The Windmill Posts

In a city where people smoke cigarettes and greet friends with hugs or bro hugs, I found my soul refilling and my spirit recharging. I found some peace. If this post is a bit woo woo, well, it’s New Orleans and I can hear the bell tolling the hour as I write.

I was walking along Royal street in the French Quarter and thought I saw my brother in law. Though he died recently, I felt his presence here almost constantly. I would pass a voodoo shop and I could see the way his eyes would light up, and that I would likely have been dragged in, eyes rolling. Only to find it an amazing shop will of strange goods and stories from him about his own history. I knew it wasn’t him but this man moved the way Michael did. He had a face like Michael’s. And of course, a shirt that Michael would have worn with pride. I shrugged it off and thought it was a nice hallucination. It wasn’t until later in the day when I was at the Carousel Bar that someone handed the bartender a small box. The kind of box that would hold small cupcakes or macaroons. The bartender looked confused until the patron who handed him the box pointed across the bar. It was the Michael man. With that look he had of being thrilled to give someone a gift, he threw a flourish at the bartender and they both laughed. Clearly, this was a local. It made me feel good to know it wasn’t a hallucination, and that Michael did have a doppelganger who lived in New Orleans – something Michael would have loved – and that I could put corporeal essence to that companion I had been feeling in the French Quarter.

He would goad me into going into just one more bookshop, take the Sazerac despite the fact that that didn’t have a virgin version. Or maybe because of it. And every time I saw something related to the dark arts, I could sense interest and as a result I had the same. So while I wasn’t in my car today with an illusory companion, I had one walking the ancient sidewalks of New Orleans with me.

To begin. I set an alarm for earlier than I would have liked, and got up out of bed, dressed and went outside. It was early enough that the morning light was low. The streets were freshly rinsed and the fog had yet to burn off. I felt alone on the streets of the French Quarter, and that was a blessed thing. The reason I was out this early was Cafe Du Monde. They are the tradition in the French Quarter, selling beignets and chicory coffee. I was there within minutes of their opening and there were only a handful of customers seated at the many tables. Most of the wait staff were sitting looking at their phones, waiting for business. I ordered the standard plus fresh squeezed orange juice. We’ve had their branded coffee at the cabin for a couple summers now, and it’s great, but it was nothing like the coffee I had this morning. Rich and tasty, paired perfectly with the pastries. I brought my current book and read it while attempting (and failing) to keep powdered sugar off the book, myself, the table, everywhere. The beignets come in sets of three and I took one to go. I wandered to the river to watch the fog roll out, then a roundabout way back to my hotel to prepare for a morning call I had with my Psychiatrist.

Technically she’s my med person, prescribing the chemicals that might make me better or at least okay. But we talk about some more of the spiritual things, she references the Hobbit and monomythologies and the hero’s journey. She was a huge champion of my taking this trip and she has been guiding me a bit along the way. What I was thinking was just driving around, she reframed as this journey to overcome obstacles and return home with the experiences that I bring with me. Good call.

After that, I had a nap. I’d been up early and “you know what, it’s my day off.” I was just fine charging up a bit. Then I got up, took a shower and headed to the Central Grocery to get a Muffuletta. Look it up if you don’t know, but it’s one of the best sandwiches ever. I took it to Jackson Square, my mindful place. Sitting on a bench in the shade I enjoyed eating half of the half sandwich, because they’re huge. At some point I was reminded of A Confederacy of Dunces. It’s a book written by a man from New Orleans. It’s a social commentary driven by a hilarious character and all of the people and adventures in his life. Sadly, the author couldn’t get it published. He was a professor at colleges in town, but no matter how close he got, it didn’t stick. And he became depressed. He took a long drive away from home. And in Biloxi Mississippi he took his own life. It wasn’t until his very determined mother hit up every publisher and finally cornered a famous author that the book got published. And then it won the Pulitzer prize. Sad, right? Something something persistence and hope.

In the book the character gets. a job selling hot dogs from a cart but ends up eating all the hot dogs. So I considered getting a hot dog from one of those carts. I may have a deathwish, but even I won’t risk eating a dirty water hotdog. But it got me thinking about the authors challenge, and what if he had hung on for just a bit longer. That’s a tough one for me, but food for thought. It was nice to read about all of that in the place the book described.

I wandered the French Quarter for a while – this trip has been about this part of a much much larger town. It’s meant to allow me to soak in history and a unique culture that still holds on to the older traditions, like smoking. And creative panhandling. When the guy comes up to you and says he can tell you exactly which city and state you got your shoes in, just say “I got them on my feet in New Orleans Louisiana” and watch his face drop. This wasn’t a visit about depth. I didn’t do any museums or tours. I just strolled, sat, pondered.

