Tags and plates

My neighbor's vintage hearse

This week I went to the Louisiana Office of Motor Vehicles office, and registered my car in the State, and also transferred my drivers license from California to Louisiana.

I also went through the peculiar ritual of having what is called a "brake tag inspection." This involves pulling up behind a gas station and having an attendant mark off on a checklist as you turn your wipers on and off, check your turn signals, honk your horn and pump your brakes. For $25 cash, you get a decal for your windshield. Unlike in California, the state of Louisiana is not concerned about any emissions from your vehicle.

I am now a resident of Louisiana. I have registered to vote (as a Democrat) in the state of  Louisiana.

Each step seems to be a milestone. It's not really, I guess, but it sure FEELS like it!

Work ahead

My classes begin a week from today. I've ordered the required books for my classes, and they've started to arrive. I'm renting some of the books - it's cheaper than buying, and you just have to return them at the end of the term. Others, I'm buying because I think I will want to own them. Others, I'm buying digital versions of them.

So far, I've received about eight books. There are a couple more I'm waiting on.

For my "Non-Fiction as genre" class, these are actual books, not textbooks, and when I signed up for the class, I started reading the suggested list, taking them out from the Los Angeles County Library.

My other book-intense class is on British Romantic poetry, and I've got a couple of poetry anthologies. I've dipped into them randomly, but it's hard to know what poems the class will be focusing on.

In any case - it's all about reading. Books, books, books!

My phone rang

My phone rang. I picked it up. "Hello?"

"Who is this?"

"I don't know; you called me."

"Sorry, wrong number."

Hot as an oven

It must have already been high noon when I parked my car on St. Roch Avenue, just outside the gates of St. Roch Cemetery #1, for the sun was high overhead, and as I walked through the gate with its white-washed angels, the light bounced off the marble tombs and I felt it hot on my face.

New Orleans is famous for its historic cemeteries. In a city built on a marshland, interring the dead posed quite a problem, since the water table was so high. You can't bury people if they won't stay underground.  Tombs were built above ground, and family vaults made of stone were lined up in rows along branching walkways, making the cemeteries resemble cities, hence the expression "Cities of the Dead."

How New Orleans sabotages seriousness

 

Yesterday, we attended a literary event. It was hosted by the Faulkner Society and featured readings by four novelists. They had all been winners of the annual prize given by the Society; they had been invited to read their new works.

The event was held in the Cabildo, a structure dating back to 1799 when New Orleans was still a colony of Spain. It is now the home of the Louisiana State Museum, and we ascended a gracious marble staircase past historic portraits of long-forgotten dignitaries to a long, windowed gallery facing Jackson Square and running the length of the building.

The room, with its wood flooring and high ceiling, was enough of an acoustic challenge for a reading, where it's important to be able to hear every word. But I had to feel sorry for the second author to speak. The moment she opened her mouth, from the pavement below in Jackson Square, a brass band struck up, playing a lively second-line march, trombones blatting and the mighty sousaphone bump-bumping in rhythm.

Gamely, she carried on. I looked around at the audience faces, wondering if they were having as difficult a time as I did hearing her. But everyone seemed to be used to it.

The band played its set, obscuring her reading and then upstaging the Chairwoman's introduction of the third author. When it ended with applause, it was only the street noise of playing children, hawking vendors and honking car horns the fourth and final author had to compete with.

This is how New Orleans sabotages seriousness. Those with literary aspirations should take heed.

Misadventures in parking

We're still learning our way around, and learning what are the best ways to go where you want to go. Last night we learned a big lesson.

We were going to a club to hear some music in the French Quarter. The listing said the show started at 9:00. "Is the set really starting at nine, or is that when doors open?" I wondered, but we decided to try to get there by 8:45 just in case.

We drove our car from the Bywater to the Quarter, and got into a slow-moving jam on Decatur Street. It took about thirty minutes to go a few blocks. Unlike in Santa Monica, at least the street life around us was interesting to watch. Earlier that day had been the annual Red Dress Run - there were lots of revelers of both genders roaming around in their red dresses.

The parking lot was by the river at Toulouse Street. At the self-service machine we prepaid $25.00 for four hours - we knew it would be expensive, but this was an eye-opener. Still, it was close to the club, just a short walk.

Heat wave

Franklin Street in the Marigny by the Lost Love Lounge

It's been steamy. The storm clouds rise up in the distance to the north and east, but never seem to break.

Dauphine Street approaching the railroad tracks

It's going to be a hot weekend.

Swimpses

Today I ran some errands at the University, and on the way back to the Bywater I swung by a seafood store I'd read about.

Zimmer's Seafood is on St. Anthony in Gentilly, and it's known for its fresh seafood and its high-quality po-boys.

I wasn't sure what I wanted to get, but when I walked in, there was a huge bin of super-fresh looking shrimp on the counter, and a smiling lady behind it. Big fat shrimp, heads on, with their long wiry antenna waving. The price? $4.99 a pound. I walked out of the store with a pound and half, for just over six dollars.

At home, I boiled up a pot of water with a cut-up lemon and a bag of Zatarain's Seafood boil, plus a teaspoon of salt, a shake of red pepper flakes, and a bottle of Abita Amber. When it came to a rolling boil, I dumped in the shrimp, and after three minutes drained them and plunged them into a colander of ice.

Chilled, with some cocktail sauce mixed with horseradish, they were mighty fine.

Stormclouds gathering

This house, on St. Ann Street in the Treme, strikes me as a hauntingly beautiful symbol of this city. Storm clouds are gathering behind it to the north.

But before we get too sentimental, let me tell you that this house is just a block away from Willie Mae's Scotch House, where we just had some of the best fried chicken in the world for lunch.