So after our day of New Orleans bus tours, we decided to hop the streetcars down to the Garden District–the neighborhood of historic mansions–and City Park, home of the New Orleans Sculpture and Botanical Gardens, an art museum, Storyland (amusements for kids), and other features. We really needed a wandery day after so much bus time and Hurricane Katrina bad news the day before.
Streetcar Without A Name, New Orleans
New Orleans streetcars run on an overhead electrical pole system and are rumbling, clanking things that sputter and vibrate along their tracks. They are a little bone-jarring, so you can understand how Blanche DuBois arrived in NOLA so discombulated after her journey on the Canal Street line (the streetcars themselves no longer have names like “Desire,” but the route Blanche took to arrive at Stanley and Stella’s house still runs.)
Bead Tree, New Orleans Garden District
We hopped a streetcar to the Garden District in the morning and strolled around taking lots of bad photos of the “bead trees” (almost impossible to shoot well due to the hazy morning light and the tree/bead visual muddle.) We were told if we rode that same streetcar to the end of the line we’d end up at City Park, so we continued on our way but were surprised to end up in Carrollton, nowhere near City Park. However, if we went all the way back to where we started and took the “Carrollton streetcar” off the Canal Street line we’d then get to City Park, nowhere near the neighborhood of Carrollton we’d already inadvertently visited. Well awright den.
Giant Safety Pin, New Orleans City Park Sculpture Garden
By the time we finally got to City Park, the Botanical Gardens and Sculpture Gardens were closed, but we walked around a bit and took in the air. It was nice to have some decompression time as on our streetcar leg there some goofy negligent kids in love were walking along our streetcar tracks and almost got hit, which greatly upset our driver.
The driver rang and rang the streetcar bell at them to get out of the way, and we all saw the narrow miss. The driver turned around on his seat, a look of anguish on his face, astonished and overwhelmed at how close his car had come to killing them. We’d already seen him get sassed extensively by a woman who hadn’t paid her entire fare (who then gave him even more lip as she left the streetcar.) He had turned to us all after she left and said, “I need a raise.” We all thought it was amusing, but now we all saw how true it was. Clearly streetcar driving in NOLA was a long day abuse and stress.
The driver stopped the car and opened the door, jumping out to chastise those kids for walking on the tracks, to try to make them understand how close they’d come to death, and the boy kid laughed at him, like nothing was the matter. This upset our driver even further–he wasn’t really angry, just so emotional and “WTF?!?!” that a horrific accident had only narrowly been averted–and now this kid was laughing at him with no regard for how such a tragedy would have impacted his life, or any of ours.
The loveydoves scampered off down a side street, hand in hand, an image from a bad Seventies commercial for refreshing minty cigarettes or soda pop or something. The driver closed the door and said to us all in the streetcar, “You laughed when I said I needed a raise….” then sat back down and put the streetcar back into gear.
I felt so awful for him, he was shaking his head and gesturing in frustration for the rest of the ride. I told him when we debarked at the end of the line that even if those stupid kids were too dumb to be grateful to thank him for saving their lives, I appreciated that he had been alert and not killed them since that would have been devastating for every one of us on that streetcar. He seemed sincerely grateful to hear it, and replied that he had to “flush himself” of similar incidents every day after work, and that a cold Heineken usually went a long way helping him do so. His next leg back to town was his last for the day, and you could tell he was grateful for that too.
On the way home from City Park we stopped at Angelo Brocato Ice Cream and Confectionery on North Carrollton Avenue (freakin’ Carrollton again!) but it was well worth the visit–OH MY GOD! See our “Thumbs Up” mini-review on their wares. Great way to spoil your dinner, or to eat dinner anyway like we did.
After our gelato break we freshened up at our B&B (The 1896 O’Malley House–see another “Thumbs Up” mini-review) and got back on the Canal Street streetcar down to the French Quarter for a little dinner and trad jazz, we hoped at Preservation Hall. It was getting a little dark and we didn’t want to wander too much since the Quarter can get a little seamy at night, but we found a corner cafe that had decent Southern fare (including blackened catfish or “black cat,” a favorite of mine, and crawfish etouffee for Samuel) and then we joined the line for Preservation Hall.
Preservation Hall Jazz Band
And on piano--Little Deuce!
We were only able to get in for the last set, which was very short but fun to see. The “hall” itself is tiny and decrepit, only 15-20 feet wide max, the walls dinged-up plywood and pegboard, a few pictures of musicians here and there, only a couple benches for seating and some standing room behind. The playing was good, lively, not terribly inspired–it was late and the crowd was all tourists, many Japanese and French (one older French fanguy sat in who wasn’t in tip-top form, if I may say so, but such fanguys are the Hall’s bread and butter.)
We paid a $10 cover to hear three songs, but the best part of the evening was provided by the newest PresHall musician, a 20-month-old son-of-the-horn-player nicknamed “Little Deuce.” Little Deuce played a piano solo before the official set started, was assisted on drums for “SleepyTime Down South,” and offered some improvisational assistance to both the trombone player and his dad once he observed the plunger being used to mute a ‘bone solo. It was sweet to see how the adult musicians let him play with their instruments even while they were trying to perform, and it was clear that this musical playground was providing the foundation for another generation of Nawlins jazz artists (Little Deuce wasn’t doing bad on that drum solo, either, though he had a little help.)
"Hold That Tiger" became "Hold That Toddler"....
Little Deuce fascinated by the plunger...
....which he then tries to use to mute Dad ....quip about father/son relationships here...
Finally, we decided to gird our loins and run the Bourbon Street gauntlet just to say we did. As our B&B host told us, “the nasty bars have mostly chased out the jazz bars” and that changeover was clearly in evidence.
A few music joints were wailing, mostly Southern rock–though they seemed to be having a tough time pulling in clients due to competition from the sex joints, their “nasty” offerings displayed out front with photo lightboards that resembled oversized hard-porn Denny’s menus.
You also had to look sharp to avoid the wide-eyed or near-barfing frat boys who populated much of the street, and there was one Sydney Greenstreet-sized man in a neatly pressed suit and tie who moved a little too smoothly around the crowd for my taste. Maybe I was just too paranoid about grifters and pickpockets or maybe he was a dapper guy just scoping out the porn menus for his brand of action, but he set off my SpideySense so we pushed forward a little faster to get away from him. I only stopped to take this picture of the Bourbon Street neon, so you don’t ever have to.
Bourbon Street, New Orleans
We caught the last streetcar back up Canal Street to our B&B to pack up, prepping to rent a car early and drive the next sector of our trip on Wednesday before continuing to Savannah, GA. Our goal: to cross four Southern states in less than a day and make it to Jacksonville, FL before nightfall, but we got distracted from our stated mission by a little archeological site noted on the Florida State Tourist Board Hospitality Map. I’ll cover that in the next Rudolph/Rails post, so stay tuned!
