It’s About Gratitude. Not About the Crowd Size.

Speaking about Thanksgiving with folks this year, before the actual day, had one thing in common: everyone was planning for big parties! Not many were talking about dishes they'd make or drinks they wanted to try. But everyone made sure they started with "it's gonna be a good crowd." Everyone was getting together with their families, their friends, their friends’ friends and their neighbors’ friends.

One coworker said his family is so large, there will be 70 of them for Thanksgiving so his mom, the traditional hostess, had to rent a space at their church to accommodate everyone. I cannot imagine having this large a crowd for a yearly holiday meal. I had 10 people at my wedding and that included the two of us. 

I am not sure it’s by choice, maybe our lives chose this, not us - but we’ve mostly always spent Thanksgiving with just the two of us. There were exceptions but so few and far between that I cannot even remember when they happened. 

Don't get me wrong - I am a fan of big parties with lots of noise and lots of eating, drinking, and dancing ... I grew up on them! But for some reason, my own life took a different turn. And I have been able to enjoy the quiet of a one-person or a two-person celebration, too.

This made me think back at the three years in my life when I spent Thanksgiving alone. Just alone, if you're not counting the cats. And I never felt left out somehow. I have particularly enjoyed this holiday because it’s almost the only one that is really just about the food and nothing else. That and counting your blessings. And food is a blessing ... So many people don’t have the minimum of it to survive. 

Among other things, Christmas is also about the presents and the tree; Easter (my favorite) is about going to church and all the rituals; New Years is a drinking and music holiday. But Thanksgiving is just food. You can be a glutton and it’s OK, because you’re celebrating bounty. 

But if you’re alone this year and maybe feeling a little down, take it from me - you don’t need to ... As someone who has spent several Thanksgivings (and many other holidays too) alone, here’s a list of things you can enjoy and hope you can be grateful about: 

• You can cook your own comfort food, not whatever is mandated by tradition. Not a fan of stuffing or sweet potatoes? You want French fries instead? Do it! 
• There is no one to criticize your cooking. No one to tell you the turkey is too dry and the stuffing too wet ... 
• Don't count calories. Who cares you cannot zip up your pants? You’re alone. Wear sweats! 
• Watch as much tv as you want. No one to fight over the remote with. David Attenborough sounds more appealing than a football game? Do it ... 
• Nap to your heart’s content. 
• Take a walk in the middle of the day just because. Or don’t. You’re not offending anyone.  
• Repeat.
• If you did cook, enjoy leftovers for so many more days than when you would split them with many others.
• Drink a nightcap or 10. Who’s counting? 
• Even if you’re not in the mood to cook, make some cookies and make the house smell good
• Enjoy the time off from work.

Be grateful for all of this. For little things like fuzzy socks and non-stick cookware, and for the big things like the roof over your head, your car, and not lastly, your health, or at least your mobility if you have it. 

Focus on all of these things, and think about the bounty that is your life.. I wish we could all always appreciate what we do have rather than mourn what’s not there ... But the human monkey mind doesn’t work this way ... Maybe this could be a good reminder ...  

Billions of people on this planet don't have these luxuries. How lucky should you really feel that you have all or more things like these available to you? 

Of course we could and should be grateful every day. But I do like special days when important things are brought into focus and are not lost in the shuffle of every day. Like love, and gratitude, like life and the celebration of what has been achieved or the welcome celebration of a new page that is just getting started ... And Thanksgiving is one of these days ...

Life is short. Enjoy the little or the very much you already have! Your very little is someone else's jackpot or dream. Be grateful for everything you do have, for it is never forever ... 

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

Why I Travel

As I walk through the security line at the airport, I notice the guy in front of me, athletic, all button-down shirt and casual cargo pants, with black thick-frame glasses that turn colors as you move in and out of the light. He  carries nothing through security but a black, almost perfectly square cooler. I figure he must have some affliction and he needs his meds kept cold (I know from experience). But appearances and our own biases can be (and very often are) deceiving. 

He pulls a plastic bag out of the cooler, with three (3) frozen solid bottles of Deer Park water. He puts them in the TSA tray and leaves the cooler open. The TSA agent warns the screening guy that “frozen water, coming up!” and moves on to help me with my bag. The athletic guy moves along through the people scanner, chewing gum, completely non-chalant and well-possessed, not even blinking. No explanation. No fuss. Like he owns the world. 

