I wish I was in New orleans

On Feb. 3, 2016, I hopped in a rental car with my friends, Brian and Veronica, and we trucked down through Iowa and Missouri, catching up to I-55 in a straight shot down to Louisiana in the hopes of getting into Abita Springs for a tour of the Abita Brewery, a sampling of various brews in their tasting room and to pick up hearty supplies for a weekend celebrating New Orleans and the Mardis Gras culture. These are a few of the social media posts I collected along the way. (Photos in reverse-chronological order, for now)

St. Charles rests, nary a sign of the handful of Mardis Gras parades, except of the random bead strands, the occassional barricades and side-stree Porta-Potties. A homeless man sleeps in an alcove near Avenue Cafe. The neon lights and lit store-fronts illuminate the way for wanderers toward downtown, heralding the decedance and debauchery on Bourbon. Trolley tracks wait for the car to return to service, it's path cleared of trash, and the dirt and soil trodden by a million steps. This city of a thousand ghosts can't be put to rest yet tonight, as there's a few more hours to go before God calls us to repent, fast and pray to ancient saints and saviors. I won't be partaking in that time-honored tradition of beads for bare tits, but perhaps one day I'll bear witness to this event. Until then I rest and recuperate and prepare for the second Market trip of this vacation and the long drive back home.

A photo posted by Tripp J Crouse (@trippjcrouse) on Feb 9, 2016 at 6:48pm PST

I reconnected with my friend, Angela, whom I met my college freshman year, which was 18 years ago. We hadn't seen each other since then and only in the last few years were we able to reconnect via Facebook. She's lived in San Diego, Nashville and now in Mandeville, which lies on the North Shore of Louisiana. We went out for lunch and drinks, some walking around, and we managed to snap this before she had to head back.

Mourning and grief drive me to Hastings and Felicity, site of the historic campagno Magazine triangle, est. 1853, its salmon colored brick set apart by a seaweed green facade and blue trim. I lean under an apartment overhang, the word "magazine" set into sidewalk tile denoting the road markings. The second floor living room is held aloft by yellow concrete posts, with the same blue accent on the building's facing. The cool wind carries drunk wishes and regrets like yesterday's front page Picciune. All I can do is keep walking ...

A photo posted by Tripp J Crouse (@trippjcrouse) on Feb 9, 2016 at 5:09am PST

St. Charles Tavern welcomes post-parade partiers and vagabonds alike. Observing from my table, an elderly gentlemen in Salvation Army clothes and jacket sits at the bar, hovering over my single-seating corner spot. He speaks in an un-intelligible tongue, a cross between deep bayou creole and a homeless guy's cant. The waitress, tattooed and pierced at the septum and the bridge of her nose, makes pleasant chat with him and the young, bald-by-choice (though not much of one) man with glasses and a barely pubescent fu manchu stylized facial hair. The table next to me pantomimes and shouts hysterical, comical stories about friends and family, the way Southern preachers regal parishioners with Bible tales of fire and brimstone. Outside a young child zooms by on a tiny go cart, whipping along on the sidewalk and navigating hairpin 180s. One server professes to be from Baltimore, Maryland, when pressed by some customers, and my mind instantly turns to David Simon's "Homicide" and HBO's "The Wire." I wonder what part of Baltimore, why she came here and what she thinks about New Orleans. This pub seems to be at world's end, where weary travelers weather out some cosmic storm, an apocalypse of sorts, where the only salvation is a story or song.

A photo posted by Tripp J Crouse (@trippjcrouse) on Feb 9, 2016 at 5:04am PST

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I have to stop again, a testament to the fatigue and wear on my body, a blister on my right heel begs me to stop, in...

Posted by Tripp Crouse on Sunday, February 7, 2016

I drifted past sleepwalking revelers and the various shop service personnel sweeping away last night's fanfare. The Pot O Gold crew were busy sucking up the excrement and possibly vomit from the plastic latrines circling the Robert E. Lee Memorial at the St.Charles roundabout, like wagons protecting the women and children from the savage redskin. My trek along the asphalt footpath of broken dreams and dispair took me to Tschopotoulis, hanging a left, I sauntered by Emeril's (which I can only imagine is the Nola location gor the guy that yells "Bam!" when ever he cooks -- I have imagine he says this at the point of coital climax ... It's funnier that way) and an Italian hand-made suit and dress shop. I turn again, reaching Canal and hang a left up to where Magazine and Decatur kiss, like one-night stand lovers. I follow the signs to the Quarter and the Market, and step into the the pole building slowly filling with shopkeeper and patrons. The smell of Louisiana cuisine dances through the air and distracts me from the various wares layed out on folding tables and wire racks. The shop owners belong to a wide array of origins: black American, Veitnamese, African, Lebanese -- a testiment to the American dream's draw and a sense of making it in the land of freedom. The colors of Africa and the West Indies tempt my eye, while the jewelry's gleam and glitter beckon me. I settle on some rings, though I desperately look for some "cool, goth vampire stuff" for someone. I bounce from market and shop lining the street before finding an ATM (one booth only takes cash) to pay for a finger-claw ring, and then turn my attention to breakfast and filling my belly full of New Orleans breakfast at Cafe Fluer de Lis on Bunker/Decatur: pain purdue, crawfish bouidin, cheesy grits, eggs and white toast ( I'm mocked of my preference by my cracker white-bred friends for the irony).

A photo posted by Tripp J Crouse (@trippjcrouse) on Feb 9, 2016 at 5:14am PST

I try to start into the eggs, until the waitress, Samantha, a small specimen of a woman, cute in a plain Jane way with lower back length brown hair tied back with subtle blonde highlights (something I notice as her lockes swish back and forth as she ferries orders table to table) brings me the french toast. This is no ordinary Friench toast, my friends: crisp and fresh French loaves, sliced so they'll stand, towering over the plate with slanted rooves, the way the Pisa tower tilts, waiting seductively to be lathered in butter, sliced into edible chunks, and dipped into syrup. If I tell you that food in the Big Easy is a sexual experience, then please trust me friends, otherwise, you are doing it wrong! My eggs and toast were typical, standard fare, but the grits and boudine (ground crawfish mixed with spices and stuffed into skins like sausage) were fantastic. I ordered a mocha light on whipped cream, pay my tab and let out to find some goth clothing shops nestled away on the Quarter the way hermit crabs take shelter in tiny conch shells. I'm stopped on my way to Wicked Orleans by a Tibetan free thinker dressed like a hip hop minstrel, and I trade him $20 for some books on philosophy and a rock CD that im interested in hearing (everyone has a hustle in the Quarter, like magicians selling magic tricks on the street. I just miss the crowds, I realize, when I hit Jackson Square and the multitude of artists, one from which I buy a small painting of Eve, the first woman adorned with Dragonflies, fo another $20. I finish typing this, readers, resting my blistered feet and bruised heels in the shadow of Andrew Jackson. This park bench is my brief respite, before the long walk back to St. Charles and like the wind, I pick my direction and make out, setting tiny tree leaves a flutter in my wake.

A photo posted by Tripp J Crouse (@trippjcrouse) on Feb 9, 2016 at 5:23am PST