New Orleans: Hop On, Hop Off, Enjoy!

They take photos as if one frame; one moment in time can begin to embody the soul.  Royal Parisian crests melded into cast iron and painted in a gooey tar black. The underbelly of balconies holding up rusty chains dangling with tangled manes of drooping green strands. The grey humidity weighs down saunters. A liberating slow motion; there’s no reason to move when the city lives on every block. The ones who do it right walk without intention. To feel the thigh stretch as their heels go click, their boots go clomp or their sandals go nick nack. The circus cruises by the circus in a gluttonous red bus that boasts “Hop on, Hop off, Enjoy!” Snap, Snap. Snap, Snap. The scenery changes like a scrolling film. One image after the next. Seen, but not observed. There’s too much so we pretend there’s too little. Too little of the inside of the inside and the outside of the outside; the inside of the outside and the outside of the inside. Just too much, certainly not worth our time! Snap! Hop on the bus. Snap! Hop off the bus. Snap! Order food. Snap! Get a drink. Snap! All the while a gaping internal space; as big as the universe; stagnates like the slow whirl of twigs and wrappers in a salty brown pool. And then, it’s over. 

New Orleans: The Hibernating City

Swirls of white frameworks and pastel-colored clapboards. Cotton candy streets and the merry go round melody of a majestic steamboat interspersed with the howling of industrial trains sweeping through town. The nostalgic soundtrack echoes through porches of swing benches covered in leaves and stoic rocking chairs.

Dozens of black cats scurry into the warm lairs of the hibernating city; the magic shacked up behind tightly closed doors adorned with little strands of colorful Tibetan flags. Smiling passersby huddle by space heaters from the drugstore in their haphazardly curated nooks of melted candles, used books and the local art they couldn’t afford, but couldn’t pass up. Louis Armstrong sauntering down Royal Street in the starry night humidity, the crooked grid of roads blurring into a whimsical, twisty-turny row of rainbow stoops lit by the soft orange glow of French street lamps, Mardi Gras Indians covered in neon feathers dancing with devotion to a life of festivity…reminders of the spirits that wait to be awoken as unbearable chills transform into seductive beads of alcoholic sweat and music, music, music blends into a delirium that reminds us we’re alive. Until then, we wait; masochistically embracing this cold as the opposite end of the twisted spectrum that fuels our desire to feel, even if it’s sadness. Dirty dishes, a wine glass stained with cheap Cabernet and a beckoning unmade bed. Tea steeps, incense burn, pens move across journals…the warmest town in America is frigid and so are our words.

New Orleans: Down In The Treme

It’s two o’clock on a Tuesday. The block of Orleans Avenue between North Prieur Street and North Claiborne Avenue in the Treme is deserted except for the occasional passerby dragging at a New Orleanian pace. On the corner sits a tired, once white, but now fading eggnog two-story home. Jagged remnants of bashed glass protrude from rusting window frames on the second floor. The first floor is the rundown “A & Y Food Store” and, according to the sign their specialty is “fresh meat” and “refreshments”… the only things needed to get the grill (and the party) going on a scorching Louisiana day.

The rest of the block is lined with several dilapidated, single-story homes with thin coats of white barely masking the old wooden clapboards layered, traditionally, like the shutters on a window. The sky is broken into a suburban grid of long, obtrusive wires strung between telephone poles. The whole scene is right out of a 1960s sitcom and the neighborhood hang is where it all comes together: Ooh Poo Pah Doo Bar.

You’d never know it opened last month. A two-story building with a brick exterior, a heavy black iron door and an old mailbox. It’s so unremarkable, it’s remarkable; blending in seamlessly with the rest of the street. There’s not even the slightest attempt at 21^st century branding or newness. It’s just a place to grab a drink and sway to some classic Stevie Wonder or Ray Charles from the jukebox. A timeless escape.

