There & Back Again

Watching the red sun rise in the East over the endless miles of Illinois crop fields isn’t the worst way to start the day, all be it a little early for my liking. From the large windows of our spacious, trundling Amtrak train the silos, farms, highway traffic and occasional gatherings of trees are silhouetted against the grapefruit backdrop, the sun now rising from the horizon and burying itself among the clouds; the occasional ray peering through over the infinite Mid Western plains. In a couple of hours we’ll be in Chicago.

The 20 hour journey from New Orleans has been just about as comfy as possible, although my arse is numb and my sleep was rotten in nothing more than a firm reclining chair. But as far as public transportation goes, the Amtrak trains afford masses of space, wide comfortable seats, friendly service and convenient amenities. 20 hours is still a heck of a long time to be stuck on a train.

Our last few days spent in New Orleans was little different from our first few. In the daytime we sunbathed by and in the pool, strolled around different areas of the city to take it all in, ate damn well and spent our evenings, well into the mornings, drinking and enjoying the sights and more particularly the sounds of Frenchman Street.

When Ash was feeling human again on Monday we took advantage of the slightly cooler weather to have a real good gander around the French Quarter. Up and down Decatur and Royal, stopping for a late lunch of sugar laden French beignets at the famous Café du Monde, perusing the wares on offer at the French Market and gazing out at the massive tankers and cargo ships cruising along the monstrous murky estuary of the great Mississippi River. We were getting on for hot and exhausted by the time we crashed back in at the hostel.

Tuesday was a slower day. Tired and hungover we eventually got our act into gear and went down to Surreys café in the Garden Quarter to enjoy a real stodgy Southern brunch of freshly squeezed juice and crumbly, buttery biscuits and gravy. To any Englishman the notion of biscuits and gravy sounds insane, and wrong, but trust me the Southern speciality is very different, very delicious, and I presume very unhealthy! Biscuits are more like our scones, but less dense and more savoury. Gravy is a thick creamy coloured sauce, not something you’d drizzle over a roast dinner, like our brown alternative back home.

Another night saw us pandering up and down Frenchman, in and out of bars. We swung by the Spotted Cat for a while and retired to the Apple Barrel once the band began to pack up. The barman had been serving us the previous night at the Spotted Cat and got friendly with us; as such we spent the rest of the night engaged at the bar in many a passing conversation with Curtis the barman and various other patrons. After perhaps one bourbon and coke too many we somehow found ourselves safely home—this became a bit of a New Orleans routine.

By Wednesday we felt we’d ran out of things to do in Crescent City. There’s no doubt that there was probably plenty ore we could have occupied ourselves with, but I think we’d just lost interest. Our plans to take a trip into town for a last minute shop around were subsequently squashed when, as we were walking out the door, a mighty torrent of tropical storm erupted above and from nowhere the heavens unleashed a furious barrage of warm, heavy rain. We hid in the TV area of the common room whilst waiting out the unexpected downpour but became mesmerised watching Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven, the film Dakota suggested watching on our last night in Nashville. It was a sign! We gave up on our half-arsed plan and headed into town several hours later instead.

After a delicious meal (or at least I thought so) at a gourmet pizza kitchen, we once again wound up on Frenchman in the same bars we’d frequented the previous nights. Curtis, or as I began to drunkenly refer to him (much to Ash’s disapproval) ‘C-Cat’, was behind the bar again at the Apple Barrel. For the majority of the night we were, once again, at the bar. We ended up getting on so well with the cool cat that he had our next round of drinks always waiting ready for us, (easy enough as we drank the same thing all night—bourbon and coke) and kindly even spared us a couple of drinks and shared a couple of shots on the house.

After Randy, the brilliant blues guitarist who’d been rocking the joint all night, packed up and the bar closed, we joined Curtis for a few drinks at some of the local later-closing establishments. As the night rolled into the morning we discussed travelling, music, the States, poetry and Beat literature and much more in between. Curtis was one of the few fascinating people, like Billy in Clarksdale, Bob Lever in Nashville and Ryan from Music City Hostel who you can quite happily chat away with for hours. It was a good way to finish up in New Orleans.

How we weren’t disgustingly hungover yesterday I haven’t a clue, perhaps we’ve built up a resistance! We dragged ourselves out of bed, out of the hostel and on a train out of the South towards the cooler lands of the North, to Chicago.