May 19, 2013

Three Hundred and Thirty Million Gods

This post is about an experience I had in India in 2010.

“Two hundred rupees? You should know better!” a man says to me as I pay the rickshaw driver.

India is filled with touts—men who pretend to want to help you but really want money. Varanasi—the holiest city in India—seems to have more per capita than other places in India. Dad and I ignore him as we start walking.

“My name is Manish. Is this your papa?” he asks, as he saddles up alongside us.

The streets are crowded and untidy. Half naked sadhus wearing nothing but saffron robes walk past us on their way to bathe in the Ganges. Vendors sell everything from prickly melons to brass wares.

“Your papa is my papa” he says, which makes me smile. “Where are you from?”

“America”

“Where are you going?”

“The Golden Temple”

“I will take you there! It’s very difficult to find. You’ll never make it there on your own”

Maybe he isn’t a tout. Maybe he just wants to help. We could certainly use it because have no idea where we are going. Maps of Varanasi are impossible to find and useless. The disorderly streets lead in all directions and even if there were street signs we can’t read Hindi.

“Afterwards, maybe we go to my brother’s silk shop?” he adds.

This was the oldest trick in the book. But I like this guy he seems kind and has a sense of humor. I know we will take care of us, I can tell by is eyes. Dad, never one to talk to strangers, continues to ignore him.

“You can get into the Golden Temple if you go with a Brahmin” he tells me.

Everything I had read about the Golden Temple—Vishvanatha ,one of the most important Shiva temples in India—said that only Hindus could enter. But in India there are many loopholes.

“I can arrange it. No pictures.”

Every good sense in me says no. But I knew I had to say yes.

Many people come to India—a nation of 330 million gods and over a dozen religions—looking for a little bit of spiritual diversion. I had flown here on the night of my grandmother’s funeral—my favorite grandmother—a woman who lived to be 100 and who always had my favorite cookies ready for me when I visited. Varanasi is where people come to die because being cremated on the shores of the Ganges and having your ashes thrown into the river will end the cycle of death and rebirth. It ends your suffering and you attain enlightenment. My Western atheism leaves me empty when it comes to death. What happens to us anyway? Are we merely forgotten and the world moves on? I hadn’t come to India for a religious epiphany. But I wanted to experience religious life. I wanted to see one of those 330 million gods.

“What do you think?” I ask dad.

“Oh I don’t want to go, but you go. I’ll wait for you and watch your camera.”

The alleys were getting narrower and the walls are closing in.

“Ok, I’ll do it” I tell Manish, nervously.

“Papa can wait here for us here.” We leave dad sitting perched on a wall. I hand him my camera. “Have fun!” he says, like I’m going to the mall.

Manish takes me deeper into the labyrinth of alleyways. We stop at a shop where I leave my shoes but keep my passport. A man with a shaven head, younger than me, dressed only in a white robe comes out from behind a curtain—The Brahmin. His cat-like eyes tell me that he is kind and peaceful. I am immediately under his spell.

“Please, a five hundred rupee donation to our temple?” he asks. I pull out some cash and give it to him.

He takes me further into the confusing network of streets, leaving Manish behind. The cobblestones are wet and warm under my bare feet, slick with mud. I maneuver my way around a wandering cow. We pass through a police security check and I am searched.

“We must first talk to the police” the Brahmin tells me. Every alarm in my head goes off but I have already fallen through the rabbit hole. “When they ask if you are a believer in the Hindu faith, you say ‘yes.’ When they ask what you are going to do in the temple you say ‘pray.’” I am very scared.

The Brahmin walks me into what looks like a police interrogation room out of Slumdog Millionaire. There are four cops seated around a table. An ugly cop with bug eyes tells me to sit down. I can barely understand a word he says. The Brahmin kneels next to me and whispers the answers to all of the ugly cop’s questions. In the end I write down my passport number and the name of my hotel and am excused. Ugly cop takes us across the street to the security check at the entryway of the temple. I am searched again. The Brahmin then shoves me ahead through a crush of people going through the door.

Inside there is a larger crowd trying to force its way through another small doorway. The Brahmin presses jasmine flowers and leaves into my hands. “Put these on the altar and come back out” He says as he pushes me through into the crowd making their way into the inner sanctum—the altar of Shiva.

People are chanting, yelling almost. Bells are ringing. The noise is immense. The claustrophobia unbearable. I force my way to the sunken altar. I look at Shiva briefly and then focus on the flowers thrown at his feet. I throw mine down. I am seized by a panic to get out of the chamber.

