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Trip report (long): Beignets, Bayous, Blues, and Ducks in the Lobby

Trip report (long): Beignets, Bayous, Blues, and Ducks in the Lobby

Old Dec 6th, 2003, 08:34 PM
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Trip report (long): Beignets, Bayous, Blues, and Ducks in the Lobby

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In a cruel twist of fortune, we have ended up owning the only dining table that can reliably seat the dozen plus immediate family persons that need feeding at major holidays. Now we love them all, but there comes a time when one more turkey-laden, festive festooned spread, however pot-lucky it might be, is one too many. Pass the dressing and the family politics, please. So this year we gave them the keys, instructions on where the various utility cutoffs are located, a supply of dog food, and our blessings, and we took to the skies for a week whilst they were free to use said table, fridge and dishwasher, especially the dishwasher, for the harvest feast minus two. The weather in New Orleans had been hovering around the eighty degree mark for a couple of weeks while our Pacific NW haunts had been flirting with, and briefly seduced by, snow and ice around a lifetime too early this fall. So the prospects of good food, new places to explore, and warm weather closed the deal.

Mon. 24th Nov. We arrived at the Royal Sonesta in the French Quarter around 8 PM, after having obtained a car for subsequent exploring (a Mercury SUV that was way too big for the hotel garage's spaces, a mistake we anticipated but the agent didn't have anything else). First surprise: the temperature was in the 30s and falling. Pesky cold fronts, people were walking around looking like it was the end of days; the strippers hanging out with the touts in the club doorways on Bourbon St. had goose bumps on their goose bumps.

The Sonesta is a lovely hotel, located on Bourbon Street. We requested and obtained a room facing the interior courtyard (a wise choice). Good internet rate; we didn't want to play Priceline roulette this time, and glad of it. We walked along Bourbon a few minutes, but didn't want to buy daiquiris or gross T-shirts, so we opted instead for dinner at the hotel's oyster bar, called Desire. Okay, not great, but easy and just fine after a day of pretzels and diet cokes, the new standard in airline cuisine.

Done with dinner, we strolled the other way, a block to Royal Street, where we went gaga over the antique and gallery window displays. One of the most concentrated collections of amazing storefronts for window-shopping either of us could remember seeing anywhere. But by this time the long day and time change had worked their magic and we felt that it was a far better thing to sack out than push the envelope and run the risk of missing out on morning glories the next day.
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Old Dec 6th, 2003, 08:41 PM
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Tues 25th. Brilliant blue sky, cold but not too. We made our way to the Café du Monde at the French Market and joined the crowds covering themselves with powdered sugar. Now, for background, Krispy Kreme arrived in the Pacific NW only a year or two ago, so those of us on the left bank are still getting used to fried pastry in the morning. However, the beignets, albeit allegedly far from the best NO has to offer, were pretty doggone good, and the fresh-squeezed OJ, at $1.49 for a decent glass, is a steal. Lots of people, fun place.

We spent most of the rest of that day walking our poor tootsies off through the French Quarter, doing some retail therapy, but mostly just enjoying the sunshine and the architecture. On that subject I have to say that we were prepared (by the reports of friends and relatives) to be disappointed in the FQ scene: honky-tonk, overly touristy, smaller than advertised. Well, not so. Yes, Bourbon Street is a dump, but not all of it, and the areas on the fringes of the Quarter are drop-dead gorgeous. It appears to be still largely a residential area, with some of the most attractive 18th and 19th Century buildings we've ever seen in North America. And a real sense of style to go with all that history. Worthy of note taking by entrepreneurs in other historic districts.

