There’s no doubt that I had a fair amount of European business travel during the eighties. I went to Paris a few times, and on one memorable trip to Paris I decided to take a week’s vacation and fly across to London. I had been to Paris and Strasbourg quite a few times and had seen a lot of France. Not only had I seen Paris, but I had also seen a lot of the outskirts. On this particular trip, we had gone to dinner at the European promotion manager’s house and met his wife. Then, he took us on a tour of the French countryside. We drove around to all these little villages, stopped in bars and tiny little restaurants and tried different wines and beers (normally I’m not a beer drinker). I was trashed by the end of the night. Originally, Miss Headcase and her mother wanted to meet me in Paris, but I had always wanted to see the UK. I’d had enough of Paris. I won.

Deep inside, I knew I shouldn’t have left the London hotel reservations to Miss Headcase. I don’t know what I’d been thinking. When the taxi pulled up in front of what she’d chosen, I just looked at her. “What the fuck is this?” Her mother chimed in by asking if she was out of her mind. We went inside. There wasn’t even a private bathroom in this place. It was shared and it was filthy. I told Miss Headcase that there wasn’t a chance in hell we were staying there for even one night. We ended up staying in a little place in Earl’s Court, a funky section of London with a lot of little Indian and Italian restaurants, and a ton of Australian tourists. It was fun. Better still, the food in the area was good. In fact, aside from eating at the pubs, I’d recommend you not eat at British restaurants. These people simply cannot cook.

Prior to leaving Paris, I got some sage advice from my European counterpart, Dieter. He said in his German accent, “Whatever you do, don’t order beef. It’s like eating shoe leather by the time they’re done with it.” I took his advice.

After settling in, the first thing I wanted to do was visit the original Hard Rock Cafe in London. The Hard Rock may be no big deal now, but back then it was huge. We waited nearly 45 minutes to get in during a cold October rain. The great thing about the Hard Rock in London is that they actually have umbrellas chained to the fence so that you don’t get wet while you’re waiting to get in. I’ve been to the Hard Rock in Paris, but it pales in comparison to the UK location. It’s like a musical museum. When I was young, I was really into the British music scene, mostly because of my obsession with The Beatles. Don’t get crazy…not Gerry & The Pacemakers or the Dave Clark Five. It was The Stones, The Who, The Kinks and Cream…that collection of British rockers.

Admittedly, I was leery about the food inside, but I worried for nothing. It was basically pub food, and pub food is the one thing you can count on in the UK. The best thing about it was the stuff they had from The Beatles.  It was totally impressive. This is where I got my black leather Hard Rock jacket, courtesy of Miss Headcase’s mother. In spite of my issues with Miss Headcase, I always got along with her mom. She bought it for me as an early birthday present.  The leather jackets at the Hard Rock today are all motorcycle style. Not my favorite. Mine is the old bomber style. Love it. I still wear it, worn though it is.

The royal whatnot

The next day, the weather cleared. That almost never happens in London in October. In fact, the rest of the week was clear and the temp hung around the high sixties. We decided to go to Buckingham Palace. Now, I’m not big on British royalty. Why are they royal? Because they’re rich? Some of these people have been the biggest assholes in history. But I have to tell you that Buckingham Palace is amazing, and the changing of the guard is something to see (if for nothing else to see how damned constipated these guards truly are).

You’ve got to work real hard at it but, if you make a big enough fool of yourself, you can actually get these guys to laugh. I did, but I had to put myself in the idiot zone to accomplish this feat. People who know me absolutely know I’m not afraid to go to the idiot zone for a laugh. I figured I’d never see these people again in my freakin’ life, so why not make a fool of myself.

After Buckingham Palace came Piccadilly Circus, which is almost like Times Square (only a hell of a lot better, frankly). It brings together five of the busiest streets in London and is dominated by neon signs, an amazing thing to see at night if you like that Vegas feel. (Personally, I’m not a Vegas fan. Been there on business, but that’s a different post for a different day.) If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m a big music fan. The first Virgin Record store I ever went to was in Piccadilly and it was absolutely huge. I got lost in that place for hours.