The guy behind me says to the TSA guy: “Excuse me. Umm...What is that, exactly? You are allowed to transport water bottles through TSA if the bottles are frozen?” The TSA guy goes “Yes, sir! That’s right!” The guy behind me says “Well, I don’t agree with it, but wow! Just wow!”

In my mind, I say: “Sorry, buddy, your authority nor opinion is needed here. Move along.” But yes, I am wowed too. 

After I clear security, the first thing I do is google “can you take frozen water bottles through security?” and lo and behold, yes, you can! This just completely baffled me. I have been traveling consistently by plane since 1998 - for those hard of math, that is 27 years. I have counted 10 one-way airline trips (some of them with multiple flights) this year alone and I have never known of such a rule. This was a lesson ... 

As I continue my journey, I come to my gate and we’re ready to board. They tell us, as they often do, nowadays, that the plane is full and to make sure we board quickly and sit down immediately, not to block the aisles, you know ... the usual. Then, they call people by “zones” (some airlines board by groups, some by zones). They call First Class, then Zone 1, then Zone 2. We all wait. And wait. And not one person boards in Zone 1, nor 2. I have never seen such a thing. Again, ever, in all my travels are whole “zones” completely empty with “a full flight”. The gate agent seems totally OK with this, but we’re all looking around like “are they still at the bar or what?”. I am telling myself “this is going to be a trip of firsts, I guess?”. 

After I board (with my zone - I can’t recall what it was, but I am at the end of the darn plane again, zone maybe 7 or some such unlucky number; as a matter of fact, let’s not be ungrateful - zone “never” might be unlucky; the fact that I am on a plane at all is a plus), and after all the people are in their seats, the pilot walks all the way to where I am sitting and hands over a goodie bag to a lucky passenger on account that they are a “first-time flyer”. No, not with this airline but ever. Not sure how they know this? Not sure how or if they verify this, but there it is ... I am shocked. How has someone nowadays, especially in the very large America where people are so spread apart from their families, living in this huge country, never flown? This person is not a toddler either. It’s a mature man with a head full of white hair. They are totally shocked and embarrassed and they accept the bag with a chuckle and applause follows. 

Then, to make it even more unusual, the pilot walks to two rows in front of the man he just congratulated, on the other side of the aisle, and hands over a second goodie bag to another first-time passenger completely unrelated to the first one. Now, I am thinking I must be in a dream: there is not one, but two such rare specimens on my flight. What??? You live and you learn, as the cliche goes. 

As we’re preparing to take off, they make their little announcements and there is a new one for me: they tell us that video taking is “absolutely prohibited”, and this is not an “airline policy, but an FAA policy”. And I pause. Well, if video taping is prohibited, then how come TikTok (at least this is what I hear, since I am lucky enough to not be tethered with such a curse as a TikTok account) full of videos of flight attendants being slapped by or slapping passengers all over the world? Or did the policy come in response to such videos and is new? I am not videoing but I am taking pictures, so I figured I am not in trouble, but my goodness, frozen water first, no videos second, airline rules are moving fast, even for this mildly-frequent flyer... 

As I leave the plane on my arrival to the other end of my trip, at my final destination of Orlando, FL (a destination, I feel, that should require a passport, if you’re coming from anywhere else in the US, even), I head over to the ground transportation area to call an Uber so I can head to my hotel. I was a late adopter of Uber - have been using it for about 3 years - but I have used it on two continents and tried using it on a third one, but the Gods of the travel agency protected me from using it in Africa. Long story, for another entry. 

A cheerful gentleman called Jose arrives and I see a new disclaimer on my Uber app - that Jose is “recording this trip”. Hmm ... Video forbidden on the plane, but obviously running by default in the car transportation. I do not like surprises all that much, but this trip seemed to have it all. 

These are just a few examples from my most recent trip. And this is all to say that one of the main reasons I travel (other than to get where my life takes me) is to learn. Travel is almost a free add-on or bonus of new lessons about how you should behave in the world, how you should carry yourself among other humans. It teaches you how prepared you are to just be a human firing on all your cylinders, and being the best you can be among your peers. It builds tolerance and empathy - which are becoming somewhat endangered nowadays - but this new world we live in, try as it may, I would never, as long as there is breath in my body, want to lose them. 