A late afternoon nap back at the hotel was followed by a two-block stroll to Emeril's NOLA restaurant for dinner. Well, what can I say? We are usually cautious about celebrity chef places, but honestly, this was one of the best meals Ms. G'loo and I have ever had, anywhere. We shared everything: butternut squash bisque and grilled oysters with brie (too rich, ditched the cheese) for starters, then hickory roasted duck and cedar-planked fish (in an amazing lemon-horseradish crust), both with outrageous sides, like cornbread pudding or green beans with candied pecans. Then what I gather is one of his signature dishes, a banana cake. Over the noise of the room we could nevertheless hear the angels singing. Friendly, expert wait staff, friendlier table neighbors (one of whom gave me a scallop that was on one of the specials that was 86ed just when we arrived, that man is a hero) and not all that expensive, considering. Emeril may be too much of a good thing, but as for this meal, bam.
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Old Dec 6th, 2003, 08:50 PM
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Weds. 26th. We drove around the Garden District for awhile, then back to the D-Day Museum that we had been told not to miss. Good suggestion: this is a very well laid-out museum that covers all the "D-days" of WWII, not just the Normandy one, but all those D-days in the Pacific and Atlantic theatres that were just as significant in their own right as the big one. A moving experience, worth subsequent visits.

Then it was back to the Garden District for more shopping and ogling of old houses, during which time the sky was beginning to lower and look more and more like all hell was going to break loose. We had a late bite at a place on Magazine, then returned to the Quarter. napped again, then went out to Preservation Hall early enough so that we could go to another music venue later, which we never did. Preservation Hall ($5, no booze, food, no soft seats or no seats period if you don't wait for one) is a great deal and the elder musicians were accomplished, fun, and obviously in love with their work. It may be touristy, but when they lit into "St. James Infirmary" the locals, tourists, kids, and people walking past on the street were all gobbled up by the music.

It was starting to rain when we went back to the hotel for a late dessert and bed, heads full of trombone riffs.

Thurs. 27th (Thanksgiving). Did I say rain? Was Noah from NOLA? Woke up and looked out the window to a deluge. Went back to bed. Finally about 10 we went down for breakfast, only to find that the hotel's restaurant was in their Thanksgiving brunch mode, which would morph into Thanksgiving dinner around noon, so no eggs or cornflakes, sorry. So we waited for a slight break that never came in the rain to duck across the street (narrow streets, but great leaps required over curbside rivers) to a coffee shop that was still offering breakfast. And drama, as it turned out: while we were waiting for the arrival of eggs and toast, a screaming waitress, apparently arguing with one of the cooks, grabbed a big ole knife in the kitchen and threatened to start carving the bird early. We didn?t see the knife, but her screaming left no one in doubt that she was submitting her resignation with some passion. The other wait staff tried to keep the orange juice coming while she hollered at the cooks, the manager, whoever. Then she calmed down and brought some plates of food to one of her tables, the customers looking at her like she was going to pour hot coffee (it wasn?t) over their heads. Then she started hollering again and grabbed her coat and umbrella (at least she was ready for stormy weather) and stomped off into the wet, just as a waterlogged NO cop in his yellow poncho turned up to take lots of notes and speak into his radio. As we left, the door person (who was trying to lure precisely no one into the café for lunch or turkey) was chanting "Jerry, Jerry" as we laughed and got ready to dash back to the hotel.

The rest of the day was spent reading, watching football, and otherwise hanging out waiting for our dinner reservation, at Arnaud's, one of the grand old restaurants, located fortuitously across the street from the Sonesta. Actually, by the time we got there the rain was slackening and people were starting to appear on Bourbon, ready to wash down their pumpkin pie with tangerine daiquiris. Dinner was splendid, the beauty of the room frankly outshining the food (which was good but not in the same league as NOLA) but the service was impeccable and nobody can screw up pecan pie.

We had intended to follow dinner with a night at the Rock 'n Bowl, a bowling alley/restaurant/music club highly recommended by several friends including a blues musician I work with. Geno Delefose was the act, regarded as one of the best Zydeco groups around, and we really wanted to go, but we were feeling blah and overstuffed, didn't feel like driving through flooded streets (tornado warnings on the TV), so we bagged it and bought a CD the next morning, which we are still enjoying. Oh well.
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Old Dec 6th, 2003, 08:57 PM
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Friday 28th. Overnight the rain ended, the clouds blew away and the next morning was another crystalline blue sky, cool and windy. We checked out of the hotel and went to Café du Monde again, sitting inside this time, picked up a couple of CDs for the road (including Geno and another cheapo blues CD given our itinerary) at the big Virgin mega-store in the mall next to the French Market, then drove back to the Garden District for some last-minute picture taking of great houses in better light. That done, we got on I-10 and headed west, our plan to get to US Hwy 61, the Great River Road, just past Baton Rouge then head north into Mississippi.

