I could live here, I’m thinking to myself. I could at least stay longer.
It’s a morning in November 2008. I’m in New Orleans, walking down Royal Street in the French Quarter, and many of the shops and eateries on the street are still closed or just opening up. The streets themselves and the sidewalks are wet from an early morning shower. But the sun is out now, and the day’s heat has been turned on and with it a mild dose of humidity. I’ve been here less than 48 hours. It’s my third time in New Orleans, which explains the charm the city has worked on me. Third time’s the charm.
I’m at the start of a month-long trip I’m taking through the southern and southwestern states, traveling by Greyhound bus. A few years before I’d heard of these 30-day Greyhound passes that would allow a person to travel all over the country and go to as many places as she wants, as long as she did it all within a month. It became a kind of funny dream of mine, funny because everyone I told thought I was crazy for wanting to do such a thing. They thought it was a horrible idea. I thought it was a pretty good one. Worth giving a go anyway. And that’s how I wound up here, enjoying a calm morning walk down streets better known for their wild nights, in a city that was nearly wiped off the map by Hurricane Katrina in 2005 and that many people (wrongly) believe is still under water, even as it’s kissing today’s morning shower’s puddles dry and goodbye.
I’m walking and thinking ahead to this afternoon, when I’m supposed to be heading farther west in Louisiana to Lafayette, the heart of Cajun country. I’m excited for Lafayette, but I’m wishing I could stay another night in New Orleans. Or a thousand nights. It’s a naïve thought about a place I’ve spent such a short time in, I know. But it’s just that I’ve never had such an easy time making friends before anywhere else I’ve been.
I was never in a place where people are so willing to tell total strangers their life stories, their life dreams even, at the drop of a hat as they do in New Orleans. I arrived here on a Monday evening. Now it’s Wednesday morning. In this brief interval of time, I’ve talked to a successful wine merchant who came to New Orleans from Italy 50 years ago and who speaks fondly of America but harshly about taxes, about the government, and about Dick Cheney and the greed of big businesses, all in an accent thicker than a good gumbo; a 30-something heavily pierced, hard-core goth, voodoo shop employee, and aspiring film producer who calls himself Reverend Boone and who’s still licking his emotional wounds from a misfit childhood; a young, big-bellied Bourbon Street bouncer from Nowheresville, Louisiana who dreams of having his own nightclub someday (and who gets me into the one he works at by picking up me off the street, flinging me over his shoulder, and carrying me into his boss’s club and setting me down at the bar--that’ll do the trick for bringing in customers!); a young doctor's wife originally from a one-stoplight town in Virginia out and about on ghost tours and shopping sprees in the French Market and making the most of her time in the big city while her husband sits through speeches at an American Heart Association convention; a group of working-class families from the rural southeast employed by a company contracted by FEMA to haul away the Katrina trailers; an Israeli-Jordanian cabbie consumed by girlfriend problems (it probably doesn’t help his case that he looks a little too much like the vampire in the old, silent-version of Nosferatu); and a Boston-based cardiologist originally from India, who came to the U.S. with a somewhat cynical view of American democracy and equality but who has just rediscovered his faith in his adopted country since the election of Barack Obama only a week ago.
I met all these people, and others, all in one day, all within the French Quarter. I encountered them in shops, in restaurants and bars, on tours, at corners while waiting for the light to change. I didn’t have to drag these stories out of them, didn’t have to get them drunk or promise my story in exchange for theirs--they just poured them out to me, like a full day’s worth of rainwater gushing out of a gutter, as if I had been a long-lost friend or a trusted priest or a close cousin. Back in Chicago you can barely get a “hello” out of passers-by on any day of the week. What’s with this town? Is it the voodoo?
I can’t answer about the voodoo. Instead I head to more familiar spiritual ground, to the famous and glorious St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square. With its immaculate bright white exterior and thick spires, St. Louis Cathedral looks almost like a fairy-tale castle than a house of worship, especially when viewed from the other end of the square. When I step inside, a children’s mass is just beginning. The front pews are filled with very young black schoolchildren in spanking white shirts flanked by older white nuns in full black habits. I sit a few rows back and stay for the mass, though it wasn’t my intention when I first stepped inside.