Travel allows me to make my thoughts, my whole being stop chattering and opinioning and just listen and watch. Assess and propose corrections in my own path. Or not. Travel keeps my senses alert. There are so many things we must be present for in travel - you cannot space out and get lost in your doom-scroll of Instagram when the TSA agent, or a passport control agent demands answers from you. You are forced to connect with the person in front of you and think. Although I like to think of myself as a minimalist when it comes to consuming social media, I still hate when precious minutes go to nothing but mindless scrolling. Travel is not mindless. It is focused, character-building (remember that 20th century concept anyone?) presence. If you don’t have that (presence) while you travel, your very life might be at stake. 

I travel  because I need new energy, from the outer world, to replenish and recharge my own depleted body which becomes stagnant after a while just being enclosed in myself. 

My sister and I grew up “in the mountains”, we call it. We were city girls by birth - born and raised in the second-largest (by population) city in Romania - but for about 3 months every year we would live with our distant relatives in the Northern Carpathian Mountains, with no running water in the house, working tireless every day for our food which came from cows, sheep, chickens, or foraging for wild berries and mushrooms in the woods. This is how we learned physical, manual labor. Life on the land was very different from life in the city. In the city, we learned how to be pedestrians and how to ride with civility in a public transport vehicle. In the mountains, we learned how to listen to nature, and know dangers unknown to the city dweller - like the call of a wolf, or the scratch of a mouse in the attic eating through corn, or getting splinters out of our soft, city hands when we split wood in the woodshed behind the house to make fires every night to heat our rooms in the wood-burning stoves or in our water heater boiler every week for our shower.

Travel reminds me  a bit of those times - when we were forced to live in a completely new environment and we were absolutely forced to develop a new set of skills that would not have been developed otherwise. 

I travel because I know my perception of the world is biased. And I need hard proof for the truth. 

I travel because I am consumed by wanting to know the truth. Is the world really as bleak as the media and social sites claim? Are people as angry and evil? Are they truly hating one another? Travel shows you a different picture of that. Or certifies it for you. But you will never know for sure unless it becomes your experience. 

I travel for food and for new-ness. For taking myself outside of my cocoon of safety and forcing myself to react, to feel, to truly know, and to truly form an opinion. I travel for the surprise of it and its shock value as much as I travel to realize that I had the weirdness and diversity of the world within my soul all along. But I just didn’t know it. 

Travel forces you to think quickly and outside the box. And make do with what’s in front of you. 

Travel forces you to look deeply into your soul and assess - do you like what you see? Here, there are alternatives, would you like to reconsider? I never speak to myself more honestly than when I am traveling - because it forces me to be present and to stay awake and aware for the simple reason to be safe. It also forces me to be awake because everything seems to be new. I cherish getting lessons from everything that I open myself up for. 

I travel because travel leads me to books. And books lead me to travel. And books have been the one, only, constant in my entire life that has never disappointed. Boyd Varty’s Cathedral of the Wild led me to Londolozi which changed my life. Then, Londolozi led me to The Elephant Whisperer which enriched my understanding of human kindness and nature kindness and nature intelligence as well. And the examples are many from so many of my other travels: the innumerable books I read about English and American authors growing up that took me to England and later America where I found my soul, eventually. 

Travel brought me to wonders like the South African wild this year - and what a quantum leap that was! I emerged transformed only with a fraction of my old self from the African bush. It tapped into senses I didn’t know I had. Our over-technological suburban world dims those senses, or, in some cases, completely exterminates them. But going out of our comfort zone (something that is intrinsic to travel) allows our minds and sometimes even our bodies, to develop abilities that otherwise lay dormant or are in danger of becoming extinct because of our lack of need to use them. When you are called to react to things you don’t encounter every day - like a leopard on the hunt, or a pride of 9 lions completely wild, with no circus director to tame them in sight, or a river full of crocs opening their huge jowls at you, or even foods you have never seen but are called upon out of respect to try - you cannot help but learn new lessons and new abilities that you might not have thought you had. 

I turned 50 this year. I read a lot of thoughts on what and who you’re supposed to be when you turn 50 or when you reach your mid-life. Some people are told they are old. Some people fight this concept and feel young or do meaningful things to feel young. Because I live inside this 50 year old body, I feel just like I did when I was 10 or 20. 50 seems to me to be just a number. 

For me, the one thing I want to be or to do going forward (which has not changed just because my ID says I am not a different age), the only thing that I hope will define me in my next decade and beyond and always is the desire to continuously learn. To avidly and voraciously keep learning, with every day, with every trip, with every person or any other being that I encounter. Keep learning and becoming and changing and morphing into who I will eventually leave as my finished “product” on this planet, once my time is up in this realm. 