Outside the Brahmin is waiting for me. This courtyard is mercifully cooler. The people have dispersed.

“There is the golden dome of temple.” He points up. “ Let me show you the shrine of Ganesha”

“No, please, take me out of here.” I blurt out, then feel guilty. “I get nervous around a lot of people. I really need peace and quiet now” I try to explain. He understands completely and without further questions takes me outside and back to my shoes and Manish.

With his forefinger the Brahmin puts an ochre colored dot of dye on my forehead. “This means you have been to the temple today. Please, a thousand rupee donation to the temple for my troubles.” I gladly hand over the cash in exchange for my freedom. Manish takes me back to dad’s perch on the wall.

“Hi, how was it?” He asks.

Concerned that I couldn’t do the experience justice, or that it would sound trivial, I shrugged it off. “I’ll tell you about it later” I said.

“My brother’s silk shop is not far away” says Manish.

April 16, 2013

Don Quixote’s New Look

“Don Quixote begins as a province, turns into Spain and ends as a universe…”
V.S. Pritchett

Occasionally it pays off to put down our Booker-award-winning novels to return to the classics. Especially when there are new perspectives available like Edith Grossman’s refreshing 2003 translation of Don Quixote. Grossman has translated for moguls of Latin American fiction such as Mario Vargas Llosa, Gabriel García Márquez and Carlos Fuentes. A Spanish friend once said to me: “You are so lucky to be able to read Cervantes in translation because you can read it in modern English.” Just as English speakers struggle with Shakespeare and the best of us probably only understand 30% of the text, Spanish speakers struggle with Cervantes’ antiquated Spanish. Grossman’s goal is to remove language barriers to experience Don Quixote as a reader in the period would, in modern English that respects the complexity and history of both languages.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Grossman’s translation of the second book of Don Quixote, which is a sequel to the first, published 10 years later (and one year before the author’s death). Few other novels have as much baggage as Don Quixote. Most consider it to be the first modern novel; many consider it to be the best novel ever written. Entire university courses could be, and probably are, devoted to critiquing, analyzing and interpreting it. I will not attempt to tackle it other than to say that I felt much more strongly for Don Quixote and Sancho reading the second book in Grossman’s translation than after the first book 10 years ago (John Rutherford translation). These characters were intensely real to me: In their mad follies across the countryside I felt protective of them, I laughed out loud at their ridiculousness and I cried when Don Quixote dies in the end. The 400 years separating us were inconsequential. I didn’t want to see the book end and am now planning on re-reading the first book in this stellar translation.

March 24, 2013

Pilgrimage

Our bus barreled across the Ayeyarwaddy river delta towards our destination– Mt. Kyaiktiyo. The landscape was as flat as Kansas with crop fields spanning on either side of us. We could see the mountains in the distance begin to form out of the haze. We stopped to watch water buffalo and buy water melon from a vendor. Trucks with a large cargoes of men passed and waved at us.

Mt. Kyaiktiyo (known as Golden Rock to tourists) which is the second holiest site in Myanmar (after Shwedagon). Thousands of pilgrims visit this golden boulder which balances precariously at the edge of a cliff. Legend says that a hair of the Buddha placed under the rock is what keeps it balanced. By making the pilgrimage to Kyaiktiyo, especially by foot, you gain merit for the next life.

We reached the town of Kinpun, which is Base Camp for the trek to the mountain. From here we left the comfort of our bus and piled into an open truck with all the other Burmese pilgrims making the pilgrimage. The trucks began the ascent and I felt a heightened sense of awareness as we drove through the forest which got denser as we climbed. Truck turned left and right and we were tossed around like cat toys. After about an hour the truck stopped and we climbed down. From here we would walk the rest of the way to Golden Rock.

We began the final ascent by foot. We thought it would be an easy hike—two miles uphill was easy for someone used to Seattle’s hills. What I didn’t think about was the 90+ temperature which makes a climb of 1,500 vertical feet more than arduous for someone who is not acclimated. We walked past vendors selling cool water and all sorts of refreshments but I didn’t want to pay their exorbitant prices so I kept walking. The road was mostly exposed to the hot sun. I was out of breath easily and the sweat poured down my face. A pilgrimage isn’t a pilgrimage without some sort of sacrifice I guess and I just thought about the merit that this would gain me.

Sometimes what you want to find on a pilgrimage eludes you. The Golden Rock was covered and the golden boulder was being restored which needs to happen about every four years. Buddhism teaches us that in order to achieve enlightenment we should eliminate desire from our lives. Not finding what we came felt to me like a lesson in Buddhist patience.

