Anne Rice, who sold it to Cage. Since he moved in, Cage has been very douchy about not letting people take pictures or get tours when he's in town, so I kind of took this picture out of spite.

"This house was paid for by Ghost Rider -- I hope you're happy, America."

After a pleasant tromp through the Garden District, we ate lunch at Dickie Brennan's Palace Cafe, a swanky little joint on Canal Street.

Nice curves!

It was here that I had the second in a series of three bread puddings, this time the Palace Cafe's signature white chocolate bread pudding. And before you ask, no, those weren't some kind of rodent droppings on top, they were chocolate shavings. At least, I hope to God they were...

Hello, puddin'!

Up next: The Audubon Aquarium of the Americas. This was by far the Long Suffering Wife's favorite stop on the whole trip, thanks to the neat surroundings, the escape from the heat, and the penguins.

Aquatic oasis from the NO heat

The LSW was super stoked we made it just in time for the penguins' afternoon feeding, as you can see below:

Enjoying the spectacle

The staffer that fed the penguins knows each one by name and identifies them based on the pattern on their bellies. The interpreter also told us that penguins will not overeat, so the staffer counts how many fish he gives each one and they track that number to make sure each penguin is in good health and not ready to start doing something crazy like molt or have penguin babies.

Quite possibly the world's cutest job

The Aquarium offered a great deal of aquatic excitement on three floors of exhibits, including the chance for a photo inside a giant alligator skull, which I convinced the LSW would be cool (and it is, as you can plainly see below):

My, what big teeth you have!

We also enjoyed the seahorse exhibit, but only the LSW was caught on camera doing so.

I love candid photographs, don't you?

For good or ill, there were a number of PR opportunities presented to visitors at the Aquarium, including a really nice exhibit of Mississippi River wildlife sponsored by the Curmudgeon's dad's employer (and Evil Oil Company), ConocoPhillips:

Paid for with windfall profits, no doubt!

One of the coolest exhibits was a huge tank filled with dozens of species of fish, all living together in harmony around the base of an offshore drilling platform, another exhibit conveniently sponsored by America's petroleum producers.

Schooled by fish.

For the record, I think it's cool that the oil companies sponsored these exhibits -- they have every right to participate in our nation's museums and aquaria, and their money is often used for conservation and research efforts that help protect our natural resources, so good for them, I say! (And before you ask, no, I'm not on Big Oil's payroll, though I could use the cash, ahem*call me ExxonMobil*ahem.)

After an unremarkable dinner at the River's Edge restaurant on Jackson Square (I don't recommend it), we continued wandering the French Quarter, wherein I was snapped in one of the few solo shots you'll find of me from the trip, seen below.

The Really Big Easy

We found Preservation Hall, another New Orleans landmark, almost by accident. If you didn't know exactly where to look for it, you'd probably walk right past it. Turned out there wasn't any live music that night, but I snagged a pic of the LSW standing outside the door nonetheless.

Jazzy!

As darkness fell, we found ourselves wandering Bourbon Street for a couple of reasons: one, there wasn't much else to do, and two, we figured if we told people we went to New Orleans and didn't go at least once, we'd be roundly criticized and derided by almost everyone we knew. And just what did we find once we got there? Well, one prominent thing is pretty much summed up by this picture:

"Hey, how big are your beers? Oh, wait ..."

And the other thing we saw plenty of (literally) was partial female nudity. I'm not talking the drunken housewife on Mardi Gras kind, I'm talking the "hey, big fella, come on in and check out the girls on the poles" kind. There were strip clubs everywhere, and just about every one had a half-dressed girl outside beckoning people to come enjoy the, um, artistry on display inside. Even the guys outside the bars were pretty pushy; one grabbed the LSW's arm and steered her toward the door of a joint before she was able to shrug him off, and another guy told us he was from the "Fun Patrol" and that we were being cited for being too sober. (Or something equally ridiculous -- I kind of lost track of their gimmicks.)

What Bourbon Street looks like to 90% of the people who go there.

After walking up and down Bourbon a couple of times, we finally wandered into the Maison Bourbon, where we spent $25 for two drinks in order to hear about 30 minutes' worth of jazz. But it was the good kind of jazz, not the crappy experimental kind, so I thought it was worth it. We enjoyed it almost as much as the busload of Japanese tourists who occupied a long table on one side of the club. All the women smiled ecstatically and bobbed along to the beat, while the men's expressions ranged from stoic to downright uncomfortable, except for one guy who flailed and grinned with the best of the ladies.

As we headed back toward our hotel that night, I happened to glance back toward Jackson Square and saw the backside of St. Louis Cathedral. In the garden there stands a statue of Jesus, which someone decided should be spotlit so that its shadow is projected onto the back of the church, producing this vaguely unsettling image:

"Quick, it's Jesus -- look sober!"

And that pretty much sums up most of the New Orleans experience for me: a dramatic blend of the sacred and the profane, with a populace that fluctuates crazily between mourning and celebrating, all with an omnipresent smell of centuries-old vomit. Oh, yeah, and beignets!

Well, one more day's adventures await you next time, gentle readers, so keep an eye on the old bloggy-blog, and we'll be back before you know it!