The freeway was interesting: over swampy and bayou country, along Lake Pontchartrain, the traffic thickening until it finally came to a standstill around 10 miles east of Baton Rouge. A glance of the other cars explained it: lots of yellow flags with "LSU" flapping from SUVs, and another bunch of flags, red with an angry pig, flapping from others. Big game, LSU v. Arkansas, making the freeway come to a halt.

Finally got to the cutoff, traffic vanished, and up the road we went, past endless petrochemical plants emitting vapors and flame, the road about as romantic as a zit. Just before the Mississippi line the chemical plants ended, the road became somewhat hilly (!) and the countryside got empty. We continued past signs pointing out various antebellum houses back in the Spanish Moss, but because of the football traffic we were running way late, and wanted to get to our B&B in Vicksburg before night. Thus we rather blew through Natchez, a shame because there is so much to see there. Next time. We stopped briefly in Port Gibson, the "town too beautiful to burn" as described by US Grant, who knew burning, and it is; we finally pulled into Vicksburg just at sunset, negotiated through the cute old downtown, saw the bluffs, riverboats, and casinos on the river, then found our domicile for the night, the Anchuca Mansion. Knock knock on the door, nobody's home. I refer to my booking confirmation sheet and note that someone (okay, who's to blame?) had us booked in for the following night. Oops. So we sit in the car trying to decide whether to wait for the B&B people to return (we appear to be the only guests); we call them on the cell phone and speak to the ma-chine, what to do? Then a car pulls up, out pile a group of people who turn out to be various sisters and cousins and aunts, they call the hotelkeeper, who is in a neighboring house, we are let in, our room prepped (no big deal about the wrong day) and all is well. We are referred to an Italian restaurant downtown for dinner, good but a tad overpriced, then it's back to reading and bed. Not much shakin' in Vicksburg on a Saturday night, I guess, unless it's down at the casinos, which we eschewed.
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Old Dec 6th, 2003, 09:48 PM
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Saturday 29th. This turned out to be one of those days we all have once in a while in our travels. When you look back on it, it starts taking on dimensions that are greater than the sum of the parts. At least for us, it was.. what's the word.. transcendental? Maybe too strong, but simply, wow.

Started off with a grand breakfast at the mansion: great southern cooking, more than enough delicious fuel for a long day. Then we got the complementary tour of the house, which is really quite historic. Occupied by the owners through cannonballs and shrapnel during the Siege of Vicksburg, then, variously, a Union hospital, boarding house, I forget, then acquired by the elder brother of ex-President Jefferson Davis, who hosted his bro several times once the former CSA leader was released; evidently "Jeff" (everybody talks about the Confederate brass like they were poker pals) gave his last public address from the balcony of Anchuca. There was a CSA flag (stars and bars, not the battle flag) furled up next to the balcony, lots of beautiful furniture and home décor acquired by the current owners, very lovely stuff.

We took our leave then drove through the national battlefield, which is impressive not so much for the grandiose monuments erected by the various southern states but by the sheer size of the field, the thousands of graves, both Union and Confederate, and the sense of place that these tragedies always impart. (Impressive but not in the same league as some other battlegrounds we've visited, the Little Big Horn still being in a class by itself IMO.)

Then we left that part of Mississippi (the glories of times past) and headed up the Great River Road, not the current Highway 61 (which is a 4-lane near-freeway past auto wrecking yards and Krystal burger places, now there's a mistake you only make once) but the "old" road that runs along the river where ever it can. We were transported within minutes into the by-God Mississippi Delta: miles of cotton fields, a few houses, none of them suitable for Jeff to stay in, one-room churches, swamps and bogs and Spanish Moss. We plopped in a CD we'd bought in anticipation of this area, a soundtrack from Martin Scorsese's history of the Blues (recently on PBS) and listened to the music while we drove along the tops of levees all by ourselves, passing what looked like sharecropper shacks, the occasional place selling fried tamales (yes, later) oxbow lakes and seeing the big river from time to time. The music just flat out transported us: it was one of those times when you don't want to talk and you don't want the road to end. "Magic" is a cliché but that's what it was.