Funny thing about the statue in the middle of Piccadilly. It seemed to me a wierd place to put a statue of Cupid. That’s what I thought it was. So, I decided to research it a bit while I was there. Apparently, the statue is often identified as Eros because it looks like Cupid (known as the God of Sensual Love). What I found out  is that it was intended to be his twin, Anteros, the God of Selfless Love. It was created as a tribute to the philanthropic efforts of the 7th Earl of Shaftsbury. I love figuring out this stuff and I thought this story was pretty wild.

Next stop, Carnaby Street

Being as enamored of the whole ‘Sixties’ thing as I am, I had to pay a visit to Carnaby Street in the Soho district. This was the place to be in the Sixties, the fashion and music center. Not only did designers like Mary Quant hang out there, but so did The Beatles, The Small Faces, The Who and The Stones. They played at the Marquee Club, then just hung out and socialized or went shopping on Carnaby.

I’m not that big into fashion and never really have been. I guess the U.S. equivalent of Carnaby would be Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, which had a feel I like much better. It wasn’t so glitzy and trendy. It was more counterculture…less “mod” and more “hippie.” Still, Carnaby was interesting to see and, as it turns out, although completely unplanned I visited during their sixties celebration.

Greenwich Mean Time and British food

One of the more mundane trips we made (and I can’t even remember actually where this is kept) was to see the clock by which all others are set in the world. You know, it’s the whole Greenwich Mean Time thing. There wasn’t much to see there, with the possible exception of the observatory. However, eating in this little slice of heaven provided the best example of why you should never eat anything prepared by the British.

They had these little mini apple pies at one restaurant we went to. It is rare that I eat apple pie (or any kind of pie for that matter), but it just so happens that this pie was supposed to be the restaurant’s calling card. I decided to try it. They put it down in front of me piping hot and it smelled great. Really. Then, just as I was about to dig in, the waiter leaned over me and poured this disgusting hot vanilla pudding over the top of the pie. So much for that idea. Never, my friends, eat British cooking. I don’t care how desperate you are.

Coming home

Generally speaking, there’s always some kind of excitement around me and airports. At the time we took this trip, there had been some kind of terrorist attack against a U.S. property somewhere in the Middle East. I can’t remember exactly where it was or what it was. That meant that flying was tricky.

Miss Headcase’s mom was a real estate agent. She was really good at it. I’ve always said she could probably sell shit to a fly for a profit. She had a great personality, which is one of the reasons she and I remained friends until her untimely death. On this trip, she had decided to buy silver bars. Somehow, she left one in one of the carry on bags I was holding. When we got to the scanner, it immediately registered on the screen and the bonehead observing the inside of the bag assumed it was a bomb. Need I say more?

WTF?

I’ve often told people there are only two places I could live other than Boston. One is Washington, D.C. The other is San Francisco. I took one great business trip out to San Francisco during the late nineties (could have been 2000, not sure). I know the photo I’m using here in the intro is one of those typical San Francisco photos that you see everywhere. But I have to tell you that there is nothing quite like driving over the Golden Gate Bridge in the early morning hours. Instead of staying in a hotel during this trip, I stayed in a condo in Tiburon. Millipore had just purchased a life science instrumentation company (don’t ask me the name; I don’t remember) and I was tapped to work on the new literature and communications plan. I had been friends with Linda, who was the Director of Marketing, so I stayed with her. It was so much better than a hotel. On the way into the city, I had a great view of Muir Woods, and the fog over the bridge as the sun rose was just unbelievable.

I remember that the meetings I was involved in were really irritating, although I can’t remember all the details. But I do know that I had one sweet time in San Francisco. One of Millipore’s best graphic designers, Lisa, had fallen in love with an engineer named Bill. They had moved out to San Jose together and were living in an artist’s loft. She was the first person I contacted when I learned I’d be making the trip. I decided to get there on a Friday, before the weekend. It worked out well because Linda and Lisa also knew each other, and it gave them a chance to see each other again. I had rented a car, so we met near The Presidio and just hung out watching the old Italian guys playing Bocci. Then we all had lunch at Fisherman’s Wharf (and pretty much managed to get trashed in spite of the fact that we were eating).