It’s also the revolving living room for the legendary New Orleans clan: The Andrews. The family, which members estimate is more than 200-people strong, has a long line of musicians who have been making their mark on the local jazz scene for over half a century. The sign says it all. It’s not just a bar, it’s the “home” of renowned musicians and Andrews brothers James, Trombone Shorty and Trumpet Black. Their cousin, Glen David Andrews, is also a well known trombone player in town. Glen’s brother Derrick Tabb is in the world famous Rebirth Brass Band. More cousins play with the Dirty Dozen and Hot 8 brass bands. A complicated, but impressive family tree.

Trombone Shorty, James and Glen David (pictured in the back, left to right) pose with neighbors in Treme
photo courtesy of: Offbeat Magazine

The Andrews family and close friends second line to Ooh Poo Pah Doo

The legacy began with the Andrews brothers’ grandfather Jessie Hill. He wrote hits for big times stars such as Ike and Tina Turner, Sonny and Cher, and Willie Nelson. He also wrote the classic Mardi Gras song and bar’s namesake: Ooh Poo Pah Doo. Hill died in the mid-90s, but his wife and the matriarch of the clan, Dorothy Hill is still going strong in her 80s. She’s a lady of few words with a maternal affection, eyes of wisdom and the vitality of a woman in her prime. She’s often posted up at Ooh Poo Pah Doo. She sits in the corner for hours milking her cigarette and sipping on a Miller High Life as the women of the family filter in and out of the bar. They sit with her, gossip, check their cell phones, head out to run errands and eventually, come back. Same old, same old.  Honorary family member, the sassy Ms. Val, is a mainstay of the female clan too. They met seven years ago and apparently it was a match made in heaven. Ms.Val talks, Dorothy nods. Today, she’s wearing tight black leggings and her hair is popping out from one side of her head in a perky ponytail. She swears it makes her look younger. Meanwhile, the men, family and close family friends, sit at the bar on rotating stools. Brian, James’ uncle, is at the helm.

Need a drink? Brian's got you covered

He’s serving drinks and complimentary hog’s head cheese (patties made from pig head parts) on crackers. At the end of the bar is a working pay phone. Behind it, a standard line up of handles, a restaurant-size plastic jar of pickles, a basket of Cheetos, Doritos, and Lays, and a big jug of their specialty Ooh Poo Pah Doo cocktail, a bright red concoction that tastes like Hawaiian fruit punch and is guaranteed to do the trick. At any given day and time, the bar always has customers drinking beer, smoking, chatting and mostly just passing the time. Lenox, a regular, grew up in New Orleans. He knows all the best local gems in the area. Next to him is a mailman who's been delivering packages around town for over thirty years and boy, does he have stories.

Lenox chatting it up at his usual seat at the bar

Ooh Poo Pah Doo is also one of the easiest places to run into some of the most influential jazz cats around. Among them is Lightnin’ Lee, or just Lightnin’ for short, a blues guitarist who’s shredded with greats such as Fats Domino, Earl King, Ernie K-Doe and Little Freddie King. Guitar Slim, another New Orleans legend, is close friends with the Andrews and sometimes brings the house down on the bar’s modest corner stage. His blues style is said to have laid the foundation for electric guitar breakthroughs ultimately made famous by Jimi Hendrix.
              
       

 

You’ll learn more about the wild city of New Orleans at Ooh Poo Pah Doo than at every tourist hot spot in the French Quarter. The Treme, one of the oldest neighborhoods and a hub for African-American culture, is imbued with history. This bar, filled with local musicians and natives who have been around to see it all, is where you can get a real sense of the complex dynamics that make this unique city tick. Bourbon Street? Forget it. A tour bus? Don’t even think about it. If you really wanna get to know The Big Easy, just take a seat, at Ooh Poo Pah Doo.

New Orleans: Land of Dreams

I’m walking down Decatur Street on a brisk, rainy night. I’m in the touristy French Quarter, but it’s the off season on a weekday and there’s not much more than a few locals hanging around. The faint sound of simple chords on the piano can be heard in the distance. A crowd of about ten people is gathered around the side of a rundown RV.