Then it got stronger when we pulled into Clarksdale and navigated ourselves to the Museum of the Blues. For those that don't know, Clarksdale, around 50 or so miles south of Memphis, is at the "Crossroads of the Blues," a.k.a. the junction of Highways 61 and 49. More musicians of note have come from this area than seems fair: blues, early rock, and the place just feels like that's proper. The town is poorer than dirt, utterly not taken with its status (a street named for local John Lee Hooker, plus the museum, is about it). But go into the museum and see the testimonials from everyone from the Beatles to the Stones, Eric Clapton... the list looks like someone went through a music encyclopedia and stuck names around arbitrarily.

The museum itself is a sweet and humble little place, with exhibits that include Muddy Waters' childhood cabin, the story of how "Lucille" the guitar got its/her name, a bunch of cotton bales laying around, and lots of signs in German and French, recognizing how much bigger the blues is in Europe per capita than it seems to be in the US. We spent a couple of hours poking around, including some commerce at the excellent little gift shop, then exited into the sunset feeling like we?d waited way too long in our lives to get in touch with this part of America.

So what else to do but break the funk with some barbecue? We had heard that Abe's Barbecue stand in Clarksdale, run by the original Abe's son, Abe, was not to be missed, so we didn't. Oh sweet JC, that was worth the whole trip. It's located right at the crossroads, where Robert Johnson the legendary blues musician, allegedly sold his soul to the devil in order to become a star; I don?t know about stardom but ours were possibly negotiable for the ability to eat two orders of ribs. No buyers appeared, a good thing. As it got dark it was Highway 61 Revisited (yes, that's the source of Bob Dylan's album title) and we moved on to a planned overnight in Tunica, just south of the Tennessee line. We played more music, blues and gospel on the CD and radio
respectively, and felt like we were in a pretty special place.

The reason the devil wasn't there to negotiate the terms of our deal in Clarksdale was that he was busy in his headquarters a few miles up the road. Mississippi, probably smarting under repetitive last-place finishes in various national rankings, has apparently decided that selling one's soul should be done on a bigger scale. Thus I present to you Tunica. The town itself is actually fairly attractive, no doubt bolstered by revenues from Sodom just up the road. But go north a couple of miles, and behold, Vegas without the sand, Monte Carlo without, well, everything. Casino hotels glowing like mother ships, one after another, along the river. Harrah's, Golden Nugget, Sam's Town, names familiar to anyone who's infatuated with dollar slots and bad buffets.

So sure, we stayed there, noting among other things that the south is still very smoker-friendly. I asked for a non-smoking room and the counterperson looked at me like I had asked for a private pool. Standard casino stuff, otherwise: tight slots, tighter slot players, fools splitting nines, the usual. I lost. Ms. G'loo stayed put in the room, mimicking Tam O'Shanter's wife, "nursing her wrath to keep it warm." Fortunately we didn't need to eat till morning, the aftermath of Abe's still with us. But Tunica felt like it was in another dimension from Clarksdale, albeit only 30 minutes up the road.
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Old Dec 7th, 2003, 02:19 AM
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great review. We'll have to add you to the best of Fodors list. LMF
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Old Dec 8th, 2003, 07:47 AM
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I particularly enjoyed "a road about as romantic as a zit" -- thanks for sharing
 
Old Dec 8th, 2003, 08:13 AM
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Sunday 30th: Just at the Tennessee line the land raises into low bluffs, and by the time Hwy 61 gets into downtown Memphis the landscape is utterly different from the Delta, a striking transformation. We went straight to the Peabody Hotel, where I had booked us thinking that you have to stay in nice places whenever you can, and the Peabody had great rates that week. Checked in and were told we'd been upgraded to the William Faulkner Suite, next door to the WC Handy suite. Okay, no problem.

The Peabody was simply one of the best hotels we've ever stayed in: stunningly beautiful, friendly, a bed that felt like the advertisements said it would, and, of course, ducks. In the lobby there's a beautiful Italian marble fountain, and half a dozen ducks inhabit the pool at its foot. Started as a prank in the 1930s by a previous owner, the ducks are now the hotel's trademark and everything in the place is duck-themed. Every morning the bell staff set up a red carpet and velvet ropes, an elevator door opens, and through the lobby waddle the fountain's residents, who then paddle and quack all day in the fountain, only to waddle back to the elevator (managed by the hotel "Duckmaster") at 5 PM, thence to their duck quarters on the roof. What a hoot.