On Sunday, Lisa and I planned to hook up again. I drove out to her place in San Jose. Not only was she a designer, but a painter. The whole top part of the loft was just filled with huge half-done canvases. I remember thinking this would be the perfect outlet for me; that one of the things I came close to doing when I returned to Boston was give up my apartment and get myself an artists loft somewhere in Cambridge. It never happened, but it was tempting. After we hung out for a while, she said, “Come on. Let’s go. We’re taking Bill’s car today.”

I remember thinking that I couldn’t figure out why, but I was about to find out soon enough. First, we took a trip down Lombard Street, or the Crooked Street, whatever you want to call it. That was interesting enough. But then, Lisa drove to the top of this incredible hill that just had dips in the road all the way down. “Ready?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I knew instantly what she was going to do.

“We’re taking a risk here,” she said, “but I haven’t been caught by the cops once yet.”

“Yeah,” I said, “with our track record, Lisa, today could be your lucky day!”

She started laughing and just gunned Bill’s car. We must have gone bouncing down that hill at about fifty miles an hour, bottoming out his car like there was no consequence.  Apparently she did this with everyone who came out to visit and, clearly, Bill didn’t mind.  More testament to the fact that love makes you stupid.

We were hanging out at their loft later in the day and I mentioned that the one place I had to get to on this trip was The Castro. I had friends who had lived there before. I also had friends who lived in Provincetown, even though it’s positively desolate in the middle of a New England winter, and friends who summered on Fire Island.  The Castro, however, was the stuff legends were made of.

The gay comfort zone

The Castro is like no other gay mecca on the planet. I had left Lisa’s late that afternoon and decided to go right in by myself. After I broke up with Miss Headcase, I took a week long trip down to Provincetown by myself to clear my head. Going to The Castro alone was not a problem for me. It’s incredibly comfortable and everyone is incredibly “out.” It’s a great feeling. Is it a shame that there have to be places like this? Yes and no. Everyone in America should be able to feel comfortable with his or her sexual orientation and gender identity. Honestly, however, places like The Castro and Provincetown are also cultural meccas, and that’s an important thing for the LGBT community…just as the North End of Boston is a cultural mecca for the Italian community, and Southie is for the Irish. How cool is the Castro? My political favorite, Rachel Maddow, grew up there and went to Castro High. Harvey Milk, one of my heroes, was known as the unofficial mayor of Castro Street.

Anyway, I hung around the Castro most of the day checking the area out and I thought it would be absolutely amazing to live there. The one place I absolutely had to go to was Twin Peaks, undoubtedly one of the most famous gay bars ever. It was the first gay bar in the nation with fully open plate glass windows. No hiding. That’s what I liked most about it. It was like telling the world this is the way it is. If you’ve got a problem with it, it’s all yours. The people hanging there are a bit older (as is the staff) and, instead of the pulsating video bar music, it’s just a great place to sit and meet people, shoot the shit, and watch the rest of the world go by at the intersection of Castro and Market.

Ah, but all good things must come to an end. By about ten, I was headed back to Tiburon. I had meetings in the morning and certainly didn’t want a hangover.

One last highlight Yeah, the next three days were taken up by meetings and business dinners. Honest to freakin’ God, you have to wonder why how this company ever made money. Their ideas about how to spend their communications budget were absolutely absurd. Try this one on: They spent somewhere on the order of $30K to produce an ad — just production (writing, photography, films, etc). Then, they spent a mere $18K running the ad, which is a frequency of about three times. What was worse, they ran the ad one time in three different journals. What a colossal waste of money. Here’s the rule of thumb: If you can’t run the ad at least six times in one journal (but preferably 8-10), don’t bother running an ad at all. It’s like pissing in the wind.