However the site was not any less spectacular because the rock was covered, however. The stupa on top of the boulder was still visible. The view of the valley below stunning as the sun was setting. Thousands of pilgrims prayed, burned incense and chanted. The tiles which were still hot from the day’s sun felt good on my bare, hurting feet. We sat and watched the rock change to a deeper gold color as the sun slipped beyond the horizon.

On my way down from the top of the mountain, heading to our hotel for dinner, I noticed two men deep in meditation, the chrimson valley expanded behind them. Their presence seemed to embody Buddhist patience.

After a good night sleep in our comfortable hotel we set out down the mountain first thing in the morning. The clean, cool air fortified us. By 8am the pilgrims were already moving in a steady two way stream on the road outside our hotel. The descent was much less arduous than the ascent and I was able to pay more attention to the pilgrims. There were monks and hermits as well as just ordinary Myanmar folks heading up and down the mountain. Vendors were selling everything from bear skins to orange juice. Most of what was being sold I couldn’t identify. We got to the bottom, loaded on to trucks again for the hair-raising drive down the mountain to base camp and our drive back to Yangon.

March 11, 2013

Ayeyerwaddy Daze

“River travelling is monotonous and soothing. No matter what part of the world you are it is the same. No responsibility rests on your shoulders. Life is easy.”

W. Somerset Maugham, The Gentleman in the Parlour

The Ayeyarwaddy River is Myanmar’s lifeline. Its name means “mother river.” Starting in the northern highlands, it flows south to the Andaman Sea, giving the country a thousand miles of navigable river. It acts as a super highway, transporting everything from teak to people. Kipling called it “the Road to Mandalay” in his poem of the same name.

We were to call the Ayeyerwaddy home for the next two days, floating down the river on a simple, two-level riverboat. The top deck had the captain’s bridge and an open covered area filled with lounge chairs where we would watch the river go by. On the lower deck were our berths: foam beds separated by only plywood walls.

We boarded in hot and dusty Mandalay at midday. We were fed a delicious lunch from a tiny kitchen off the back of the boat: mutton curry, fish curry, and tomato salad, all of which was mouth-watering. This was as close to home cooking as we would get, and they were some of the most memorable meals.

Mingun, a few miles upriver from Mandalay, was our first stop. We rode horse carts to visit the Mingun pagoda, the ruins of a failed attempt to build the largest pagoda in the world. As we left the pagoda we literally walked into a noviciation parade. Young boys, who were about to become monks for a two week period, were being paraded on horseback wearing elaborate outfits. Becoming a monk, even for a few weeks, is a great honor for Myanmar families. The boys’ sisters walked in single file behind the horses, also dressed in beautiful outfits. Pulling up the rear of the parade was a truck carrying a bunch of cross-dressing singing performers. Win, our guide, told me that entertainers like this are often hired for significant events like weddings and noviciation ceremonies.

We left Mingun and headed back downstream for a few miles, anchoring off of a sandbar for the evening. A group of fishermen families were camped nearby and their children come over to investigate us. I sat on deck sipping a Mandalay rum and pineapple juice, watching the sun slip below the horizon.

The morning was cold and dark. I woke before the dawn and sat on the top deck shivering in all the warm clothes that I brought with me. I heard music coming from the noviciation ceremony we saw yesterday coming from the other side of the river. Did it play all night or are they starting up again? The boatmen untied us and we are off heading downriver before breakfast.

The river water, the color Earl Grey tea with milk, appeared languid on the surface but was actually moving quite fast. I sat and watched golden pagodas appear through the morning fog on the far shore. Boats of different sizes plied the river: huge barges filled with teak, small pandow canoes and everything in between. Men with long poles tested the depth of the water from the front of the boat. It was the dry season and the water was at its lowest, hitting a sandbar was a real risk.

We visited more pagodas at Inwa, the ancient capitol. Then we were back on the boat for an afternoon of floating downriver. Sunlight shimmered on the water. The heat was immense. Bamboo huts dotted the shore. Occasionally a gold-domed pagoda would pass by. I tried to keep from falling asleep in the lounge chairs but it was impossible. The heat and vibration of the boat were like a lullaby. I listened to the chatter of the boatmen coming from the captain’s bridge. One of the boatmen sang a song.