My ex (I hate that term) fell in love with New Orleans when youth could drink that much. They spent the rest of their life trying to get me, us, the family, but me to understand the love for the city. Museums and swamp tours and strong drinks gave me a sense of the contents of the city. But it never got its hooks into me. Until this trip. I think I just needed to have my relationship with the city in the way that I needed. As it turns out that was early morning coffee, sitting in shade, and hearing the voices on the street, not the music. I will credit you with putting me on the path, if you’re reading this. Thank you.

My afternoon was capped off with another call, this time to my therapist. We talked New Orleans and the spiritual sense of the city. And how each of our experiences here is unique. She was here for an unfortunate family thing. Everything seemed forced and a lot of the culture of the city was experienced as a tour or a presentation. I talked about my previous and current experiences, and the takeaway was about perspective, timing, intent, and circumstance. The call was done at 5, and after dragging my feet I headed out once again to find what I found. Dinner’s goal was barbecue. I understand that the proper BBQ would be in the parking lot of an abandoned gas station, sold from a food truck with a line of more than a dozen people there because they knew it was that good. But there were no abandoned gas stations, so I went with a good casual place that had brown paper towels on a spindle and a couple bottles of barbecue sauce with “mild” or “spicy” on them.

I have a friend who asked me once “If I could do anything, what would it be?” My answer was the kernel that became this trip. He’s been following closely, and he sent me a text telling me to go to the Carousel Bar. From wikipedia:

Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Robert Craig, Truman Capote and Winston Groom (author of Forrest Gump) are among the famous authors who have enjoyed drinks at the Carousel Bar.

Or at least that’s how it should read. I actually went once and it was too crowded, so I couldn’t get a seat. I did go back later, almost feeling like it was an obligation. Apparently the drink to have is the Sazerac, and the web site for the bar said they had virgin versions. The bartender disagreed. It’s mostly alcohol so a virgin would be pretty sad. So I got the real deal. I was reminded of another Thomas Dolby lyric:

I hadn’t touched a drink in over a year
But I told myself I’d stop at just one beer
I found myself a stool at the bar
Woah-oh
A blur among the bodies in the store
I saw Yelena spinning like a globe
She took my hand and led me on the floor, floor, floor

I did stop after a single drink, though the room was spinning by the time I was done. Because it’s the carousel bar. It rotates around the bar. I’m hilarious. I’m sure nobody has ever made that joke there. But it was a great experience and I’m glad I went back.

On my way home down Bourbon street, I didn’t grab a beer or daiquiri or anything, though I felt warm and considered it. Self discipline prevailed for once. I did remember that I needed to get my palm read, so I headed back to Jackson’s Square. Thirty years ago or so I had my palm read there, on a lark. The only thing I can remember is that I was told my life line on my palm was broken. That at some point one life would stop and another would start. I’ve thought about that a lot, especially these last few years. So I wanted to go back and see what the update was.

I wanted a woman palm reader because that’s what I had last time, and I feel like the intuition matters. Ok, sexist, whatever, I felt like someone trying to find a prostitute. They have to be available, and then they have to be someone you feel would be good for the job/attractive to you. This was similar. I needed someone who looked like they were for real, or at least as much as they could be.

I ended up going to a psychic who didn’t read palms, but she recommended this man down the way a bit. He agreed to read my palm, though he was finishing up a hot dog. I took this to be an incredibly good sign. I like hot dogs, and see above for the literary reference. His interpretation was a bit different. What I thought was my life line was my mind line, and the life line was vertical, not horizontal. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. The part I found the be fascinating was how wrong he was. In almost every way. Troubled youth changing to health and happiness. I was a happy naive little boy until things transpired that made me hate myself from a young age. He talked about my mind being sharp and clear, no issues there at all. He talked about my four children. Uh, what? We talked when he was done and it was interesting to hear his response to my feedback. It was a discussion, not a critique or argument.

I also felt connected to him because he reminded me so much of my eldest daughter. Some of the appearance, many many of the mannerisms, and the earnestness with which he explained things all really made me feel this was a reading my daughter would do in much the same way.

I took my thoughts and strolled back to the hotel and came to my laptop and began typing. Tomorrow we experience Mississippi, Alxbama, and Florida. Wish me luck!

Deets

• Weather: Foggy, pleasant, then hot and clear, warm but cool after sunset

Pictures