They were really irritating me. I’d listen to them. Then, I’d say something unbelievably sarcastic. Then, Linda would reach over and pinch my leg. I don’t have much patience for stupidity, and I really have no patience for these marketing clowns who think they understand marketing communications just because they have marketing in their titles. And I know Linda knew I was right because she had her hand over her mouth and was laughing while she was pinching me.

On my final day there, I was free all day. There was one other place I absolutely had to visit, and that was Haight-Ashbury. Somewhere in my vast collection of sixties memorabilia were several posters from The Haight. This was another one of those places that stood out in my mind from the sixties. I wanted to see what it looked like thirty years later. There are still some places reminiscent of that flower-power,  acid-dropping, ganja-smoking era…places like Pipe Dreams and The Love of Ganesha. However, much has changed. A lot of the old shops have been replaced by high-end boutiques, Internet cafes, second-hand stores and trendy restaurants. I would much preferred to have visited thirty years ago.

I stuck around for an early dinner at a place called The Citrus Club. It was basically an Asian noodle shop, and I love that stuff: Simple food, reasonable prices. It reminded me of a place I used to love to go to in Harvard Square called Ma Soba. When Thalia was really little (still being carried around in a Kelty Pack), I used to take her there and she’d eat the hottest freakin’ noodles you could give her.

After this day of walking around, I was pretty wiped out and headed back to Tiburon. I was flying out the next day so that I could be home for the weekend. I felt like I had been gone for a long time.

Vacation? Well, let’s just say that vacations are a thing of the past these days. Okay, so there are the yearly visits to the evil mother-in-law, but that stops this year. Our August 24 foray into hell will be cancelled, at the suggestion of Beth’s therapist. Frankly, I’m relieved. The thought of having to deal with the mess left behind after that trip was not pleasing me. We went there about four months ago for several days and almost had to check Beth into the local looney bin to recover. It was tough at home, I’ll tell you. But that’s another post for a different day. Today, it’s all about our RV adventures!

Now, I’ve been camping. (I’ll tell you about the moose incident some day.) RVing is not camping as most people would define camping. The first time we went on an RV trip, it was just me, Beth and Thalia. We got a small Winnebago. The photo here is an accurate representation of the size. It was an easy drive, sort of like driving a U-Haul. It was great for the three of us, and Thalia got the thrill of sleeping in the bedroom above the cab with her own little television set. There’s plenty of storage space, so we managed to bring all of Miss T’s favorite tapes to play. You know, the standard fare of the day: Bear in the Big Blue House (one of my favorites, actually), Rollie Polie Olie (ever watched this one?), and of course –Scooby Doo (I happen to love “Scooby Doo and the Witch’s Ghost). She was, well, a happy camper so to speak.

Aside from the storage space that allows you to bring as much stuff as you want to provide all the comforts of home, there are other things about  RV travel that are cool. Having a fridge and a stove is awesome. You know, I have “roughed it” in Vermont with my friends and had greenheads land in my frying pan. They are disgusting. I love to cook, and I’m always elected to be the cook, but cooking is never fun when you’re fending off a swarm of fucking locusts at the same time. And greenheads do not taste good either. So, on those days when the sky is falling, it’s always great to be able to have an alternative. RV travel is also great in the bad weather. Where would you rather be when it’s pouring, inside a tent worrying about touching the sides and letting the sky in or in an RV where you can pull out toys, games and videos? That’s a no-brainer for the normal. But aside from all that fun stuff, there is one dicey little responsibility that is a bit ugly. (Naturally, it was a responsibility that fell in my column.)

Emptying the shit tank (or gray water) on one of these things isn’t for the squeamish. No sir. You know, you’ve got all these little controls and lights inside the unit and you monitor how much fresh drinking water you have and what the level of gray water is. The idea is to fill up the fresh water before you head out and keep in replenished on the road, and to find places to dump your gray water when the shit tank fills up. (The gray water also includes your shower run-off.) If you’re staying in one place for several days, you simply hook up the shit tank with the hose and leave it open so that it’s like a functioning home toilet. That’s the easy part, except the gases can sometimes smell bad and then you have to create a trap. It’s when you’re on the road and not connected that can sometimes be unpleasant because that means when you get to your destination, you have to hook up and dump what has collected in there. Just be sure the hose is connected properly, that’s all I’m saying. And gloves. Gloves are supremely important. Now, I’m not squeamish about this stuff (vomit is a bit different; it’s a phobia, I admit), but gloves are important. And make sure they fit you properly. If they are loose, it can cause all kinds of problems. Then they are just getting in the way of a problem-free connection. Campgrounds tend to look down on those who dump shit on the ground, folks. And it wouldn’t be an RV trip if you didn’t spring a leak in your hose. No sir. If you don’t have a spare (and you should), they usually sell them at the campground store. Here’s a hint: If you are renting an RV and there’s duct tape wrapped around the hose in several places, do yourself a favor and invest in one.

One of our first trips out in an RV was to Jellystone Park in Sturbridge, Massachusetts. We went there for Thalia because it’s totally geared to kids. It’s a pretty great take. I have fun with my kids, so it was fun for me too, especially since Yogi Bear was one of my favorite cartoon characters growing up! We also took a trip to Acadia National Park in Maine when Thalia must have been just a little more than three.

We spent the first two nights at Bayley’s campground in Scarborough, Maine. We would stay here several more times over the few years we spent RVing. It had lots of stuff for Thalia to do and that’s what was important. We felt it would be unfair to drag a child out on the road and expect them to sit around while we read or watched TV. We had to find a happy medium, so places like Jellystone and Bayley’s were perfect. This trip also harbors a memorable event.

We took Thalia to Pirate Cove mini-golf in Old Orchard Beach. We were making our way around the course and she was actually doing pretty well. At home we often took her to mini-golf on Route 114 (Danvers, I think) where Richardson’s Ice Cream is. She used to run around on the course stealing everybody’s golf balls. She was being remarkably reserved at Pirate’s Cove and we were happy with that. It was a weekday and the place was pretty empty. Beth and I were clowning around at one hole and Thalia kind of drifted off to the previous hole. When we turned around, she was peeing into the cup. All I remember is Beth saying, “Oh, fuck!” Then we started laughing hysterically while running after her. Thalia told us she didn’t want to pee on the grass, so she chose the cup instead.

Movin’ on up and livin’ large

All the while we were renting mini Winnies, we had been looking at Class A vehicles. They were impressive. We decided to rent one after Aaron was born. He was pretty young when we went on these RV trips. He couldn’t have been more than six months old. When you’re carrying stuff for a six-month old, you need more space. That was our logic. So we moved up to an Infinity the first time out. This was at least at 32-footer, and the cost to rent it for a two-week period varied between $1,800 to $2,000. (The cost isn’t for the squeamish either.) That’s a pretty good indication of how my business was going at the time because I was self-employed by then, happily running New Wave Marketing & Public Relations. We used to rent from a place up on Route 1 North, although I can’t remember the name of it. It was an independent operation and the owner’s name was Steve. The people who worked there were great. Then, he sold to Moturis and things went to shit. The prices went through the roof (as if a couple of thousand plus insurance wasn’t enough).

Class A’s are massive compared to something like a mini Winnie. Everything about driving them is different, but I was up for it (Beth didn’t want anything to do with these). I love to drive and I’m fearless in most instances, so it was fun for me. When you plan a trip with one of these, you do so differently. You have to worry about the height of overpasses, and you really want to stick to a 32-footer because some states forbid anything bigger on certain roads. (And yes, a bigger vehicle means…a bigger shit tank, folks.) Best of all, however, are the comforts. Let me tell you, in one of these you won’t care if it’s raining greenheads or if it’s a hundred degrees outside. The one we rented had two side-outs in the living room and master bedroom, make it huge inside. There were sofas and chairs, wall-to-wall carpeting, a big screen television above the driving area and a multi-speaker stereo system. We had central heat and central air. In short, it was like driving around in a house.