We anchored at another sandbar for the night. After dinner, Micky, Kristine and I sat on the top deck watching stars and drinking Havana Club that Micky bought at duty free in Hanoi. The staff were also having a little party of their own. The talk was lively… I think they may have had some Mandalay rum as well. The cook’s assistant had a laugh that is so infectious I wanted to record it.

The final morning was much warmer. We continued downstream for several hours, continuing to be lulled by the river, before we reached Bagan where we had to leave the boat. The boat trip was over but the river had seduced us. We were already scheming about how and when we could return.

March 6, 2013

Shwedagon

Shwedagon Pagoda is Yangon’s spiritual center. Its golden dome can be seen from all over the city. It is the most important religious site in a country with thousands of religious sites. Its mythology involves two brothers from Yangon who were gifted eight hairs by the Buddha on a pilgrimage. They returned to Yangon and built shrine for these holy relics on the hill that Shwedagon stands on today.

Shwedagon was the first of many pagodas we would see on the trip, and the most memorable for me. The sun was setting and I could feel the heat of the tiles on my bare feet as I stepped into the courtyard. I felt a sense of purposefulness and peace. I wasn’t on a religious pilgrimage, but it was a pilgrimage nonetheless. Hundreds of people were walking, praying, sitting or performing religious ablutions. They spoke in hushed, joyful voices. I smelled frangipani, jasmine and incense. I heard chanting and a faint bell chiming nearby.

I began to make my way, in a clockwise direction, around the courtyard. Above us was the towering, golden pagoda that has become the iconic symbol of Yangon. Around its base were smaller shrines with Buddha images inside them.

At regular intervals were larger shrines dedicated to astrological animals. In Myanmar everyone knows what day of the week they were born on, and each day has an animal symbol – elephant (with and without tusks), dragon, rat, guinea pig, owl, tiger, and lion. Being a Friday child I found the guinea pig altar and paid my respects. I tried to do what others were doing: I poured water from the large basin over the heads of the two Buddha images, one is gold and one appears to be made of wax, then I poured water over the head of the guinea pig statue below the basin. I later learned later that I was supposed to do this eight times for each statue, but hopefully they cut beginners some slack.

“Where are you from?” asked a monk in a red robe who saddled up beside me.

“Seattle” I replied.

“My grandfather used to live in Seattle.” The monk proceeded to tell me how his grandfather had emigrated to the US and then returned.

“Have you seen the diamond?” he asked.

He then walked me over to a specific tile and told me to stand and look up at the pagoda. As I did I saw a sparkle near the top of the spire which you can’t see if you moved to the right or left. Emma Larkin, in her book Everything is Broken, talked about how the wives of the generals would have their jewels inlaid into the pagoda tower because it was such a holy place. During cyclone Nargis many blew off and were found littering the ground around the pagoda. Luckily this one remained.

I thanked my new friend, found my travel companions and exited the courtyard, hungrily thinking about dinner.

February 27, 2013

Yangon’s Colonial Treasures

One of the only benefits of a regime that economically underdeveloped Myanmar for 60 years, is that most of Yangon’s Nineteenth and early Twentieth century colonial buildings are still standing, albeit in sad states of neglect and disrepair. They are ghosts of their former glory—like Miss Havisham’s wedding cake in Dickens’ Great Expectations, they epitomize decay. Many are abandoned or have been appropriated for other purposes. Now, as Myanmar recovers from economic stagnation, these buildings are at risk: it would certainly easier to tear them down rather than renovate them. The Association of Myanmar Architects wants to protect these buildings and ensure that they are saved. Their book 30 Heritage Buildings of Yangon was our guide to these old relics.

We thought the best way to begin our tour of historic downtown Yangon was by trishaw: a bicycle taxi similar to an Indian rickshaw. We found our trishaws at the boat Jetty along Strand Road. Strand Road parallels the Riverfront, although the military government walled off the river so that you cannot see it. After some negotiation (the drivers speak a little English) we each set off in our own trishaws down Strand Road. Traffic zooms past us but somehow I feel perfectly safe in my bicycle seat. We pass several buildings: Customs House and the Yangon Division Court, which his painted a jaundiced yellow but is turning green with moss. We eventually end up at The Strand Hotel, the oldest and still the fanciest hotel in Yangon. The Strand bar will be our final destination today, for Happy Hour, but now we want to see more on foot.