It’s been a habit for years of mine while traveling to seek out a Catholic cathedral or old church to visit soon after arriving in a foreign city or country. Once I find one, I may stop in just for a few minutes’ look at the statues and architecture inside, or I may stay a little longer and light a candle and say a prayer. This is my grounding mechanism, my way of balancing the unfamiliar and the familiar while away from home. In some places I’ve been to, it’s easy--like Ireland, Mexico, France, Bolivia, places where only a few minutes’ walk will lead you to an old church or even a roadside shine or grotto. In the U.S., especially the Deep South--not so much.
New Orleans is different though. In contrast to other Southern cities and states, New Orleans and south Louisiana are heavily Catholic in both population and local culture and traditions. And the archdiocese of New Orleans is the 2nd oldest diocese in the U.S. (after Baltimore, Maryland). Catholicism was introduced to the area by the French, who founded New Orleans in 1718, and was reinforced by ensuing waves of settlers and immigrants from Spain, Ireland, Italy, Germany, and Latin America. Add to this voodoo--a melange of the spiritual beliefs and practices brought over from west Africa and the Caribbean, that in itself over time absorbed and transformed numerous elements of Catholicism--and you have the makings of what is arguably the most distinctive and fascinating local culture in the U.S. Visitors to New Orleans all know the same truth: there is no other place in America remotely like New Orleans. Not even close. Consider this. Can you think of anything in this country that so proudly and defiantly revolts against WASP-American conventions than this city’s celebration of Mardi Gras?
A cousin of mine lived in New Orleans for many years, though she was born and raised on a farm near Dubuque, Iowa. Dubuque itself is a predominantly Catholic town, and my cousin has a sister who became a nun and a brother who became a priest. But even with this background she was regularly surprised at how much Catholicism pervades life in New Orleans. She once noted that the local newspapers would every year publish a list of what the local celebrities and society folk were planning on giving up for Lent. My cousin passed away quite some time ago. She loved telling stories about her adopted city.
Once some of my family and I went down to New Orleans to visit her on our way to Florida. It was in January. It was surprisingly cold, and the French Quarter was deserted and looked uncharacteristically gray. That was my 2nd time to the city. The first was when I was teenager, with my parents, over the 4th of July--I would advise against that on all counts.
I remember heat and humidity that first visit more than anything. I remember the streets being mobbed with tourists for the 4th, and many stores advertising laughing gas (!) in their windows. I remember visiting Nottoway plantation some distance from New Orleans, and I remember there a ballroom with mirrors propped up on the floor so the belles in days gone by could check the neatness of their hems and petticoats. I remember a woman in the Quarter dressed in a Southern belle costume with white gloves, standing on the sidewalk and waving. I remember a young boy in a tux with tails and red bowtie tap dancing on the street for change, while his older sister stood by unsmiling with her arms crossed. I remember a street in the Quarter blocked off while a scene from the movie JFK was being filmed. I saw Oliver Stone in the crowd, wearing a fluorescent green shirt, and I passed Laurie Metcalf’s trailer on a side street. I remember being embarrassed passing some of the clubs on Bourbon Street, with pictures on their doors of undressed female and male dancers, and wondering if my parents saw that I saw. I remember hearing strange words for the first time: gumbo, beignet, chicory, muffaletta, jambalaya, praline. I remember at night feeling nervous about the voodoo. I remember music everywhere. I remember sweating. A lot.
I didn’t know what to make of it all. Still don’t really. But the city continues to fascinate the hell out of me. This November morning, before leaving for Lafayette, there’s still time for me to catch a bite at Croissant d’Or on Ursulines Street. If I can’t stay another night (I’ve already made plans in Lafayette), then one more last meal in this food-glorified town is all I ask. In less than 48 hours I’ve had rabbit jambalaya at Coop’s Place on Decatur (highly recommended), gumbo at Napoleon House, the obligatory beignets at the Café du Monde, pralines wherever I could get ‘em, half the pastry case at Croissant d’Or, and red beans ‘n’ rice at…I don’t remember where to be honest--it was a few hours after being kidnapped by that bouncer on Bourbon Street. And I barely even skimmed the surface of this city’s culinary delights. This is a town where life just seems to be that less important stuff that happens between meals.
Oh, New Orleans with your voodoo food and your voodoo friendliness, how can I leave you? How can I not vow to return? You will end up being my favorite place I visit on my cross-country Greyhound adventure (along with an equally odd tiny town called Truth or Consequences, New Mexico). Keep rebuilding, New Orleans, and keep being New Orleans. ‘Cuz I’m coming back for more.