I approach to see a humbled audience peering into a large rectangular hole; a window into a miniature living room with a fraying Persian rug, a small stove brewing apple cider and the petite frame of a beautiful woman softly singing folk tunes with the smokiness of Norah Jones and the playfulness of Regina Spektor. We stand together, like a family gathered after dinnertime, protected by the seductive warmth of her lantern-lit nook and steaming mugs of Christmas. A notecard written in sharpie taped to the windowsill kindly states “tips are greatly appreciated.”




The creativity and entrepreneurialism in New Orleans is extraordinary in a country that's dominated by cynicism about low unemployment rates and a tanking economy. It stands outside the nationwide mentality of dashed hopes and persists as arguably the last remaining city where the American dream lives on. On any given day, you’ll see robotic men standing as still as statues, young black teenagers tap dancing on wood planks, poets for hire sitting on the sidewalk with small tables and typewriters, unlicensed vendors walking around with baskets of homemade empanadas, psychics, busking musicians and every other creative type imaginable performing on the street. Anyone can make rent with a good idea on the right corner. In this cash-only city of tips, no one hoards what they make, money quickly flows through hands and, in the most simplistic way, Keynesian economics is at work.

This spirit and potential has inspired thousands of aspiring, young professionals to pour in since Hurricane Katrina. According to the Greater New Orleans Community Data Center, New Orleans had 501 business startups per every 100,000 adults in the three year period ending in 2012– a rate that exceeded the nation by 56 percent and continues to expand. The supportive community and low cost of living make it a fertile ground for inspired college grads, artists and anyone who’s looking for a way to make money doing what they love without capital. It’s common to meet recent transplants in their twenties from New York, San Francisco or L.A. who impulsively sold all their belongings on Craigslist and hopped on a plane to Louis Armstrong airport with only a few bags. It’s a romantic notion; but in New Orleans, it’s not a foolish one.

Everyone’s trying to get by, but most importantly, they’re having fun while they do it. That’s the American dream, isn’t it? To work for work’s sake; to enjoy what you do so your life doesn’t becoming a means to an end. Well, maybe that’s not everyone’s dream, but carpe diem sure fuels the soul of New Orleans; the city where the impossible really is possible.

New Orleans: The Cafe of Muses

In the last ten years, cafes in major US cities have entered into an absurdly ferocious competition for the most flawlessly prepared cup of joe. Let me tell you, there’s never been a better time in history to get a damn good shot of espresso or a Gustav Klimt-inspired spiral in your latte foam (if that’s your thing). But like other highbrow experiences, this fad is accompanied by an air of pretension that’s been transforming the feel of neighborhood hangs. 

   

Cafe Envie in New Orleans is an anachronistic gem swimming against the tide to maintain the integrity of the original coffeehouse. It’s a place of creativity, openness and, for many local characters, a home away from home. It’s situated on one of the most highly-trafficked corners in the city: Decatur and Barracks Streets right on the perimeter of the French Quarter. It’s got plenty of outdoor seating for some of the best people watching not just in New Orleans, but arguably, in the world. There you’ll spot rowdy freight train hoppers scouting out a corner to busk, tourists with fanny packs and a bloody mary to go, local musicians biking to gigs with their instruments and amps strapped to a wagon or baby carriage as it bumps, bumps, bumps behind them, men in tutus, cowboys, clowns, pirates (real ones too)…you name it.

Envie’s become a catch-all for every type of person in this charming circus of a town. A man in his fifties with a dirty-blonde ponytail struts in sporting a classic Levi's jean jacket with wool lining, a sea foam green lace skirt over a poofy black slip and heavy duty black combat boots weighed down by chains. He posts up in the corner and pulls out paint. A girl in her late teens who comes in everyday wearing a lime green stuffed alien backpack, bopping antenna and striped stockings orders the regular. A man in his thirties flaunting a willy wonkaesque top hat and royal purple blazer catches up with friends from the block. Others silently play string instruments, sketch in notebooks or escape into their books. 

