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.  

Burning Man: Come On In!

I’m walking down a dark residential street. It’s a black landing strip except for the intermittent bright white circles which are glaring from the industrial street lamps above. On either side of the road are sidewalks cracked by the roots of old magnolias. Through the leaves are peeks into seductive little nooks of warmth. Homes of all different colors, shapes and sizes emanating a familial spirit. I occasionally see someone cleaning up from their dinner; I’m hungry. A woman in her fifties is peacefully reading in one of those la-Z boy chairs that are so cushy they embrace you. These glimpses take me vicariously home, but when an unwelcome chill washes over me I remember I’m still standing on the roadside. These people are strangers and I’m not welcome.

I’m walking down a dark desert trail. It’s a black abyss except for the dome of stars overhead and the occasional campfire. Groups of newly made friends sit together roasting marshmallows, playing guitar and bonding over the heart-warming realization: everyone is welcome. Behind the campfires, rest the campsites. Like homes, they’re decorated with care. Like family, you make yourself comfortable without asking. At the wine bar, you help yourself to a glass of red or white and a cheese platter. Just hop in line at the midnight poutine for this freshly made Canadian specialty of crispy French fries, creamy brown gravy and cheese curds. After biking around the desert all day, you’ll be most appreciative for the endless supply of couches, hammocks and pillows people haul out to the festival in trailers. You’ll see people taking naps all over the playa. They’re sprawled out (and often passed out) in the makeshift living rooms of people they’ve never met. When they wake up, they’ll be greeted with a smile and a hello. At Burning Man, people don’t have to prove themselves worthy of friendship before receiving the benefits of it. Everyone is assumed to be a kind and giving person. