We took a taxi to Jackson Square in hopes of grabbing a table at Cafe du Monde and ordering beignets and cafe au lait. But the sidewalk outside was packed with waterlogged people who had the same idea, and rather than waiting in the rain, we ducked into some place across the street for a quick breakfast. Cafe du Monde will have to wait.
The rain let up after breakfast, and as the sun came out and warmed the puddles, we strolled around Jackson Square, which is crowned by the magificent and gleaming St. Louis Cathedral. We then found our way to the Voodoo Museum on Dumaine Street, and paid $7 per person to spend 20 minutes perusing two rooms of randomly arranged tchotchkes. Make that $8, because we each wrote down a wish on a piece of paper, wrapped it in a one-dollar bill and offered it to the Voodoo God of Total Suckers, or somesuch spirit. (My attitude means I am in for some bad juju. I recognize this. I hope I don't jynx my wish.)
From there, we took a mule-drawn carriage tour of the French Quarter, and the guide pointed out some of the area's more notorious landmarks.
The clouds had burned off by this point, and despite the bright sun, the streets and the buildings stayed soggy all day. I get the feeling that this is what New Orleans is like: perpetually dripping. The two-thousand percent humidity heightens a heady odor of city. It smells like what sticky would smell like if "sticky" were a noun.
By the time the carriage ride wrapped up, it was getting to be lunchtime, so we strolled along the Mississippi riverfront to the French Market, an open-air farmers market and flea market that today was also hosting the Creole Tomato Festival. We sampled dishes -- featuring the succulent and beloved Creole tomato -- from some of the food booths before wandering down the street to the grounds of the U.S. Mint and the 2013 Louisiana Cajun-Zydeco Festival, today's main event.
Some 13 years ago, when I was still writing for the Journal and Courier, Purdue Convocations brought Geno Delafose and his French Rockin' Boogie band to town. I previewed the show for the newspaper, and I remember being enchanted by the idea of a six-foot-three French-speaking, accordion-playing cowboy from Eunice, Louisiana. I held onto this Lynda Barry comic, which came in his PR packet, as a keepsake of the interview. As our 2013 roadrip itinerary was taking shape, I googled Geno Delafose on a whim, just to see if he might have any performances that would coincide with our stops in Louisiana. Lucky us! He was playing the Cajun-Zydeco festival! And so I planned the trip around his June 9 show in New Orleans. That's why we left Indiana on June 7 and high-tailed it down here.
So we spent the afternoon moving our feet to Geno's zydeco grooves, and then walked back to the hotel and spent the rest of the afternoon at the hotel pool.
After a long, steamy day capped off by couple of hours at the pool, poor Clare started developing one of her patented vomit-inducing migraines. So we returned to the room where both she and Keith passed out. (Keith says he was "napping.") (Did I forget to mention the beers with lunch, the beers at the Geno show and the fruity poolside drinks?)
Charlie, meanwhile, has been fascinated with the room's safe, and has dedicated the time we spend here to unraveling the four-digit passcode that Keith set. He keeps begging for hints: "Is it a date??" "Is there a nine in it?" "Are any numbers repeated?" The keypad locks up for 15 minutes after four unsuccessful tries, so that's defintely keeping the boy occupied for long stretches.
Anyway, I took the other two kids out to dinner, and now it's early-to-bed for everyone, in hopes that we can all recharge for another big day of exploring tomorrow.
(An aside: While we were at dinner, Keith woke up and ordered room service: barbecued shrimp. And now the entire suite smells like a seafood market. Grr.)
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