We continue on Strand Road a short ways until we find the still functioning post office, with its wrought iron Beaux-Arts canopy. Not far away is the British Embassy (very well maintained) which I take a picture of before I see the no photos sign. And finally the Port Authority building which has a tall campanile towering over the neighborhood. We change course and turn north on Pansodan Street which has one of the largest clusters of colonial buildings: The Lokanat Building, The Inland Waterways building with its art deco gold doorway (now cordoned off), and the Myanmar Economic Bank 2 with its pale blue stripes.

Amidst historic buildings, downtown Yangon is a lively food market. The broken sidewalks are filled with stalls serving mohinga (that national dish of fish broth and noodles), grilled or fried meats, pineapple and watermelon. Merchants sell all kinds of things, from religious paraphernalia to telephone calls. You could spend days exploring the streets of downtown Yangon. Just be careful you don’t trip and fall into an open trench. The side streets are even more lively with tea shops: People sit outside discussing everything.

We eventually find the Bagan Bookstore which is tucked into one of these side streets between teashops. It’s filled with that musty used bookstore smell and we find some serendipitous old books like Do’s and Don’ts in Myanmar (from which we learned that we have already broken many of the guidelines).

Continuing north on Pansodan Street we find the Pansodan Gallery which is in a dilapidated building and up a broken staircase which my friend Micky says is “totally Havana.” The gallery has an interesting collection of modern Myanmar art and is run by an American expat. Jackie and Dan buy a few pieces and have them shipped home.

On the other side of the railroad tracks from the gallery is the Yangon Train Station which is pale yellow with three towers looking like pagodas. I expected the inside to be a madhouse, but it must be between trains. We could buy our horoscopes and weight from a woman standing at a scale.

Returning south towards the river, we see the two spires of St. Mary’s Cathedral which we decide to investigate. As we walk to the cathedral a very interesting looking man with jar bottom glasses and a wise goatee asks us in perfect English where we are from. He is very impressed that we have come to Myanmar from America.

Heading south along Seikanthar Street we find the grand Secretariat at the corner of Mahabandoola Rood. The Secretariat is the old headquarters of the British Government in Burma and is now abandoned and cordoned off with barbed wire. It takes up an entire city block. General Ang San, Ang San Suu Kyi’s father–sort of a George Washington of Myanmar–was murdered here in 1946. This marked the end of Burma’s early attempts at democracy.

Nearing the end of our tour we continue south and back to Strand Road and the Strand Hotel. The hotel, once the swankiest place to stay in old British Rangoon, was occupied by Japanese officers during WWII who turned the bar into a stable. Today the hotel has been restored to its former glory and is again the swankiest place to stay in Yangon. We end our day with drinks at the bar and watch the place fill up with rich tourists and some expats for the Strand’s Friday night happy hour.

February 21, 2013

Myanmar, why not?

“Why are you going to Burma?” a Homeland Security officer asked my friend Jackie as we boarded our flight to Seoul, en route to Yangon. “It’s dangerous there.”

“Why not?” answered Jackie.

Indeed, why not?

Myanmar, the official name of the country often referred to by its colonial name of Burma, is waking from a 60 year-old Orwellian nightmare of military dictatorship, state oppression, economic exploitation and neglect, civil war, and political isolation. Many people have still not heard of Myanmar because of its isolation. A democratic government has been elected and they are implementing reforms. The process may appear Sisyphean to the outsider. You don’t go from dictatorship to democracy overnight. But the country has dedicated reformers, such as Ang San Suu Kyi who sits in parliament now (after being under house arrest for 20 years). Tourism has expanded since 2006 and the number of visas offered to foreigners is increasing. Diplomatic relations with the US are normalizing and foreign investors are interested in helping the country recover. There is a great deal of hope for a better future for Myanmar.

When I told people I was going to Burma (I used the former name because people don’t often know the official name) they often confused it with Bhutan or Bali. Most did not know that Myanmar is sandwiched between India, Thailand and China. Nor did they know that Myanmar was once a kingdom, one of the richest in Southeast that ruled over Siam for a time. Nor did they know that Myanmar is a Buddhist country with thousands of gold domed pagodas.

We wanted to visit Myanmar now, on the cusp of its political and economic transformation. We wanted to see the country before it is altered by the Western globalization, the arrival of mass tourism, rapid economic development, and possible environmental exploitation.

A group of 9 friends, including my father, booked a private tour with Win Bobo of Ayuda Travel. We visited the cities of Yangon, Mandalay, Bagan, but also went to the Shan Mountains and Inle Lake. We saw many, many gold topped pagodas, exotic markets and we were welcomed with lots of smiles.

