Travels and companions

While I like to think I have self-awareness, this doesn't extend to knowing what kind of travel buddy I make. I don't have a good idea about what makes or breaks me as a companion.

I also don't know what makes the best companionship for me either. When I travel with family, we all manage to get along, although this will be tested on the Girls' Vacay to the Keys next year. I hoping only a minimum of blood and alcohol is spilled.

That said, I was happy the trip to New Orleans contained only a few instances of profound annoyance. When I did get pissed at Tattoo Queen, I could vent and go on. On the whole, it was a better trip than I thought it would be.

What annoyed me? Those trivial things that got magnified by stress, fatigue, and temperament. Three flare ups in temper are a better than average for me.

I was going to go down a grocery list of them, but will save it for a later post, if at all. The thing is, it all comes back to me and my disposition. I didn't feel like taking a trip alone because there's something about travelling with somebody that's satisfying. On the other hand, there's only so much companionship an introvert like me can stand.

Being with somebody means to be at constant attention, even when you're not in a caretaking role. Pay attention to them, take their needs into consideration, and even subvert your own.

Most of my friends tend to be needy in terms of attention. I'm not particularly fond of the spectator role, which doesn't mean that I want to step into the performer role. I'd rather just exist and coincide on equal terms.

Which is the reason, when TQ persisted in dancing and singing along at the Clover Grill, with the unspoken expectation that I found her escapades sweet and charming and praiseworthy, I had to tell her she was hard to take.

One of the most difficult things I've ever said and definitely a new level of honesty in our friendship.

She took it well and toned down her act until she forgot and started up again, but I appreciated the effort.

Her acceptance of my criticism that time and the two times after made me grateful I didn't take the trip to New Orleans alone.

Vacation rituals

I'm a person who loves structure. Whenever I start a new job or a new home, as soon as I get a routine in place, I'm a happy woman.

This goes for vacations as well. In Rome, the night didn't end without a gelato next to Trevi Fountain, the first landmark I found and therefore, my favorite place. In London, there was teatime.

New Orleans was no different. Tattoo Queen and I set up two different routines. In the morning, it was coffee at CC's or Cafe du Monde. At night, it was a daiquiri and a walk around the quarter.

I don't drink daiquiris at home. Beer and wine do me fine, with the occasional overpriced martini at a really nice place, but in New Orleans, there was something about getting a daiquiri and being able to drink it on the street that provided a comforting routine. Every walk is better with a boozy slushy in your hand.

Poppy Z Brite was kind enough to post directions to a nice daiquiri place and we rode the streetcar there. TQ got the cajun eggnog daiquiri while I enjoyed a citrus concoction. On the ride back to the Quarter, I played the game of what if I moved back. Chucked away tenure and got a job teaching in New Orleans.

But it all comes down to my desire to stay close to the family and being at a school that pays a nice wage and gives the teachers the tools and materials to make academic life easier, regardless of the bs and hoops the administration also requires.

Still, seeing the "For Rent" signs on apartments and condos on the way back awakened the want in my heart that no vacation could satisfy.

I missed the nightly daiquiri yesterday. Bedtime seemed a little flat without a look at the Mississippi and an ice cream headache.

Gotta dance

Seeing someone dancing in the street in New England is lucky. On my drive home from school, I sometimes see a kid moving to the tune in his Ipod, free in his steps and enviably unmindful of the world outside his music.

The view that people visiting New Orleans act the way they always wanted to act but never could in their hometowns is popular opinion. I believe it. Most hometowns don't have music as a fixture up and down the length of the sidewalks, which means the opportunity to open up and groove comes few and far.

I loved watching the people give in and start shuffling to the blues, jazz, hip hop, or pop that filled their ears. Outside one club, a group of teenagers barred from entrance (when did they start carding?) began doing the Electric Slide, which was playing inside. A hokey wedding dance, sure, but changed when other people joined them and a solid block of folks of varying dance ability moved together in obvious and oblivious joy.

At the corner of Canal and Bourbon, a school band ripped into a number and kept up that energy and the song until a massive crowd built around them. Even with my ignorance of music, I could marvel at the skill, the confidence in the skill, and the sheer enjoyment of their music. They knew they had the chops and why shouldn't they take bliss from it? The rest of us were.

