Gone Traveling--Day #2

Tuesday morning, I got up with the sun, shook a few residual cobwebs out of my head, and grabbed my trusty running foot. I'd been so looking forward to running here and today was the day.I headed up to the river by the Governor Nichols wharf, predictably arriving just as one of the incredibly long and aggravatingly slow trains arrived at the crossing, forcing my to cool my heel for about ten minutes. Man, I remember when I used to hop these trains, only to jump back off because I could literally walk faster. A couple of times I'd even dropped to the ground and quickly rolled under them rather than wait for them to clear the crossing. Damn, I was dumb once. Well maybe I still am. I was tempted but abstained mainly because I wasn't drunk and because I didn't want to get my nice new Army Ten Miler running shirt all dirty. I'm reasonably sure that I could have done it, though, (Note: kids, it's never a good idea to hop onto or scoot under moving trains. Things were different back in my day. Leave the trains alone. Stay in school.)

As I waited, a girl of sorts about twenty years old slunk up next to me. The ratty, unwashed hair and facial piercings told me all that I needed to know: Gutter punk.

And that's ok. I generally don't mind individual gutter punks. They're only a nuisance when there's a pack of them. For those not from New Orleans, gutter punks are what everyone else calls the homeless Goth kids who loiter around the river and beg for enough money to buy drugs and booze. They're the lowest social caste in the French Quarter, even below the old alcoholic bums who sleep on the park benches, reason being that old bums don't steal...gutter punks are known for it.

As the train passed, I could see her getting all antsy. as it turned out, her friends were on the other side and they had the bottle of liquor. She loudly cursed the "stupid money train."

OK, I was bored and somewhat curious so I asked her what she meant. She pointed to all of the slowly-passing train cars and said "It's all the oil...nothing but money for the rich bastards!"

I looked at the train cars. "There's no oil in there," I said. "These are phosphates."

She looked at me as if she was trying to decide if I was messing with her.

"And these cars here, they've got grain in them. Taking it to the ports to feed the world," I said.

"How do you know that?" she sneered.

"Reading is fundamental," I replied. "It says so on the cars. Besides, these are bulk cars, not tank cars. And those ones coming? Pressurized tanks. Probably propane. Sorry, still no oil."

She turned away and didn't look at me or speak again, not even when several real oil tanks rolled past us. Not that she could tell. Finally the train cleared the crossing and I got to run along the river like I'd planned.

I ran along the waterfront down past the steamer Natchez and the aquarium. I then ran under the ferry ramp and back to the river, following it alongside the Riverwalk Mall, only mall ever to be hit by a ship, far as I know. I was actually in the Quarter when it happened and heard the ship's horn and the big bang. As Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane used to say: "What a horrendous crash!"

But I digress.

I ran back to the Governor Nichols wharf again (seen at the upper right in the photo), then turned around and ran back to the aquarium. I was just enjoying the river breeze. I then went back to the Governor Nichols wharf and ran down through the French Market as the vendors were setting up. I then ran up Barracks Street to the dog park at Dauphine and ran Dauphine back down to Iberville. The run took me about an hour and probably covered about four miles. It felt good, but not nearly as good at the hot shower that followed. Breakfast at Mena's concluded the AM festivities. I used to frequent Mena's back when I lived local because it was one of the few places where someone without the deep pockets of a tourist or a business professional could eat good food cheap.

Next, I wandered down Chartres street to one of my favorite used book stores just off Jackson Square. I grabbed a few paperbacks and retired to the Community Coffee shop over on Royal to sit in the big overstuffed chairs and read while sipping my overpriced but very tasty caffeine drink. I stayed there for a while then headed off to find some dinner.

This time, I chose Cafe Maspero, long a favorite of mine. (The shrimp plate is great, and they give you a ton of it.) By this time, I was having trouble with my walking leg since I'd taken it apart for cleaning earlier and hadn't gotten a spacer back in just quite right. All it takes is for it to be a few degrees out of place and it gets to be unbearable. So I was sitting in the restaurant, hungry and tired and my leg was sore. All I wanted to do was put my leg up for a bit, so I pulled the other chair at my table around into the aisle and put my leg up on it. Ahhh...that felt good. Of course it was in the way of the waitresses and anyone else who wanted to walk through, but this wasn't really registering on me, probably at least in part because of the steady diet of beer that I'd been consuming all day. Finally however, my waitress--a cute little gal who looked like she was about 14 years old--came up to me and very politely told me that I was blocking the aisle. I told her that I was sorry, but that my leg was kind of sore and I just needed to stretch it out for a bit. She sympathized but again asked if I wouldn't mind putting my foot under the table.

Well I'm nothing it not cooperative, so I reached down and detached my foot and put it under the table, leaving the rest of my leg right where it was. "How's that?" I asked.

Somewhere in my alcohol-dulled brain, this made sense to me, but she immediately got all flustered and began apologizing to me over and over, saying that she hadn't realized. I tried to tell her that it was ok, but she kept apologizing, and then she took off, and a minute later she came back with the manager, who also began to apologize. I finally got them to understand that I wasn't offended in the least, but the incident was definitely amusing, not only for me but for people at several nearby tables.

After dinner, I spent the rest of the evening cruising Bourbon Street, drinking the beer and taking in the feminine sights.










Then I hung out with with Detrick, a former neighbor and long-time acquaintance of mine, who is better known as Goldie, the French Quarter's most well-known street performer.
Now I didn't film this--just found it on YouTube--but that's pretty much how he is most days. Great guy, even if he is an Obama supporter. We go back at least ten or eleven years and we've had some good times and more than a few deep conversations. His daughter just recently graduated law school and landed a pretty good job with a firm up in New England. I called it an early night because I had places to be the next day, so midnight found me back in my room hitting the hay. Man, I love this city.