|
|
|
Links to all Articles & Photos:
|
by Thomas R. Fletcher A steamy mist rises from the freshly-drenched streets. The rain I hoped would
cool things has instead produced a sauna. The sun blazes, hotter than before. I
should have known better than to think a rain shower could cool this town. My
shirt, the collar soaked, has a growing trail of wetness streaming down my chest
as the sweat gushes. I long for the comfort of my hotel room, my air-conditioned
sanctuary. A huge tree offers some shade. I stop to catch my breath in the
cooler air. I watch as folks board the streetcar at the corner of Poydras and
St. Charles Avenue. The doors to the corner office building burst open. A rushing stream of
people pours forth. Workers charge to their lunch breaks. Several lovely ladies
stop to sit on the expansive steps of the building, enjoying the fresh air and
sunshine. A blonde with a body some women would kill for, takes up a position on
the steps. She sits, legs hiked high in her short black dress and heels too high
for comfortable walking. She’s giving what might be considered undue attention
to her ice cream as she caresses, tugs and lasciviously lip-wrestles each
mouthful. In New Orleans, this is merely a fragmentary reflection the sultry
city. Having
Let’s start with the food. Here one may fully satiate the desire for rich,
succulent, mouth-watering food. Gluttony is a serious temptation. Great
restraint must be exercised. When I return to New Orleans, it will be for the
food. I never had a bad meal in New Orleans–not even close. Rather, I savored
some of the most delicious meals ever. I tried things I’d never tried
(crawfish, turtle soup, and Bananas Foster for a short list). I ate in
out-of-the way places as well as world-renown eateries. I was constantly blown
away by the quality. A late lunch at The Patrick Restaurant on Camp Street is where my food adventure started. Anxious for something different I ordered the smoked salmon, crawfish, and asparagus baked pennè pasta topped with mozzarella. It was heavier on the crawfish than salmon–very tasty. The crawfish, much like lobster in consistency, had a spicy sizzle. I finished my New Orleans gastronomic thrill-ride at the world-renown Arnaud’s, which has been around since 1918. Here I was taken by the turtle soup and the creole crab cakes. Along my journey I had several varieties of gumbo, jambalaya, and étoufée, sampling both Creole and Cajun dishes. The Creole-style developed from the European and African influences in the city, the Cajun-style developed from the country cooking of the French-Acadians who, kicked out of the Acadia region of Canada by the English a couple hundred or so years ago, made their home in Southern Louisiana. (Cajun is an English corruption of the word Acadian.)
"You won’t get a bad meal in New Orleans," said resident and owner of the UpperLine Restaurant JoAnn Clevenger. "They can’t have bad food and stay in business. They [restaurant owners] rely on the locals when the tourists aren’t here, and we won’t put up with bad food." From my experience, she was speaking truth.
Known as the birthplace of Jazz, New Orleans has more than its fair share of good music and the raw talent seems to be everywhere, from the small pubs to the street corners. I enjoyed getting acquainted with Zydeco–a unique style that takes its name from a snap-bean grown in Louisiana. Zydeco uses an accordion, guitar, washboard, bass, and drums to achieve its distinctive sound. Some ads promote New Orleans as a family destination. Not every place that promotes itself as a family destination actually is. I don’t recommend it for kids–that is unless you don’t mind your kids being exposed to the bawdy, sexualized atmosphere. However, New Orleans is a unique destination adults should visit at least once. Stock photography by Thomas R. Fletcher at Alamy Performance Apparel @ ExOfficio.com Contact:
Click here if you would like to use this feature or one of these photos
|
|
New Orleans= Sizzleville
It isn’t the spicy food. It isn’t the pretty ladies in their sun dresses.
It isn’t the steamy climate. It isn’t any one of these things. It’s a
swirl of these and more that gives New Orleans her attitude and makes her one of
the hottest destinations on the map. Permeating the air is a sensuousness as
dense as the bank of humidity that smothers the town. There is a simmering
sultriness, as if something were about to boil over. Vice lurks just around the
corner. Hedonism is the order of the day. New Orleans is the only place I’ve
seen, where one finds a world-class restaurant next door to a strip club. Food
isn’t the only fleshly temptation. The homogenization of America has largely
bypassed New Orleans. She is a one-of-a-kind destination, a city of contrasts,
home to spicy food and spicy ’tude.
The early history of New Orleans, established in a swampy location at a bend
in the Mississippi River, was a history of death due to the malaria-ridden
mosquitoes that inhabited the swampy location. The constant threat of death gave
rise to the give-a-care wild, party spirit that pervades the city yet to this
day, and the French Quarter is where the party is. Well known for her
rambunctious Mardi Gras celebration, anytime seems to be party time in New
Orleans, particularly in the oldest section of the city, the French Quarter.
Founded by the French in 1718, the French Quarter was the original city of New
Orleans. The narrow streets were designed for horses and buggies, not modern
automobiles–so there often are more people in the streets than autos. From
street mimes, musicians, palm readers, to tourists–it’s a great place to
people-watch and be entertained. Characters are everywhere, such as the cab
driver who picked me up in the French Quarter to haul me back to the downtown
Holiday Inn. His was the first cab I’ve ridden in equipped with a DVD player.
He was watching a Steven Seagal action flick or something of the sort, talking
on a cell phone, talking to me, dodging drunk pedestrians and other vehicles as
he meandered out of the Quarter–I could have walked to the hotel sooner. The
guy had to have a multi-track mind, which was a better than the streetcar driver
I had the day before. He didn’t talk to the passengers. He talked to vehicles
crossing the tracks in front of him.
"I’ll cut you open like a cantaloupe." "I’ll flatten you
like a pancake." "I’m going to knock all your wheels off."
Every time a vehicle crossed in front of him, the litany would start. I
seriously wondered about his sanity.
(Metairie Cemetery. New Orleans cemeteries provide great
backdrops for ghost story tours)