I cannot think how I would be able to learn without traveling. Just like I have said many times before, stopping traveling is like stopping to breathe for me. I felt like I needed a reminder to reassess why I do it - I do it to remain whole and to keep becoming. Becoming is my now and my future. That is all ... And that is all that matters ... 

One of the places that stays with me, 28 years later: the thermal pools of Pamukkale (or “Cotton Castle”) in South-Western Turkey - I took this picture after I climbed this mountain barefoot with hot streams under my feet on a 100F degree day in August 1997. 

No More Birthday Blogs

Since 2008, on and off, and in the past more recent years, mostly on than off, I have been writing a birthday blog for people in my family. It’s a chance for me to look back at the kind of year they all have had, and to appreciate, in a more public way, all the blessings they bring to my life. 

It’s  a chance to sing their praises and hopefully outline the special-ness of each one of them. But it was mostly meant, selfishly, to give them a gift that is so hard to give on their exact birthdays, given that we are all so spread around the entire world on two continents. 

It’s not because I love them less. It’s not because I feel they are physically any closer to me than they ever were since 2008’ish when I started doing this, but starting this year, I am retiring my birthday blogs. I think the topic has run its course, for some reason. 

My sister said “Well, there is only so much you can say about one person, right?”. And it’s not even that. I will never run out of things to say about her klutz-iness, or my nephew’s obsession with money, or my other nephew’s love of kitties and puppies and all creatures, or my husband’s love of squirrels, for example ... But, at the very least for the sake of diversification, I felt like this would be the time to change course in what I give and to make future presents just as memorable ... Call it a “milestone kind of a year” change of course, if you will. 

This is by no means a hard line in the sand. Birthday blogs might make an appearance in the future. But it’s no longer a tradition that I want to follow here, anymore. 

I have always loved to give presents. I enjoy that infinitely more than I enjoy receiving them. And with that in mind, I am constantly revising how and what I give as presents. Starting with a couple of years ago, I have been putting much more thought into gifting experiences more than just things (thanks to a dear friend who reminded me of that).

Just like the birthday blog was not a material thing per se, I am giving away time together, or things that can be experienced with others, like concert tickets or trips ... I find that much more rewarding to myself as the giver, and I find that my family smiles more and enjoys them more, too. When looking back and remembering the memories, they are the gift that perpetually will keep on giving, every time we recount it. 

You might ask “why is a present needed at all?”. But the answer to that is easy: dad always told us to take the time and celebrate special moments in special ways. He took it a bit too far (he would throw a 5-course dinner party for 20+ people every time he bought something new like a car, a fridge or when he got a new job), but he always dressed up for the occasion, stopped, and celebrated a milestone - birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, saints’ feasts (or name days), you name it. I happen to share his view on this. A present, to me, is part of that celebration. 

I hope the new gift-giving will be just as welcome, surprising, and well-awaited as the former birthday blogs were ... 

With that in mind, I wish everyone in my family, happy birthdays ahead, for many, many healthy years to come! And may we all enjoy every special moment together, as much as we enjoy making arrangements to do so ...

Thank you for the memories, old, and the ones I am anxiously awaiting to make together in the years to come ...

Laissez les bons temps rouler ...

What’s with all the turkey killing for Thanksgiving? What’s with the eye-rolls when your Republican uncle makes an inappropriate comment across the table from you? Instead, how about walking the streets of an old, historic city while feasting on crawdads and gumbo with your favorite person in tow or even alone? The latter sounded like a much better plan for us for this year’s Thanksgiving. 

So, instead of the homey feast and watching the Macy’s Parade (although we have no uncles to share Thanksgiving with), we opted for a long road trip to New Orleans. From where we are, you can split the 12 hour drive into two half days. 

Here are some random thoughts that hopefully paint a picture of this unforgettable trip ... 

We started the trip on November 22nd - a year to the date of my dad’s last breath on this earth. I figured he would have wholeheartedly approved of a good time with good food and even better music to celebrate his life. Our first stop was a fast food place for lunch where, in memory of dad, we paid for the meal of the people behind us in line. I know dad would have loved a meaty, burgery meal complete with a frosty dessert. 