To be continued…

December 27, 2012

New Orleans for Beginners, part II

Mardi Gras Indian outfit

Day 3 – Mardi Gras Indians, Galatoire’s and the Blue Nile

Mardi Gras is everything in New Orleans. To experience a bit of Mardi Gras culture in November we head into Treme, just across Rampart street to the north of the French Quartier, to the Backstreet Cultural Museum. The small museum houses an impressive collection of photographs, costumes and other memorabilia of the Mardi Gras Indians. Francis, the founder of the museum, likes to explain the collection to the few visitors that make it here. He tells us that there is a jazz funeral the following day and when we ask whose funeral it is he replies: “some dead guy.” We never made it to the funeral, but trip next to New Orleans we’ll remember to start the trip here to get the photocopied funeral schedule first. The costumes are beautiful and gaudy with lots of plumage and color, kind of a cross between powwow outfits and African masks.

St. Louis Cemetery #1

We head back to Rampart Street. As recently as ten years ago tourists didn’t cross it to leave the French Quarter, but now it seems pretty tame (at least during the day). Some of its classic bars, like the Funky Butt, are no longer open. Louis Armstrong Park sits just on the north side of the street and is the entrance to Treme. The southwest corner of the park is the former site of Congo Square, where, during the colonial period, slaves could come and dance on Sunday. It doesn’t take much imagination to visualize the drumming, dancing and “voodoo orgies” (as one guidebook described them) that occurred here. Just past Congo Square a few blocks west is St. Louis Cemetery #1 where Marie Laveau, New Orleans’s famous Voodoo priestess, is said to be buried. This is an older cemetery than Lafayette where we were yesterday. The names are French and Spanish and for the most part they are in a state of decay. I can’t help but think of Miss Havisham’s wedding cake, from “Great Expectations.”

Heading back in the Quarter, we head to Napoleon House (Chartres Street) for lunch. Napoleon never lived here, Louisiana was sold to Thomas Jefferson before he made it, but the house was built for him. The building hasn’t changed much; the emperor could move in today and feel at home. We sit in the back courtyard and have Muffaleta sandwiches: salami on a po’ boy bun smeared with olive salad (a tapenade effectively).

Bourbon street bikes

After a short rest we head out for our early dinner reservations Galatoire’s, one of New Orleans’ classic Creole restaurants on Bourbon Street, a street known for the drunken Shenanigans of its devotees. It is filled with bars, dance clubs and patrons walk around with hand grenades—plastic grenade looking vessels filled with Hurricanes made from Everclear. Galatoire’s is right next to the Hustler club. Once you enter the front door you enter a quieter, more genteel world and you forget about what is happening just outside the walls. Jackets, for men who didn’t bring one, line the left side of the entryway. We are quickly escorted upstairs to our table.

Galatoire’s

Dinner is French service, linen tablecloths and formal, but not stuffy. Our server is friendly and explains the Creole menu and Gulf seafood to us Northwesterners. I order red fish with a shrimp sauce. Basically it’s a sautéed white fish with lots of shrimp loaded on top. For dessert we share a pecan pie with chocolate in the crust, which, despite how full we are, we devour along with glasses of sherry and Armagnac.

The quite end of Bourbon Street

Our ultimate plan for this evening is see a brass banded called the Soul Rebels at the Blue Nile in The Marigny which is just outside of the Quarter. However, because of our early dinner we have some time to kill and many other bars to try out on our way. First up is the Carrousel Bar at the old literary Hotel Monteleone, on the western edge of the Quarter. The bar counter spins around the bar at an astonishingly fast speed (for me). I feel a bit queasy after two spins around the bar. I also worry about the bartenders and how they would get out in fire (jump over the bar apparently).

Next stop is Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop at the other end of the Quarter on a quieter stretch of Bourbon Street. Lafitte’s is far from quiet though. Candles are lit; in fact there are no electric lights on anywhere in the bar. They are trying to create a 17^th century mood apparently since this is one of the oldest buildings in the quarter. However the 1980s pop music that is blasting in one room and the piano bar next-door create an anachronistic feel. I don’t think this bar can escape the fact that it is on Bourbon Street.

Soul Rebels at the Blue Nile

We happily escape the Quarter crossing Esplanade we enter The Marigny, a neighborhood that is now being gentrified: the small houses with wrought iron fences look clean and well maintained. A few years ago apparently tourists wouldn’t have walked these streets after dark. Now we feel perfectly safe. We turn the corner on to Frenchman Street and there are clubs and people everywhere. There is a party mood that is different than Bourbon Street. These are locals, not tourists, out for a Saturday night. There are no hand grenades in sight.

