No Wars for Alex

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Betcha I can tell ya where ya got dem shoes – New Orleans / 4

New Orleans photos: gallery - slide show

I made some research about the shoes thing.
Before carrying on with the story, let’s reveal the mystery.
It’s a very “smart” trick to squeeze money out of unwary people. Those guys I was talking about asked me to bet; I didn’t get it, because I didn’t understand all they were saying.
They come and tell you “Betcha I can tell ya where ya got dem shoes”. The unfortunate who takes the bet up and find himself forced to pay 10$ or so when the guy tell him something like “you got them on your foot” or “you got them on Canal Street in New Orleans”. Needless to say, it’s not advisable to walk away without honoring the bet once you lose it.

New Orleans is one of the poorest cities in the USA and it’s even worse after Katrina.
The economy is slow and corruption among politicians doesn’t help change course. New Orleans is a city where you can see poverty in the streets more than somewhere else, where poverty is less confined to the degraded areas, it mingles with tourists and “good people”.
New Orleans is a city full of weirdos who stop you in the street. Likethe guy who asked me if I was a local, and when I told him I wasn’t asked me to take a picture of him a bring it home; and then got down on his knees, smiling, with his hand on the chest, to “give me a good shot”.

Vaughan’s Lounge – New Orleans / 3

I got to the hotel, checked in and put my stuff in the room.
Among the event people suggested me there was a jazz night on Thursdays and I wouldn’t miss it.
I set off for it. The hotel was close to the French Quarter, the historic centre of New Orleans. I have to say initially I was a bit worried: it was 10 pm, some streets were dark and all the warnings were influencing me, and so were the newspaper full of news about shootings.
Actually, the worst thing I went through was a guy telling me something about my shoes. It was not going to be the only time: the day after another guy told me “I know where you got your shoes”. I didn’t understand and kept on walking.
I headed for Bourbon Street, famous for the bars and the beads people throw from the balconies. This beads thing comes from the Mardi Gras, when people toss them from the floats to those in the street. Nowadays people toss beads every night on Bourbon St., where guys rent balconies and buy dozens of necklaces and throw them to girls who shows their charms. Sometimes the parts are reversed, the main thing is to collect beads, drink and make a racket on Bourbon St.
At the end of the street I took a cab and went in the Bywater, to the Vaughan’s Lounge. It looked like a bad place. I mean, if you see it you don’t really see the point of paying the 10$ cover and get in. The inside isn’t that better: it’s a dirty bar, ruined walls and a few tables. It’s all about jazz! What makes it special is the music, the three black musicians and the guy who plays the trumpet and makes the crowd dance. And you can not be really still, at least you have to tap your fingers on the bottle of beer or a foot on the floor.
There is a jukebox with CDs and a old cigarettes dispenser, with the handle you have to pull to make the pack fall down.
And there was a Times Picayune on the floor, to remind, just in case you needed it, we are in New Orleans, where the jazz was born.

I’m jazzed I’m here – New Orleans / 2

Taking off from Washington it’s always touching. From the Reagan National Airport you can see all the monuments and the Pentagon and the green stretch over the city.
I stayed attached to the window as always, till the clouds hid the scenery below. Then, I started reading again the “Letters from New Orleans” by Rob Walker, I just missed the last few pages. I was reading the letter about “St. James Infirmary”, a song with a odd story I’ll write about later.
Then Beatles’ Help! in the iPod, I just had the time to listen the album and the plane started going down in the swamp. It went along a street that runs suspended on the marsh, green like the moss and brown like water, stretching as far as the eye can see.
It looked as if we were landing into it when we got to the New Orleans Airport, the Louis Armstrong International Airport. “Welcome to New Orleans, we’re jazzed you are here!” it’s written on the yellow-blue signs. “Thanks – I thought – I’m jazzed to be here too!”.

I found the shuttle I already paid and would take me to the hotel. But I hadn’t print the voucher, so it was necessary to call the company and ask them to fax it. I asked the lady at the front desk to do it for me and she kindly accepted. “It will take half an hour; I’m sorry, you can go to the bathroom or take something to drink if you want…”. I went to get a copy of the local newspaper instead, The Times Picayune, because you can understand many things from a local newspaper, and above all I was looking for obituaries.
My expectation were just in part frustrated: it had two page and a half of obituaries (as many as the following days), and each one had its own photo, and I read them all looking for at least one jazz funeral. Unfortunately, I didn’t find any, I would satisfy myself with “live” music…

In the meantime, we had a good laugh with the lady of the shuttle company and another worker of the airport, who randomly mangled my name.
I had read almost all the newspaper and I had been there for about a hour when finally I got my ticket. The waiting was not that weight anyway. It was raining on the street to the town and it was going to rain all night long.