The 22nd of November was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving this year - and as you can imagine we were on the road with some other millions of people trying to get to that turkey dinner, or who knows, maybe, like us, trying to just get away. The maps lied. They said 5 hours and a half to Atlanta (our stop for the first night). But it took a bit over 9 hours to get to our hotel. We were stiff, tired, and hungry. We got to New Orleans the following day, Thanksgiving Thursday, after having our Thanksgiving lunch at a Cracker Barrel in Mobile, AL - the only place in three different states that we found open. 

New Orleans is a melting pot of all things strange, unique, weird, amazing, smelly, delicious, diverse, and so, so much more ... The first time I went there, in 2004, I told people when I got back that my eyeballs were literally in pain, strained from seeing so much ... too much ... of everything ... I used to call it “the Disney World for adults” until I saw Las Vegas, and then, I changed my mind. Nowadays, after my second visit, I would call it “the adults’ Disney World with a rich and beautiful history” (which is what’s missing in Vegas). 

The past creeps into everything you see and experience in this grand old city. The buildings and cobblestone streets speak of the past, the filth and decrepitude brought over by hundreds of years of humidity speaks of the past, the historic markers speak of a rich history, of carnage and tragedy, of death and also of victory. The past is very much part of the present today in New Orleans - it was never replaced but dragged into the light of today, kicking and screaming. The gas-fueled lamps burning day and night at every street corner are reminders of this past. 

The eerie beauty of New Orleans at night

New Orleans plays tricks on everything you think you know about the order of the world. Everything you know about propriety and “rules” has its own set of measures and limits in New Orleans. Objectifying women in the windows of bars while belting out indecent and abusive words as you pretend you’re spanking them? Maybe two year old toddler playing the drums in the middle of the street at 11PM on Thanksgiving night and collecting tips? A sassy, belligerent waitress named Spaghetti? They are all commonplace in New Orleans. 

Street gas lamps burning in the middle of the day

I have never been more confused about the gender of most people in one place like I was during this trip. Although in The South and people here get and allow freely the “yes, ma’am”-s and “no, sir”-s on a regular basis, I never dared say these words to anyone there, because I was just not sure. Not that it would be important, of course, except for how I frame my responses. 

One of the things people come to New Orleans for is the food. Whether you eat a po boy in the street or a fancy seafood stew at an exclusive restaurant booked months in advance, you’ll be in for a treat! What I have learned is that you cannot go wrong in these parts, as everyone knows how to cook with flavor. It’s in their blood. Food is always fresh, cooked from scratch and cooked with a love you can taste. You just know that these many layers of flavor, this much depth does not come from a bag of Sysco frozen potatoes. 

The fin wings appetizer at GW Fins took the absolute “best meal” prize on this trip for me. Someone out there read my mind and knew I was coming when they invented these goodies. I have been saying for years that yes, fish, too, have wings that are totally edible and delicious, and that is exactly what they were. And some lookers to boot! 

The fin wings at GW Fins

Not sure if it was the cold weather (and it was cold! 55F degrees daily or less and raining the whole time we were there), or what, but the streets were not flooded with music, like I remembered them ... There was the occasional cover band here or there, a blues musician in one restaurant, a couple of rap performers (with the women dancing half-naked in the windows), a jazz band at our hotel, and that was about that ... When I first went to New Orleans, almost 20 years ago, zydeco was flowing freely from every street corner; street performers were overstepping each other’s spaces for an enchanted cocktail of sounds and rhythm. Nothing like it this time ... I want to believe that this was the dark, wet, at times freezing weather that was to blame and it’s not a change in this musical city’s DNA, because this would be a shame. 

I have a friend who says New Orleans smells like vomit. And he is not exaggerating. It smells like sewage after a carnage. Just putrid and breathtakingly, nauseatingly stenchy. The reeking smell of pot flowing from every establishment or hitting you in the face from every fifth person you meet is not helping one bit. 

It’s a city revolving around good times, partying, and loving life to the fullest. Everyone there comes on an escaping mission from their routine, from their everyday boredom to test the boundaries and embrace excessiveness. There are no boundaries, it seems, and no regrets ... These belong to another world, out there, left at home ... The world one escapes from and dreams about during their daily existence ... 

The tourists as well as the wait staff, cleaning people, tour guides, boat captains - everyone are in this mutual silent agreement to show or give a good time to all, regardless of what it costs or how strange the request might be ... It’s a bon vivant's paradise. 