It always makes me wonder why other cities don't have music running free. I can't think of any other place that puts a movement in even the most reluctant of feet.

It's strange how the most ridiculous and hackneyed tune turns to audio gold in New Orleans. Must be the alchemy of location, imagination, and booze.

Stuffing my face

One of the many, many aspects I love about New Orleans is the city's preoccupation with food. I think the most asked question to tourists is "Where you eating?"

I'm not a hardcore foodie, too timid in my palate by half. I made reservations at Emeril's and Commander's Palace while still at home after reviewing menus online and deciding which would appeal to Tattoo Queen and me.

Call me pedestrian, but I didn't want to spend a hundred bucks on a meal I didn't love just for the experience. I went for the familiar.

Emeril's is consistently excellent, which might get lost in the hype. As I was eating the barbecue shrimp, I got sad because I knew I'd get the hankering for it when I got home and wouldn't be able to have it. It reminded me of the scene in Once Upon a Time in Mexico, when Johnny Depp's character says he's going to shoot the chef because the meal he made was the best of its kind. That's how good the shrimp was. I also loved that the chef, who happens to be Canadian, put poutine on the menu as one of the specials. I don't recall many chefs having senses of humor.

Then again, they could've been reluctant to show whimsy in front of the servers.

Brunch at Commander's was an elegant zoo. I forgot about the jazz band and the ruckus of family diners, but the service was impeccable without being stuffy and the food...well, it goes without saying. The gumbo and the turtle soup were perfect, even if the corn bisque wasn't to my liking.

On the St. Charles streetcar, the driver struck up a long and involved conversation with a guy on where to eat. Pretty soon, most of the passengers in the front of the car where chiming in with recommendations. I haven't witnessed that in other places: the instant camaraderie of the stomach. Everyone's got to eat and everyone has a preference they want to share.

And it's not the snobbery I've noticed occurring in other places. People are just as likely to recommend a great po' boy stand as they are to point you towards a fine-dining establishment. No airs, only good eating.

Home again, home again, jiggity-jig

New Orleans was as great a place as ten years ago. It's hard to believe I was enjoying beignets and au lait yesterday morning and today I'm back in New England, feeling glad my vacation laundry is in the dryer and netflix are waiting for me on the TV.

When Tattoo Queen and I got in to the city on Christmas afternoon, all I wanted was a cup of coffee. Not an easy task since of the three places I used to frequent, one was gone and the other two closed for the holiday.

I hate being one of those people resentful that places close for Christmas, but c'mon...Cafe du Monde is never supposed to close.

Fortunately, the Clover Grill was open and serving a decent burger.

There was bittersweetness in my visit. The places I used to work are closed down either because of Katrina or the inevitable ebb and flow of city commerce. Two of my regular bars- the ones that knew my drink and gave a discount and a longer pour to locals in the service industry were gone, along with this excellent place for blues.

But Bourbon Street still got packed, although the flesh was less than in the past. Tattoo Queen got beads for standing under the balconies and looking up, whereas before a person had to flash.

Jackson Square and the Cathedral still look gorgeous at night, and the steamboats were hulking ghosts in the fog.

I'm glad I went and glad to be home. There's still a week left of vacation, and my schoolwork can stay ignored in my bag for a few days.

Read to me

Of all the things my teacher friend has told me he does with his wife, the one that makes me want to rip my face off and throw it at him is that they read the Harry Potter books out loud to one another.

First of all, it's twee. It's so fucking twee (and I hate the twee with a passion reserved for very few things) that it hurts my soul to hear it and he's told me this at least five times.

When I was young, I loved being read aloud to. My mother was the first to read me tales from 1001 Arabian Nights and I loved leaning against her, listening to her voice. Sometimes my brother would read to me and that was pure luck...He has a kickass reading style.

I'm kind of sad I outgrew this pleasure. I had an ex who decided to read me love poems, and although I smiled and oohed, the thought in my head was that he was doing it wrong. When he finished murdering poor Keats and the Brownings, I took the book from his hand and read a poem to him. I did this in a "let me show you how it's done" way. I feel bad that I did that, but then again, he cheated on me, so it all evens out.