These pictures were all taken in 2009 at summer's end in the tiny commune (in the French sense) of LaGroie (about an hour's drive from Poitiers, in the Poitou-Charentes region). I spent two weeks there with some of the most fun and warm-hearted people--walking through the fields, playing with local cats and dogs, picking blackberries, and feeling grateful for my good fortune. Today it's snowing in Chicago. Yes, snow is pretty when it first falls. But allow me to seek out places of sunshine and calm when I need them, to seek out fields of sunflowers and walk down tiny village roads as I remember them.
Main Street, LaGroie
Paris mon amour (le nom du chat)
Here one day...
And gone the next! We walked out one day with the dogs, and it was all cut!
This "in-the-field" shot was taken on a winter's day in 2006 and shows the wayfarer being observed "standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona," which is the prime activity, chief industry, and sole tourist attraction in the town.
Winslow is best known for being name-dropped, and rather off-handedly at that, in that old Eagles song "Take It Easy." So even if you've never been to Winslow, you've most probably heard of the place--and most likely while shopping at the grocery store or sitting in your dentist's waiting room or being on hold with your credit card company. Wherever there's a lite rock radio station being played, there's inevitably the mellow sounds of Glenn Frey and Don Henley (and Jackson Browne, who co-wrote the song)--and there's Winslow too. Literally. As Herman Melville once said: "It is not down in any map; true places never are." That's so right, Herman. True places are immortalized in soft rock songs from the 70s.
Truth is, Winslow always had been a town associated with goin' places, even before that girl (my Lord) in a flatbed Ford came along to take a look at the hitchhiker in the Eagles song and give him a lift. Winslow is the site of an airport built by none other than aviation pioneer Charles Lindbergh himself (and was paid for by Howard Hughes). At the time it was the only all-weather airport between Los Angeles and Albuquerque and was thus a strategic landing site for transcontinental flights. Winslow is also a stop on the great old Santa Fe railroad line AND the great old Route 66--both of which also have famous songs about 'em. But Winslow isn't name-dropped in those songs (nearby Flagstaff gets the honors in "Route 66" and "On the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe" croon about those places as well as Philadelphiay). So when the Eagles came along with their "Take It Easy," Winslow residents must have realized this was their one and only chance at building a respectable local tourism board and--to borrow from the lyrics of another Henley/Frey (and Randy Meisner) masterpiece--decided to "Take It to the Limit."
So today if you stop in Winslow--like on your way to or from Flagstaff, the Grand Canyon, Sedona, the Painted Desert, the Little Painted Desert, the Hopi reservation, the Petrified Forest, Monument Valley, and at least a half dozen other famous and fabulous attractions that selfishly steal nearly all of humble Winslow's touristic thunder--you will find a town that has based its entire reason for being on a few lines from an Eagles song. Turn off the highway to get gas, and dare yourself to keep driving further into the town. If you worry about getting lost, just follow the harmonizing voices of Don Henley and Glenn Frey. Don't worry, you will hear them--you will definitely hear them. For in the center of town there's a corner with a statue of a hithchiker standing there and a mural of the hitchiker standing there (with the girl in the Ford pulling up) and a sign with the crucial lyrics printed on it and at least three or four tourist shops hawking shirts with the lyrics and bumper stickers and mugs and magnets too and--just to really hammer it home, in case you haven't yet picked up on the connection I guess--a loudspeaker playing "Take It Easy" on a loop, all day long, likely for eternity. Subtlety is not Winslow's strong point. You can take your picture there, standing on the corner yourself, like I did. And then...and then...I don't know to be honest. The song doesn't really go on to say. Just something about loosened loads and blowing cover. What happens next? It's for your imagination to fill in.
And that's the (twisted?) genius of Winslow's tourism strategy. Whether by air, by rail, or by road, Winslow has always been embedded on the major routes of the USA's transport network, but only superficially so, as a mere stop-over. By playing up its casual mention in the Eagles hit, Winslow is trying to reinvent itself as a starting point. You stop in Winslow. You find the famous corner. You stand there. You expose yourself to the multimedia assault that transports you inside the Eagles song. You become the hithchiker. You imagine a girl coming along to pick you up in a cool car. You jump in--and your journey has just begun!
Or maybe not. Maybe you just shrug your shoulders and check your map for the way to Sedona. But nice try, Winslow. And thanks for the fun photo op anyway.