Like with so many other places I have been to on vacation (cruises, New York, Hawaii), the amount of great time spent in these places is directly proportional to the amount of guilt I feel towards the people providing these priceless escapes. Everyone, in every restaurant we entered, every souvenir shop, every tourist attraction we experienced was so incredibly nice and patient, so gracious with the pettiest and crankiest of people, worked so incredibly hard from the wee hours of the morning until well into the night (restaurants here close at 6AM. How is that for a city that never sleeps?), and never seemed to be cranky. They looked, at times, tired, but their sweet smiles and calm demeanor never faded. You can tell they are working their fingers to the bone and not for a lot of cash, either. 

In fact, there were a couple of times when I thought I saw a waitress doubling up duties as a palm reader in front of St. Louis Cathedral one day. And there were a couple of street dancers that I thought I had seen waiting on tables in a fried food joint. It’s a hard job, entertaining in a city such as this, and it looks like not for much of a reward, either, which makes one who partakes in these well-spent experiences feel guilty and the experience somewhat bitter-sweet.

New Orleans is very much a city of contrasts. The beauty and originality of art right next door to the squalor of the street; the peaceful, lazy roll of the Mississippi river, right next to the hustle and bustle of the French Quarter, engulfed in constant motion and noise. The rich and the poor sitting next to each other at the same communal table sharing beignets on the patio of Cafe du Monde. 

There are some joints in town where class distinctions pretty much disappear. But there are others where class differences are clearly delineated. For example, one night, we had failed to get reservations for dinner (and it was close to impossible over this Thanksgiving weekend to get into any place for dinner without one). So we ended up in a somewhat high-end establishment (mysteriously called Mr. B’s Bistro). Not every restaurant we go to has its own wiki page, but this one does (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mr._B%27s_Bistro - and I still don’t know who Mr. B. is). They were the first restaurant we walked in that agreed to take us in without a reservation, but  ... they immediately could tell we were some sort of a different kind of riff-raff, at the opposite end of their black-tie customers sitting in the quiet, peaceful dining room. So they stuck us in the darkest corner, way in the back of the restaurant, where very clearly all the people clad in jeans and rain coats (it was pouring out and late in the evening) were supposed to sit. 

In the dark corner and outside the kitchen and all, the seafood gumbo at Mr. B's Bistro was outstanding

Our tables were covered with a crisp white table cloth just like the black-tie people’s tables were, but the tables were closer together and the space was visibly crammed. The food was equally delicious, I am sure, but we did feel like we maybe were not worth being shown off in the front dining room, since they stuck us in the corner like they was ashamed of us, to paraphrase Delmar O’Donnell from “O’ brother, Where Art Thou?”... 

To say just one more word about the folks of New Orleans’s (and Louisiana’s, in general). It is a city that speaks, breathes, sings, and swings American black culture. Through everything they do, and with everything they offer, from the Creole twang to the bayou cuisine, from every beat of music, be it jazz, blues, zydeco, or blues, this city reminds you of this rich, substantial, beautiful culture with deep, gnarly, interesting, beautiful roots in these parts ... Its merits to establishing Louisiana and what New Orleans is today are sacrosanct. I love learning about black culture always, but I adore this city for it  because these folks seem truly proud and feel truly celebrated here - as they should. To be able to take in this rich culture without so much as a passport stamp is a privilege. 

New Orleans is also intrinsically French. Everywhere you turn is a reminder of something or other French. Louisiana is named after its founder King, Louis XIV of France. The massive Catholic cathedral in the French Quarter (arguably the most famously recognizable part of New Orleans everywhere in the world) is St. Louis Cathedral (which has a very funky schedule, however, so we were not able to visit its interior). Fleurs des lis everywhere. And I mean, everywhere ... French street names (Napoleon Avenue, Orleans, Iberville, Dauphine, and of course Bourbon) ... European (French?) old architecture with houses divided by only a small gap, maybe a 5-foot person’s-waist-worth; cobblestone pavers ... Sensuality at every corner ... A gourmand’s paradise ... Decadence and a laissez faire attitude surround and drown you in pleasure and delight ... 

Street sign and old paving on Bourbon Street, in the heart of the French Quarter

St. Louis Cathedral

Many people come to New Orleans to look for ghosts. The city touts itself as the most haunted city in America and for good reasons - I’ll leave it up to you to google this. The stories are chilling. They built walls between the houses here with necks of broken bottles sticking out poured into the concrete, to prevent ghosts from moving from one home to another, they say - true story! 

