THE SIGNS OF THE FRENCH QUARTER

As I've mentioned here before, Becky and I went to New Orleans last weekend using the money we got back from the IRS. And I took the digital camera my parents gave me last Christmas, which I've finally figured out how to operate. I went a bit wild. I ended up with lots of pictures, and, for some reason, I seemed to be into taking shots of the billions of signs in the French Quarter.

Like this one:



The Lamothe House is where we've stayed quite a few times. It's old, going back to the 19th century, I think. It's also really cool, with beaucoup old furniture, weird old paintings, cool carpets and draperies. You get the idea. But that's not where we stayed this time around. Lamothe House was full, so we had to stay here, instead:



Really, the Marigny Guest House ended up being a much better deal. Actually, it was more expensive than a room at Lamothe House across the street, but the room was HUGE, with a full kitchen and bigger bathroom. And because it's run by Lamothe House, it has the same lavish furnishings. Strangely, there was also an autobiography by Phil Lesh of the Grateful Dead sitting on the dresser in the bedroom, which I didn't read, but it was nice to know it was there.

Just around the corner from our room is a really fabulous restaurant/bar/live music venue/laundromat:



Igor's Check Point Charlie is really one of the coolest places I've ever been. They have some of the best cheeseburgers in the world, which come in handy when drunkenly stumbling home at four in the morning after drinking since around ten the night before. There also seem to be many more weird French Quarter locals there than what you'll find on Bourbon, and believe me, there are some weird people there, especially at four in the morning. We didn't see anybody play there this time around, but in the past I've seen some cool stuff: once I saw what appeared to be a pick-up band composed of mostly guys in their 20's, but fronted by an old hippie dude who played guitar like a cross between Jimi Hendrix and Duane Allman. They played for hours on end, and I'd never heard any of the songs before; it was remarkable.

Speaking of cool restaurants near Lamothe House, there's Coop's Place down on Decatur Street:



Unlike Check Point Charlie, Coop's offers an array of cool Cajun dishes, and, even though they're not open all night, they're open pretty late if you want something besides greasy. They've got pretty good gumbo, but not the best I've ever had. That honor goes to this place:



Yes, that's right, Galatoire's.

From Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire:

STELLA: Oh Stan! (She jumps up and kisses him which he accepts with lordly composure) I'm taking Blanche to Galatoire's for supper and then to a show, because it's your poker night.

STANLEY: How about my supper, huh? I'm not going to Galatoire's for no supper!

STELLA: I put you a cold plate on ice.

STANLEY: Well, isn't that just dandy!

Galatoire's, on Bourbon Street, is a truly classy place, harkening back, really, to quite another era. Men have to wear jackets, and entering the place is like walking into a Tennessee Williams play. But it's not just the ambience that makes it such a great place. The food is out of this world. Expensive, but well worth it. If you're ever in the Big Easy, you've got to eat there. Of course, the great irony about Galatoire's sense of old Southern class is that pretty much on the same block is some of the most marvelous sleaze you'll ever encounter anywhere. For instance, there are more topless bars in one location than I've ever seen:







These three pics are just a small sampling. There are many more bars for the viewing of boobs. Naughty lingerie stores, too. Hustler actually has two clubs on Bourbon Street, but I just settled for the one picture. "Barely Legal." That term really cracks me up.

Here's another amusing sign from Bourbon Street's typical weekend frenzy:



Just in case you can't make it out, the sign says "HUGE ASS BEERS TO GO." One of the groovy, sleazy things about New Orleans is that there are no open container laws: you can just walk around drinking to your heart's content, as long as it's not out of a glass bottle. Nothing like swilling cheap beer as you walk with the drunken tourists. Speaking of drunk tourists, this stenciled notice on a crack in the sidewalk made me giggle:



"DRUNKS BEWARE TRIP HAZARD." God, I love this town! And while I'm still talking about Bourbon Street, I should probably post this pic, as well:



It says "When New Orleans was the Capitol of the Spanish Province of Louisiana 1762-1803 This Street Had the Name CALLE BOURBON." Apparently, the French essentially gave Louisiana to Spain in order to keep it from the British, who had just defeated France in the Seven Year's war (or, as it is more popularly known in the United States, the French and Indian War). Then Napoleon conquered Spain in 1801 and regained Louisiana, but then turned right around and sold it to the US in order to pay for his wars in Europe. It's so weird, the history just oozing out of every crack of the French Quarter. At least, I think it's history. It might just be vomit. It smells like vomit, anyway. Which reminds me, here's one last sign I photographed on Bourbon Street. A Krewe of Bacchus emblem posted within the Royal Sonesta Hotel complex:



In case you don't know, "krewe" is the word used to refer to the organizations that put together the numerous parades at Mardi Gras time. This krewe was established in 1968, the year I was born, which is why I took the picture. Okay, I like Bacchus, too.

To close on a political note, which is entirely appropriate for Real Art, it was nice to find that, despite the fact that New Orleans is a Southern city, and Louisiana is very much one of those "red states," progressivism is alive and well here:



I got this shot at the intersection between Esplanade and Bourbon Street. Democracy Now is, of course, the very left-wing radio/television show from which I often quote here at Real Art. Seeing this flyer so unexpectedly was nice. I also found this cool statement on a sidewalk along Royal Street near Esplanade:



Obviously, Royal Street isn't Love Street, so I have no idea what's going on here. But I dig the peace symbol, and I love the Doors song "Love Street," so something's working for me. Anyway, that's all for now. More rambling photoblogging on New Orleans to come. Like I said, I went a bit wild with my new camera.

Ah, just click on this link here.

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