Maine was a popular destination during this time. That’s because Beth and I love the ocean. We’ve only lived in a land-locked town once, and that was Winchester. Other than that, we’ve been near water: Gloucester, Beverly, and Amesbury. Amesbury may not be near the ocean, but the Pow Wow River runs through the center of town and the back road ride to our next-door neighbor, Newburyport (which is right on the ocean), is a beautiful one along the Merrimack River.

We took a second trip to Maine in a 32-footer. This time the destination was the Bar Harbor area. On the way up, we made a stop in Camden because, first and foremost, it’s beautiful. It also has Planet Toys, one of my favorite toy stores. We used to stop and get Thalia and Aaron one present each for them to use in the RV. You know, nothing extravagant. We also stayed in a great campground called Hadley’s Point. (For some reason, I could not access its web site so I couldn’t put in a link. I’ll keep trying!). On the same trip we also stayed at Megunticook RV Resort in Rockport because we had told Thalia about Andre the Seal (he actually died in 1986) and wanted her to see his memorial statue.

More than just the sole proprietor of Grim Reaper Airways

Yes, on another trip Beth proved her versatility with vehicles of size. Thank Buddha that it’s just simulated with an airplane. It was not simulated with a 32-foot RV. No siree. Motorcycles. Fine. Honda Civics. Fine. Toyota Camrys. Fine. Things get a bit dicey after that. And let me give you immediate proof. We are sitting here at the kitchen table. I am writing while Beth is using flight simulator. I heard the alarm go off and then a crashing noise. Beth then announced that she landed too hard next to the runway in Lugano, Italy. Apparently, this was a good thing since Beth had messed up and was trying to land on an outgoing runway. She would have been creamed by a huge jet. Between the sound and our laughter, Aaron figured out what was going on. “What happened? Did ma just crash land again?” Just another day of sheer hair-raising adventure with Grim Reaper.

But Grim Reaper Airways isn’t her only claim to travel fame.  Her RV adventure was on a trip to Saco River Camping Area in New Hampshire. This time we were pretty much staying put once we parked the RV. I found a great car rental deal in the area and rented a mid-sized car for the long weekend so that side trips would be less taxing on the driver (read: Me). For the moment, however, we were done with driving. Aaron had just about had enough of being on the road, so he was in his chair in the wailing mode.

Beth was outside directing me into the spot. Now, I have no problem driving these things so I was just fine. I was ignoring Aaron. For some reason, Beth was distracted by his crying even though she was outside. She wanted to be inside where he was screaming just in case he was dying or something (not very rational, but that’s our Beth). Why she thought it would be better inside was beyond me, but I wasn’t about to argue. At that point, I wanted the RV parked and Aaron picked up. She decided that she was going to pull it in. I went out to direct her. Meanwhile, Aaron was still screaming. So, if she was distracted outside where the screaming was muted, imagine how distracted she must have been inside. (And yes, you may question my judgment in allowing her to back a 32-foot RV into a space. I question it myself.)

It went sour from the beginning. I was directing her one way, and she turned the RV in the opposite direction. Even though I was yelling “Stop!” she managed to hook the bumper onto the water spigot. Then, for some unexplained reason, she put the RV into drive and almost pulled the freakin’ water spigot out of the ground. I remember running up to her door and just banging on it to get her to stop. She did. I managed to disengage the bumper from the water spigot, got in and parked the RV. The good news was that the campground equipment was fine. The bumper, was pulled out from the RV, but it was relatively minor. Luckily, I had put Beth on the driving list and I had purchased additional insurance above my own private policy. Normally a great driver, Beth would never drive an RV again. She wanted no part of that.

It didn’t matter, though. Our RVing days were coming to a close. The economy was getting tighter, and my business was sliding a bit. Our very comfortable world was about to come crashing down on us. But I’m not ready to talk about that one yet.