Now the only time I really enjoy being read to is when my students or nephews do it. I love hearing the students read from classics; I don't care if they stumble or hit a line wrong. Listening to their voices makes me happy.

Despite having a talent for reading out loud, I get tired of my voice and try to keep that to a minimum. And if I get tired of my voice, I can't imagine the hell of hearing my teacher friend read the thousands of pages of Harry Potter. Only one of us would have reached the end of Sorcerer's Stone in one piece.

Snow

It snowed sometime during the night, and I woke up to the sound of snow trucks rumbling down the road. That's a sound I missed when I was living far, far away from here.

On school days, it's a great sound. I'm yanked out of sleep to the blue-white light of the morning, and I lean over to look out the window and judge if I'm going to get the call that school is cancelled.

I didn't have to shovel as the snow melted by late afternoon. All I had to do was scrape off the car in case I wanted to go somewhere.

Which I didn't. I reread World War Z, thought about correcting some papers, and then opted for the last book in Nora Robert's new trilogy.

The porch steps are iced over and treacherous. But I didn't have to go outside if I didn't want to.

Spinning plates

The metaphor of plate spinning has been in my head for weeks. I always hated that act on variety shows and circuses. I'm glad its popularity has decidedly waned.

The mounting desperation of the man (it was always a man)as he raced from stick to stick giving each plate a spin and always the inevitable tipping, tipping, wobbling...fall.

My school plates are spinning nicely (knock the proverb), but I'm still searching for a way to get my writing plates going during the school year.

I can't. I won't. I don't.

I start off the morning with all the intention of putting fingers to keyboard, but the time I get home, my brain is mush. The TV and netflix call. I'm tired.

That's what separates me from real writers. Real writers write all the time. They don't whine about being tired. They don't consider thinking about a story tantamount to writing it.

Some day I'll be a real boy and end each day with 1500 words and the satisfaction of another page closer to the end of a book.

Until then I'll bitch, moan, and keen at that fact that I haven't found the balance.

Rest in peace

I'd feel like crap if someone close to me died tomorrow and I couldn't use that title because it was already used.

Ah well. Titles are durn hard to come up with and I'm grateful I don't have to write about someone near, dear, and departed. I'd much rather talk about dead blogs.

Since I didn't write for a couple of weeks (but I thought about writing), I started to wonder if my blog was dead. I didn't want it to be, but I know myself. Ask anyone who's started a correspondence with me, and they'll tell you that I begin full tilt boogie and peter out.

I didn't want that to happen. If there's dead bark over my blog, I want someone to come along, chip away at the surface, and pronounce it wick.

There's a ton of dead blogs floating around the internet. Spooky ghost towns of thought. The tumult of daily multiple entries and the flurry of comments are coated with ether dust. The last blog reads a date of months ago.

I can't stay in those blogs for long. Too much like hanging out in a mausoleum. I back myself out and forget the address, feeling vaguely disturbed at my trespass.

Anyone could see why I wouldn't want that fate to befall this place. If there's only two kinds of blogs, I want mine to be on the side of the quick.

I'm a little afraid that Joe Hill's abandoned his blog. I know he's busy and all with the book tour, but he hasn't updated since mid-November, and I'm going to miss reading his entries.

But I'm probably being alarmist. Two weeks do not a dead blog make. As my own example shows.

Plates in the air

I'm thinking everything is going pretty all right, then out of the proverbial, my credit card account is closed due to inactivity.

Damn...not even a credit card company wants me.

I'm scared to death of credit cards: I've seen too many good people screwed because of those little plastic demons. But I like to have a couple in case of emergencies and to build up and maintain the credit score.

I forgot to use it in the past twelve months (because not so deep down and inside, I'm a flake) and it was taken away.

The rejection hit me hard, but I did what any self-respecting woman would do- went online and found me another lover.

It was a quickie. A spur of the moment decision really. My choice in card smacked of desperation, and as I held my breath while the application was being processed, I had the sinking feeling that this new corporation recognized the signs and might show a contempt for my used goods and pathetic attempt at self-worth.

The wait was drawn out. The indicator flashing while the powers made up their minds to accept me.

In the end, the beautiful word: approved.

I left the site feeling giddy with the flush of affirmation, the glow of acceptance, and the dirtiness of doubt- maybe I'd been too easy.