Local wood carver Tizart sets up shop at Envie

The coffee’s not spectacular, but that’s not the point. You can sit for hours and marvel at the inspiration that flows in and out of this local safe haven. If you stop in more than once, you're bound to make friends. Coffee to go? What’s that? 

New Orleans: A Fine Dining Secret On The Bayou

A drive Northeast into the suburbs of New Orleans is like a drive into most suburbs of major cities around the country. Long stretches of highway take you out of a concentrated hub of cultural vibrancy and into a mundane wasteland of strip malls. Think: Home Depot, Lowe's Home Improvement, rundown super marts and fast food chains aplenty. The Louisiana backdrop consists of grassy swamplands and dilapidated wooden shacks. Nothing like a romantic Mark Twain fantasy, but eerily quiet stretches of depressed homes a world away from the colorful brass bands that parade through the nearby French Quarter.

If you pull off the I-10 East at just the right time you'll find yourself in the small town of Slidell. It's worth the trip just to discover Palmettos Restaurant; an unexpectedly fine dining experience nestled in the heart of the bayou. It's situated in between three national wildlife refuges under a canopy of banana trees, palms and moss-covered oaks. The surroundings provide a picturesque view into the seductively entangled tropics of the Mississippi. The menu offers up the creamiest, butteriest, most indulgent Louisiana classics prepared with culinary expertise.

On Sundays for an astonishingly affordable $20.00, they whip up the type of brunch you might expect to find at a five star hotel. The buffet offers perfected renditions of New Orleans' favorites including a savory grits and grillades, crawfish etouffe, buckets of fresh oysters chargrilled to order and a carving station with a slab of juicy prime rib.

It's easy to lose track of time in this tropical oasis as the bottomless mimosas flow and the jazz band plays.



It's more than a meal, it's a getaway. By the time you leave, you'll feel as though you've been on vacation for days.

For more information on Palmettos Restaurant click here 

New Orleans: Dia de los Muertos

 

Ominous chanting reverberates through the damp chill. A procession of over eight hundred women and men with paper white faces and black Joker smiles march steadily to the mournful sounds of a brass band.

It's New Orleans' Dia de los Muertos headed by voudou priestess Sallie Ann Glassman. Other than the vibrant Frida Kahlo-esque flower headbands and skull expressions, it bears no resemblance to the traditional Mexican festival. 

As dusk approaches, participants gather at the train tracks surrounded by neglected warehouses in the Bywater neighborhood. When the sun sets, torches of white sage are lit and the procession begins. Over the course of several hours, it makes its way past dozens of rickety, pastel-colored homes and into a muddy, grass field. Without hesitation, the women in long early 20th century-inspired lace gowns and men in tired top hats and blazers follow the leaders. Suddenly, we stop.

A large circle organically comes to life as the seduction of what's next fuels the crowd's attention. A group of five brings a small tipi of spiritual objects into the center. Dead silence honors the ceremony. It goes up into flames and a choir begins to chant behind the blaze.

The singing gets faster, the energy builds. We begin to move. We begin to dance. The gravity transforms until we're howling madness like wolves. The funeral is over and the celebration of death has begun. 

We march back onto the street walking further and further into the night. The tall flags at the front of the crowd halt at a steep mud hill. Once again, we obediently follow. We walk onto a path lining a deserted stretch of the Mississippi river continuing down, down, down until we reach what feels like the end of the world. A large industrial ship chugs by in slow motion creating powerful waves that crash up onto the river walls. A canal in the distance crossing over the water twinkles in urban glory. The line filters into a circle and a large paper skull is brought to the middle. The crowd hauntingly hums. "On and on and on..." as sparks at the base of the skull explode into flames.


             

Finally, a makeshift boat with a glowing light is sent out over the waves. The evening becomes a memory to be remembered by few and unknown by many.