By this point things musical had turned into a trip theme, so we set off on an afternoon of pilgrimages. First stop was Sun Records, where we took the tour of the studio where Sam Phillips discovered/recorded, among others, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash, Howlin' Wolf, Carl Perkins, and of course the two Kings, BB and The. The tour, conducted by an enthusiastic and knowledgeable twenty-something, was entertaining and very visual, ending in the studio itself where music is still recorded overnight after the tourists have gone back to their ducks. The gift shop/soda fountain (RC and Moon Pies) was staffed by perforated and tattooed younguns who were well aware that most of the people visiting that could remember when rock 'n roll was hitting its stride were now older than their parents. They too were knowledgeable and enthusiastic about working at the source.

Glowing, we then moved on down Elvis Presley Boulevard to, of course, Graceland. After being inundated with Elvisiana nonstop since we'd arrived, we paid our parking fee, walked through the switchback corridors to get to the ticket window (past his jets, looking rather forlorn next to the parking lot), took one look at the prices, and said, y'know, this is not what we want to do during our one afternoon in Memphis. So we went (where else) to the gift shop, bought a bumper sticker for Ms.'s ride saying "Thank you, thankyouverymuch," watched a promo movie (copies available for $29.95 you-know-where) and beat it. (Oh wait, that's another singer's line.) So no Jungle Room for us. RIP, your majesty.

Back to hotel for nap, then we're walking in Memphis. Around the corner from the hotel we stop at the Blues City Café at the corner of Beale Street for tamales, barbecue and/or steak. Make that Steak: the place only sells steaks that are at least 2 pounds, up to 4 pounds, which they cut up into pieces, pile on a plate with potatoes, and serve to two or more gobsmacked customers like us. We noted that at the relatively early hour we were dining (8 PM?) the place was full of extremely well-dressed men and women who were either (a) returning from or going to Sunday night church services, or (b) were on their way to music gigs around the corner and needed to gas up for the night. I vote for (b) although it could have been both I suppose. Great people watching, and the steer was a credit to his species.

It was Sunday night and cold, and many of the clubs on Beale Street were shut; nonetheless we had no difficulty finding a place where rockabilly and blues were emitting from the door. Two guys were playing guitar, blues and bass, and a young kid was drumming in an extremely bare bar named after WC Handy. They were playing for tips, there were 10 people in the place counting the bartender and waiter, and they were good. One of the patrons turned out to be the drummer's mother, that sort of scene. Lots of audience participation, then this rather diminutive African-American guy comes in the door, dressed impeccably in a black suit, black shirt, black/white tie and a black pork pie hat, shades of course, and everyone makes a fuss over him. Finally he consents to sing, and performs "Mustang Sally," in such a way that his middle name has to be "wicked," to a house with half a dozen patrons and an empty street outside the open door. Ms. G'loo thought afterward that he was someone she'd seen in a road troupe performance of "Smokey Joe's Café" but even if it wasn't him it could have been. Momma. I didn't catch his name, Raheem something or Something Raheem. If anyone can figure out who I'm talking about, let me know.

That was the kind of night and place it was: most of the clubs closed, the Sunday night after Thanksgiving, the main action at the airport, and here we are hearing performers that can make a living anywhere, but instead are working for tips in a bar named after WC Handy on Beale Street in Memphis. That is, as they say, the Real Deal. We returned to the hotel, walking with our feet ten feet off of Beale as the man said.
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Old Dec 8th, 2003, 09:01 AM
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Monday Dec. 1st: We had to buy prezzies for the family, so the next morning we hit the gift shops in the Peabody, where everything is duck themed, including many, many items so cute your credit card is in serious jeopardy. The previous evening, we had gone gaga over some shirts and men's clothing in one of the hotel shops, so we looked closer (and ultimately bought an outrageous "rock and roll" shirt (modified bowling genre) for our son. The man who helped us was the owner of the shop. Over the register was prominently displayed his photograph (as a younger man) standing next to Elvis; evidently he was one of The King's chief haberdashers. Met them all, a zillion stories. Sweet man and an astute business operator. And the cousin of a famous gangster. Herself swears that Mac Davis, formerly of TV and recording fame, was shopping in the back of the store while we were chatting out front. How retro can you get?