The Blue Nile is lively but we walk right in and get a front row space. On tap are all kinds of microbrews which the well-dressed crowd is guzzling down as we all wait for the show to begin. As the Soul Rebels begin we get the full blast of trombone and tuba with the itchy beat of a jazzy brass band.

At two the Soul Rebels are finished and we wander home, past Café du Monde for some more beignets and hot chocolate to finish off the evening.

Beignets at Cafe du Monde

Day 4 – Algiers and home

Algiers ferry

Our last day in New Orleans starts off slowly, with brunch at Stanley!, a restaurant names after Stanley in a Street Named Desire. The sun is shining brightly as we wait for our table and the activity in Jackson Square is already bustling: Psychics, mimes and artists selling their work.

Jackson Square is just off the river and after brunch we walk down the river walk to the Algiers ferry. This free ferry connects downtown New Orleans with Algiers, a sleepy community across the Mississippi. I grew up in Minnesota at the northern end of the Mississippi river. Getting on to the river was an important part of my New Orleans trip. We point our faces into the warm November sun as we made the 20 minute crossing, knowing that in a few days we’ll be back in the cold and wet of Seattle. Algiers is a sleepy backwater, which doesn’t feel connected to New Orleans.

On our way back to the hotel (and the airport) we stop at The Cabildo on Jackson Square, which is a Spanish era government building which is now a museum. They have a photographic an exhibit on Hurricane Katrina. I am reminded that history has dealt some hard blows to this city, some more recent than others, but it remains a singularly interesting town.

Jackson Square

December 4, 2012

New Orleans for Beginners

I’ll begin with a confession that I am deeply intimidated writing about New Orleans, a city so iconic that everyone in America has something to say about it, whether they’ve been there or not. It’s a literary city that has been described by Mark Twain, Tennessee Williams and others. It’s a city layered with influences and history: Indian, Spanish, French, American, and Confederate. It’s a city complicated by contrasts: black and white, genteel and rowdy, Spanish and French, Confederate and Union. As Errol Barron says in the introduction to his book New Orleans Observed: “Regarding its character as a city, New Orleans is easy to talk about and hard to describe.” I couldn’t agree more. I feel awkward putting words to paper when it comes to this town.

New Orleans was once described to me, when I was sixteen years old, as a modern Sodom and Gomorra. I’ve wanted to go there ever since. I’ve been fascinated by this town because of its European and African heritage, its Creole and Cajun food, and its music—the birthplace of Jazz. Now, 25 years later, I am finally making it to New Orleans.

Day 0– arrival and introduction

Our first stop is Muriel’s on Jackson Square. Ordinarily this place would be hard to get into, but it’s the night before Thanksgiving so we saunter right in. Our server is sassy and a little bitchy but we like that. Appetizers are: Gulf shrimp in a remoulade and some fried alligator (always good to try a new meat on a trip). I have the duck and a dessert of bread pudding — a very filling meal for our first night out.

Day 1 — The French Quarter, Thanksgiving and zydeco

The sun is hot by the time we make it out of our hotel. Café du Monde seems like a perfect place for our first breakfast, even though a cruise ship is in town and the place is packed. Beignets doused with powdered sugar and bad chicory coffee is the way at Café du Monde and it bolsters us. The Quarter is active in the touristy parts but most of it is closed up. I appreciate being able to get my bearings on the place. The Quarter feels a like Venice in it’s museum-like quality, but but these well-preserved houses are definitely lived in. Our first bar stop is Molly’s, where Andrei Codrescu used to hang out when he lived here. It’s definitely a dive but has a Bohemian, “don’t fuck with me” attitude. It stays open during most hurricanes, including Katrina.

Thanksgiving dinner is at Lüke, a John Besh restaurant in the Hilton. It has a laid back brasserie atmosphere and I have the turducken, just because I’m in Louisiana. It’s good, a lot like I remember it the first time: dry on the outside but juicy on the inside.

After we head to Mid-City Rock-n-Bowl to hear some real Zydeco. Half of the place dances to the band which the other half bowls away. I’m shocked how many people are out on a Thanksgiving evening, whole families even. The music is good but we don’t dance because people seem very serious about it and we don’t know what we are doing.