Broken glass wall between two houses in The French Quarter

We stayed at a remodeled Courtyard Hotel in the French Quarter and my husband said it’s probably not haunted because it’s newer. But there is nothing truly new in the French Quarter. Everything remodeled is housed in an old building. We were having this conversation while waiting for our table to be available at The Court of Two Sisters. The bartender, a lovely, chatty, young lady (I think, but not 100% sure) heard us chatting and she asked if we’re looking for ghosts and I thought she was doubting their existence for a minute, so I said “I told my husband that old hotels and old houses always have ghosts - I know because that’s where I saw them myself!”  To which she said nonchalantly while wiping glass sweat off the bar: “Well, in Nawlins, you don’t need to be in a house to meet them. Here, they just walk down the street witchya”. 

The haunting charm of the interior Court of the Two Sisters

We got out of the city for one day, to visit the Oak Alley sugar cane plantation and experience the Mississippi swamps for the first time in our lives. I will only say this about Oak Alley because otherwise it would need its own blog: history and live oaks. Definitely a must-see! 

I have read stories and seen movies about life on the Mississippi and life in these swamps where so much of the shrimps and crawdads (and some of my personal favorite foods) of America are coming from. I have always wanted to be up close to these people, the people of the water, who have such a unique sense of orientation for one, and who develop such amazing survival skills on a land always shifting, always moving, always different ... We drove to Marrerro, LA (a small community that does not believe in left turns; here, if you want to go anywhere that’s on your left, you have to make a U-turn) and took a boat through the Jean Lafitte (can it be more French?) Preserve. 

I checked our altitude frequently on this trip and at any given time, we were anywhere between 0 and 50 feet above sea-level. So, it made me wonder: since at the very highest point you can only be only at 50 ft altitude and since the maximum allowed speed limit is 55 mph, even on the highways, outside of the city (and rare at that), should they call their roads lowways instead of highways?! 

In the preserve, the wild life and vegetation did not disappoint, but equal in richness and uniqueness was our captain, Jason: a  mix between a Southern Louisiana bayou native with some Boston Rob mixed in. Hilarious as all get out, delivering everything with a dryness and non-pretentious-ness that only made it that much more funny: 

‘Every time you heah an alligatoh eats or mauls a ‘uman, that’s a newspapeh stohry, and not a hreal stohry … The’s mohe to that stohry that you ain’t bein’ told. I grew up ‘ere with the alligatohs. Kids swim heah, they jet ski heah, feed them with marshmallows heah - ain’t no alligatoh eatin’ a kid every day! The’s moh to that stohry they ain’t telling ya!” 

The alligators of Jean Lafitte Preserve

The boat we boarded in search of alligators, turtles, owls and other water fowl was like a Noah’s Ark of nationalities. You could literally find pretty much every race of human on that boat. 

We were all in search of the same things: beauty, nature, history - this very diverse group  of people on an obscure swamp in this small corner of the world, all chasing the same things in life. Our skin, our language, our different prayers to our different Gods did not take away anything from our common humanity. In contrast, as we were waiting for our captain to arrive, I was skimming the news on my phone - they were all speaking of the casualties and the carnages of war around the world (Ukraine, Gaza, Sudan ...), and as I looked around me, I was contemplating at the wrongfulness of it all, at the superfluousness of it all, at the meaninglessness of it all ... Why can we not see that we are more alike than we are different? Why can we not agree that at the end of the day, we all want the same things? We are moved by the same things, we are saddened by the same things, we all want a roof over our family’s head, a meal on the table, and the same corners of the world to escape to in search of beauty. This boat was my proof! Our common shared experience of almost two hours, when we all took pictures of the same things and wooed and aahed at the same things was my proof! 

Our very close-quarters and beautifully packed swamp boat

It was cold the whole time we were there. Cold and wet - true November weather. But we walked everywhere every waking hour and we saw so much that our eyes hurt. We stopped for snacks (like hot pepper-jelly fried shrimp and strawberry mojitos and gin cocktails) when we got tired, and we moved right along ... We had the best time and I would not have spent my Thanksgiving any other way.  You know you’re in a great place and with good company when you had the best time in a long while in absolutely crap weather! Our cups and thanks runneth over ... 

Les bons temps were surely well-spent! 

More beauty in the Mississippi Delta. How did Jason know where to find all these creatures, especially a still owl in the middle of the day, unmoved and serene among the Spanish moss, will remain a mystery to me ...