We left the hotel and toured the Gibson Guitar factory shop, ogling at instruments costing as much as a small condo, then drove around town for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, admiring the big houses and decrepit slums, then to the airport, farewell to our land yacht, and waited for American Airlines to bring on the pretzels. Sunset departure, over the Mississippi and a watery-looking Arkansas to Dallas for a plane change, then west into the rain and home.

We couldn't help feeling pretty philosophical as we talked about it on the flights and since. The world is a lot smaller than it was when Louis Armstrong was playing in the Quarter or when the migration from the cotton fields into the cities, first Memphis then Chicago and beyond, was underway. There's a lot of sad history along the Mississippi, and the landscape reflects it in a way. But there's also redemption, and not just the kind sung about on Sundays. America is blessed with these places, where the music and the culture and the cities have not all been swept aside by chain stores and blandness. Gritty, dangerous in places, ugly in places, and given to excesses, it's not a paradise. But baby, it is real. Still. Go see for yourselves.


(And don't mess with just a half rack at Abe's. They have bags to go.)
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Old Dec 8th, 2003, 11:55 AM
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Gardyloo! WWWWOW! Now THAT was a trip report. You are an excellent story teller and true historian of the blues.
Now tell me, where can I see Soloman Burke?
R5
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Old Dec 8th, 2003, 11:57 AM
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Great report. Thank you for your contribution to the forum. Its very much appreciated.
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Old Dec 8th, 2003, 11:57 AM
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...I mean solomOn ...
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Old Dec 8th, 2003, 12:04 PM
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Did the Peabody gift shop still have the phones made out of mallard ducks? And the prints with 'Ski Mississippi' on them (with a picture of a farmer behind a tractor?)
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Old Dec 8th, 2003, 12:36 PM
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Razzledazzle - Europe for the rest of this year, then a national tour (it looks like) in the spring.

Wsoxrebel - Duck phones, probably, over there behind the duck aspirin and the duck toothpaste. Didn't see that poster, LOL.
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Old Dec 8th, 2003, 01:00 PM
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What an outstanding report -- useful details, presented with good humor and considerable style. I'm saving it as a reference when we plan our New Orleans-to-Memphis road trip. Thank you, Gardyloo!
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Old Dec 8th, 2003, 08:34 PM
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Hey Gardyloo, greetings from Memphis! Great read, but then I've always enjoyed your stories. No exception this time. Appreciate the time and thought in writing it.

If you make it back anytime soon, Stax Records (Soulsville USA) has been rebuilt as a museum too. Starting point for Otis Redding, Isaac Hayes (who's still around town), Booker T & the MGs, etc. Music seemed like a general theme on your trip, so just thought I'd toss that out.

FYI, as you wandered Beale, if you spotted the Rum Boogie Club, a personal fav spot, it's name comes from an episode of the Three Stooges.
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Old Dec 9th, 2003, 07:13 AM
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Gardyloo, what a fun report! My sister-in-law comes from NO so we've gotten lots of insider tips from her, but after reading your report, I think we should branch out a bit more and explore areas around NO. You certainly had a good trip!
 
Old Dec 9th, 2003, 01:37 PM
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Gardyloo - A fabulous report - one of the best I've ever read. If you're not earning money writing...you could be.

And I agree 100 percent with your comments about what's good about NO..I'm sick of people who take a glance at Bourbon Street and wipe off the whole town.
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Old Dec 9th, 2003, 03:56 PM
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All this and SoWest Airline is having a sale for trips to NOLA.
:-? Hmmmm...Kings at the Hornets on 12-18???
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Old Jan 14th, 2013, 06:38 AM
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Ha! what a great narrative of your trip. you have a gift my friend, and you've given me the gift of many insights, place to go and things to see during our trip down there this coming spring. thank you so much!!!
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