Hey world! Come out and taste 10 great wines for only $10...and get travel tips too! All for a great cause!
So Wayfaring Women Tours and Vino 100 wine store in Mt. Prospect, Illinois, are hosting a fundraiser for PJs & Mumus, a charity in Palatine, Illinois, that collects clothing donations for local women’s shelters. A $10 donation at the door gets you 10 (!) wine samplings, plus info on travel tips and our women’s tours for 2011! Hors d'oeuvres will also be available. All door proceeds and a portion of wine sales will go to PJs and Mumus. Shelters that will benefit include Wings Program in Palatine and A Safe Place in Lake County.
Event is from 6 PM to 9 PM at Vino 100 at 110 S. Emerson St. in Mt. Prospect, IL. Parking is available on the street and in the lot beside the Oberweis Dairy. Any questions, leave a comment or give me a call at (773) 655-9514. Hope to see you there!
Photo by Jonas Bengsston courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons
Yesterday I started reading Keith Richards's autobiography, Life. It begins with Keith's recollections of growing up in London in the last years of World War II and the decade that followed it. From what Keith describes, it sounds as if he grew up among heaps of rubble with bomb craters serving as playground territory for himself and the other neighborhood kids. His description of a post-WWII London childhood reminded me of a story my mother told me about her first trip to England, in 1969.
My dad used to have to travel quite a bit for work back in the 60s and 70s, and part of his sales territory was western Europe. Once my mother accompanied him on one of his trips to London (they squeezed in a visit to Ireland on this trip too). In the first day of touring London, my mother spotted an old sign on the side of an old building: TAKE COURAGE, the sign said. My mother immediately related the message to World War II and the days of the Blitz, when German bombs were being dropped right and left throughout London. TAKE COURAGE. A message to everyday citizens withstanding attacks by Hitler's army on their own homes, schools, hospitals, and local shops. My mother was so moved.
Until later in the day when she was riding a city bus and saw the words again, this time on a smaller, more modern sign with pictures on it. Pictures of a man downing a pint of ale. An ad for booze.
As it turned out COURAGE in England is just another word for beer--Courage brand beer to be exact. And the Courage Brewery has been, uh, giving strength to the British people since 1787, long before Hitler had designs on world domination. But Hitler never knew the Brits had a secret weapon that his Nazis didn't: COURAGE. Who knew it came in a bottle? Those ingenious Brits. No wonder they ruled the world.
Hello! My name is Rene, and this is my first post on Writing and Wayfaring, a blog for women who like to travel. I’ve created this blog as a way to share some of my stories and observations from my many journeys over the years, and hopefully from the many journeys I have ahead of me.
I decided to start a blog for three reasons. One, my eldest sister and middle brother told me to. Two, I entered a travel story of mine into a contest recently. The contest results won’t come for awhile, but the truth is I had a great time just writing the story, regardless of what comes of it. And I’d like to have more of that pure joy, that comes from the combination of my love of travel and my talent for writing, in my life. Three, I am the owner of a new women-only tour company, Wayfaring Women Tours. I know it can be a big decision for some people to take even an independently planned vacation, much less one that’s organized by someone they’ve never met. My hope is that some of the women who learn about my company and are considering signing up for one of my tours might stumble across this blog, and then get a chance to know a little more about me and what they might expect from a tour with me. Hopefully they’ll learn they can trust me, and also enjoy the stories I share. And that’s really what this blog is about--sharing my own tales of the road and inviting any readers out there to share their own travel stories, questions, advice, and the like as well.
Beyond that, I’d love to offer up an idea of exactly what kind of posts to expect in the future. But I haven’t planned that far down the blogging road, which I think is only fitting for something devoted to the art of rambling. Rambling of the feet, that is. I promise to try and keep a limit on the ramblings of my mind, and just say I hope to feature personal adventure stories, travel book reviews, fabulous and funny travel pics (or my attempt at them anyway--I’m no Pulitzer-winning photojournalist), tourism-related tidbits, maybe dispatches from the road, and whatever other interesting stuff happens to fall out of my banged-up old backpacks and overstuffed suitcases of travel mishaps and adventures.
In the meantime, strictly for scientific "in-the-field" purposes, here’s a rare shot I discovered of a wayfarer in her natural habitat:
Me, in southern Bolivia, relaxing on train tracks bound for Chile
