1) When the alarm went off at 6:00 AM, I was surprised to discover that I had broken a sweat in the last two hours. What on earth?
2) Shower, morning pages, coffee, breakfast, cleanup, final packing — out the door a whisper before 9:00 AM. A little boy was traveling on the T with his mother, and it was balm to my soul to see him smiling in wonder at everything.
3) Just over 45 minutes later I boarded the shuttle at Airport Station — and tripped and almost fell over my suitcase, bruising one shin and nearly cramping the other. Oh well!
4) Check-in went surprisingly easy for me, with almost no lines — how rare! Not knowing what (if anything) I’d be served on the plane, I had a very early lunch of rigatoni bolognese.
5) After boarding my flight, I managed to have a little nap, and was very disappointed to wake up and discover we hadn’t left the gate. In fact we departed almost an hour late.
6) But the result was a flight smooth as silk, which I passed by reading Patriotic Fire: Andrew Jackson and Jean Lafitte at the Battle of New Orleans by Winston Groom, napping, or (at the end) watching the flight’s progress on the map. The book is most interesting.
7) You watch bags go around a baggage carousel enough times and they have personalities all their own. I saw many of those bags go around many times, including two that bore more than a passing resemblance to mine. Thank goodness for distinctive luggage tags!
7a) One of the suitcases had burst open in flight . . .
8) They don’t mess around if you’re taking a cab into the city here. The rate is a flat rate, and they make sure everyone knows it. I got in line at the cab stand, was directed to a loading spot, and Mademoiselle gave me a slip of paper with the cab number on it after my bags were loaded. Brisk, businesslike, laissez les bon temps rouler!
9) My cabby was a Nigerian gentleman who has been in New Orleans seven years. While pleasant, we both fell silent after about five minutes.
10) The hotel had sent a cute email to me a couple days before, basically saying “We can’t wait to serve you, but there is only so much we can do during Mardi Gras, and if your taxi can’t get you to the front door and you have to walk a few blocks, it’s not our fault.” And it turns out that’s exactly what happened, except for the addition of a fire truck blaring its siren right behind us. But it wasn’t far to walk.
11) The hubbub in the large hotel lobby made me think of everyone arriving at the Hotel Montoya in The Sun Also Rises — everyone eager for the bullfights, and the hotel prepared for combat. I was in line at the registration desk quite a while, which allowed me to see the full range of revelers, from T-shirts and beads to glitter and fringe to prom gowns to full-on white tie. A woman behind me chatted with me awhile and told me they’d been coming every year for years.
My 19th-floor view of Canal Street.
12) Finalmente, I was motioned to the front desk by a previously unseen young man with an elaborate skincare regimen, and of course expected to be handed my key; Daddy was starting to feel a bit impatient. But before that most essential act he had to a) thank me for my loyalty, b) get a credit card for incidentals, c) provide me two complimentary tickets for a tourist attraction across the street, d) explain the “destination fee” (an expensive way to be sure their restaurants stay in business), and e) a few other lengthy inconsequentials. At last I received my key.
12a) What he didn’t provide that I could have used is a tutorial on how to use the elevator. You can’t just press a button here . . .
13) It was meaningful to me to stay at this hotel because we had stayed here in 1977 for an amazing family trip. Daddy had to entertain customers for a supplier or something, and the dates worked out that we could all go to see the King Tut exhibition at the New Orleans Museum of Art on my 14th birthday. And Gramma went with us, too. The Tut exhibition, of course, was wonderful (and crowded) and that night Gramma and I sat together at one end of a horseshoe table at the hotel’s rooftop restaurant overlooking the bend in the Mississippi, and I had my first prime rib, and my first profiteroles. And I thought it would be fun to head up there for another good dinner.
13a) The restaurant isn’t there any more. I guess rooftop dining just isn’t a thing now.
14) Instead I pushed through the Quarter to a nearby restaurant I’d enjoyed before. They could squeeze me in on what was clearly a busy night, and I settled down to a Sazerac cocktail (in honor of Joan Crawford and David Brian in This Woman Is Dangerous), fried oysters, pasta jambalaya, and of course profiteroles.
Well, actually closed.
15) Afterward I strolled through the Quarter to Jackson Square and that most distinctive of American churches, St. Louis Cathedral. Groups of revelers or tourists were ambling about, some with guides. Already the pavement was scattered with a few broken strings of beads. But it had been a long day, and I was not afraid to turn my steps homeward for bed.
Meanwhile, back at the hotel . . .
16) But as a sign of what I was getting into, a parade was passing the hotel when I got back, and I could hear and see it all from my room on the 19th floor. It looked like I was in for quite a weekend!