Day 2 – Garden District and 25 cent martinis

Our walking tour of the Garden District starts in the Lafayette Cemetery. These dilapidated mausoleums remind me of Recoleta cemetery in Buenos Aires where we saw Evita’s grave. The same sort of air of humidity, crumbling stone and faded grandeur applies here in New Orleans. Our tour continues in a loop through neighborhood. The houses are grand and the vegetation lush. I forgot the Tennessee William’s play, Suddenly Last Summer, was set in one of these houses. That sort of sets the tone for the fecund and strange beauty of the place.

At the center of the Garden District is Commander’s Palace, an old school New Orleans Creole restaurant, one of the best restaurants in the city. The service is the key at Commander’s: there are so many servers that you are never left unattended, but yet it never feels cloying. Martinis at lunch are only 25-cents. I started with the turtle soup which was topped with fancy Spanish sherry (Pedro Ximenez). I followed that with the succulent cochon du lait(suckling pig) done in a Mexican preparation with grilled chiles on a tortilla. The bourbon cake for dessert was decadent. After lunch about the only thing we were prepared to do was ride the street car all the way to the end and then back through some of the most genteel neighborhoods of New Orleans.

Preservation Jazz Hall is a tiny venue just off Bourbon Street, which you have to stand in line and wait to get into. But, it’s the best New Orleans jazz in the city and despite our 2 hour wait we were very excited about it once we got inside. They sit you on benches (or you stand) to watch the 5 piece jazz band place old-school, brassy jazz. We were entranced and it was probably one of the best things we did in New Orleans.

To be continued…

October 14, 2012

Lopez Island

Davis Head Beach

I’ve been coming to Lopez Island for ten years now. Everyone in the Northwest seems to have their favorite island of the San Juan chain and Lopez is mine. People ask me what it is that I like so much about it and I have a hard time answering completely. I love it for its unassuming simplicity and beauty, its bucolic pastures and woodsy clumps fir and hemlock, its rocky beaches and lapping waves. I love it because people still wave to each other in cars, a throwback to a day when everyone knew each other on the island. I love it for Holly B’s bakery and her almond butterhorns. I love it for the Lopez Island Winery’s Madeleine Angevine. I love it for iceberg point where I once saw two pods of Orca whales. I could go on to the point of boredom but will stop here.

I have covered many miles of this island on bicycle. It’s been the destination of a yearly bicycle trip with friends. However this time I get to show my mom Lopez. I get to show someone who has never been to the island all my favorite spots in the hopes that she will love it as much as I do. It’s not a hard job; Lopez’s charms speak for themselves. I will let the island do the work.

Wambaugh Bay

First stop was the Lopez Village and lunch. In ten years I realize that I’d never been to the Love Dog Café. I guess my attention was always focused on Holly B’s bakery. We sat and had lunch outside in the warm October sun, watching the leaves turn color. The first lesson on Lopez is to relax and shed yourself of the city stress.

Wambaugh Bay

Next was a wine tasting at Lopez Island Vineyard. Their tasting room is in the Village now and not at their vineyard. I miss sitting at the vineyard, after a 30 mile bike ride, and drinking a bottle of Madeleine Angevine and looking out over the rows of grape vines and the valley beyond. I mentioned as much to the owner and she said I was the only one to say as much. Oh well, I guess I have a hard time with change sometimes.

Wambaugh Bay

Lopez has better access to public beaches and land than other islands in the San Juans like Orcas where access to beaches is restricted. Through the Land Bank, a San Juan County organization that promotes conservation through easements on private land, and better signage to trails on public BLM land, there are many beaches and hiking trails now easily accessible. Wambaugh Bay is one such place on the very southeast corner of the island. Walking down an easy trail from the parking lot you come to a secluded bay with high cliff on one side and a straight on view of Mt. Baker on the mainland.

Iceberg Point

Iceberg Point (I have no idea why it’s called that) is also southern shore of the island where you get an expansive views of the Straights of Juan de Fuca and the Olympic Mountains to the south. After you park at Agate Beach you walk up the hill and along what appears to be a private road until you find the trail head. Only recently has this trailhead been marked. Once there you find yourself on a rocky high cliff which looks much like I image western Ireland to look (I’ve never been).

Shark Reef Preserve

Shark Reef Preserve is our last destination on our tour of South Lopez. You walk through a dense forest of relatively old growth trees. Once on the rocky shore you can see San Juan Island in the distance and watch seals swimming by.

Shark Reef Preserve

Our tour of Lopez was short. We didn’t get to all of the places I wanted to show Mom. We didn’t get to Spencer Spit, for example. We didn’t stop at Center Church and read the gravestones. But it was enough to show Mom what a beautiful place it is. I hope to be coming back here for another ten years at least.