I loved New Orleans so much that I wanted to take Beth with me on one of my trips so that she could experience it. I was lucky enough to have a manager who allowed her employees flexibility. We didn’t want to fly, so we decided to go by Amtrak train. Since the cost was actually less than what a flight would cost at that time, the Company had no problem picking up the charge. My manager allowed me to wrap vacation around the trip — at the beginning and at the end. We didn’t have kids yet, so there was no issue with just packing up and heading out!

The first leg of the trip was Boston to New York, and we took a pretty old Amtrak train. We had a private room, but we were moving backwards — which did not do much for Beth’s stomach. The porter came to our rescue by giving us a pill called Bonine (a variation on Dramamine, I guess) and it worked perfectly. Beth also suffers from PTSD and has panic disorder. Normally, this means she climbs the walls, gets claustrophobic and ends up in full panic attack mode (very unpleasant) in small quarters…like, maybe, a train car? However, the only thing that can be more problematic is meeting new people and being in crowds. The first night, the room won. We ate dinner in our car instead of going to the dining car. She did fine with the room. This was not a sleeper because it was a short trip.

We switched to a new train at Penn Station. Our room had a sleeper with a very small shower. This train took us all the way to Chicago. I don’t remember very much on this leg of the trip. It was probably spent reading and just laying back. We started eating in the dining car and met some really nice people. There is one specific incident I remember vividly. The bed had an upper and lower berth, but we decided to sleep together on the lower berth. We’re sleeping together buck naked as we pulled into the station in Pittsburgh and came to a stop to pick up and drop off.  Half asleep, I asked, “Why am I so fucking cold here?” All of a sudden, Beth bursts out laughing, “Because you’re naked ass is pressed up against the glass and we’re in the middle of a train station.”  It was early March, so it was still cold early in the morning and late at night. Wow! I can’t tell you how quickly I moved to remedy that situation. The station was packed.

We had a layover of several hours in Chicago, another fun town. We shoved our luggage into one of the lockers at Union Station and took a cab to the Hard Rock Cafe for lunch where we had two of the most unbelievable burgers on earth.  Then it was back to Union Station to board the City of New Orleans for the 900 mile journey to our destination. The City of New Orleans is a superliner, and our room was something we’d never expected. It had a bed, a full shower and a refrigerator. It was roomy. We didn’t have to worry about anything; the meals were included in the fare.  The dining car experience could not have been better. We sat with the same people and got to know them during the time we spent together, while the Sightseer Lounge was a great way to take in the scenery. They also ran feature movies in the evening, but we didn’t have a chance to do that.  Best of all, our porter was a big old queen and we had the best time with him the rest of the trip. He gave us a list of ‘gay’ places to check out in NOLA, but we never had the chance.

Reaching our destination

We arrived in New Orleans around mid-morning on a Thursday. I had no idea we would come in through the bayou, so that was an unexpected treat. It was an amazing sight with all the cypress trees, crocs and alligators. As soon as we had collected our luggage, we took a cab to the Sheraton and slept for a few hours. It was only Thursday and I didn’t have the pre-show meeting until Sunday night. That gave us plenty of time to start seeing the town. It’s different when you travel for business. There’s typically not a lot of time to walk around during the day and explore the city. Your free time is usually spent with business associates at dinner and maybe at a club after for a few drinks. I didn’t want to spend my time at bars on this trip.

Our first day there, we visited Voodoo Authentica — just one of the Voodoo shops in the French Quarter. There was a huge cauldron cooking in the middle of the room (to this day, I wonder what was brewing in that thing), and I was completely taken in by their collection of voodoo dolls. We also visited the French Market. This place carries everything from hot sauces, to ristras, to velvet Elvis paintings.  It’s the home of the famous (or infamous, depending upon how you feel about it) gator on a stick. We had dinner at Cafe Sbisa, a restaurant that opened back in 1899 and served authentic Creole dishes. I had discovered this restaurant during a business trip and absolutely loved it. Unfortunately, it was damaged by Hurricane Katrina, reopening in 2008 under new ownership.

We missed breakfast in New Orleans the first day, but we were up bright and early the next day to go to the world famous Cafe du Monde for a traditional breakfast of Community Coffee (dark coffee and chicory) and Beignets. We had intended to go to Brennan’s at least once during the trip, but we simply couldn’t tear ourselves away from  the beignets at the Cafe du Monde. I could bore you here with the freakin’ history of the beignet — the original donut, folks, no matter what Dunkin’ Donuts and Krispy Kreme tell you, but I’ll just send you to this link which gives you its history and the authentic recipe. Every morning we were there, we’d leave the hotel and walk to the Cafe for beignets and coffee, and then we’d walk down near the Mississippi and enjoy some party material. Then, we’d set off to explore the city.

I can’t remember what we specifically did on each day, but it was a great adventure. I took Beth to K-Paul’s because it was legendary and I really wanted her to experience it.  By the way, a bit of trivia: His wife’s name is Kay. Therefore, the name K-Paul. Anyway, it was Paul Prudhomme who put cajun cooking on the map.  It was his original head chef who came up to Boston to open the Cajun Yankee that graced Inman Square in Cambridge for so many years. I used to love that place and was extremely sad to see it go. We also went to Antoine’s one night.

I have to tell you that I’ve been in the immediate proximity of famous people before, and I always fail to complete the loop and ask for an autograph. Like the time I stood shoulder to shoulder with Emmylou Harris (who was waiting for her tour bus) in the lobby of a crowded Lenox Hotel in Boston. I just stared at her. Well, Beth and I decided to go to the House of Blues for lunch one day. The place had not yet filled up and we were sitting near the stage when Allan Toussaint and Aaron Neville walked in and stood right next to our table while discussing a gig they’d be playing there sometime in the future. Aaron Neville even tipped his hat to us. We waved and then I just sat there staring. My food got cold. I’m like an idiot in those circumstances.

It’s tough to remember every thing we did. I know I bought Beth a harmonica in some downtown record store, but I can’t remember the name for the life of me. We spent a day at the Aquarium of the Americas. They had a great rainforest exhibit running during the time we were there. I remember bits and pieces of that, especially the glass archway with fish smimming above you. You’re actually walking through the middle of a huge tank exhibit.

Beth remembers that we did the Riverwalk on the same day that we went to the Aquarium. I remember the Riverwalk trip as well, but not the specific day. We went to a cooking store there and they were giving cajun cooking lessons in the morning. Beth really wanted me to sign up, but I resisted that idea because I was trying to keep from scheduling my trip the way I schedule my everyday life. I had so many deadlines and delivery dates driving my professional life that I really hated being tied to a time when I was on my own time. That’s why I never take tours. As an aside, this is the same Riverwalk that was taken out by the barge a few years after our trip (I think the accident happened in 1996).

NOLA is an incredibly interesting town. It’s historic. It’s unique. It stands out from the rest. While I know several people who have lived there and hated it (these were mostly people transplanted to NOLA from other cities), I also know many more that absolutely love visiting there for the things that make it so culturally diverse. For those who were born and grew up there, it is home.  In my mind, the unconscionable way our government handled the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina is as big a moral crime as Iraq. Somehow, somebody decided that it wasn’t worth the effort to try to save Louisiana. Then, they decided it wasn’t worth it to rebuild it, leaving so very many people like nomads without a home. Yet, we can spend billions upon billions of dollars on these two disgusting, illegal and immoral wars. I could go on about this, but I won’t here. There’s another forum for this kind of stuff.

Business crept back in for a few days, but we had two days after the show to continue exploring the city. We were exposed to our very first jazz funeral as it went through the French Quarter. It was quite a spectacle. Again, just more stuff steeped in history and tradition. And there’s just so much music everywhere there. It isn’t uncommon to just stop and listen to whomever is playing in the middle of the street. As for the train ride back, neither of us has a real clear vision of it. I think we were just plain old wiped out and probably slept most of the way home.

Let’s just say that Beth and I are both eager to return to New Orleans some day,, and this time we’d love to take the kids with us.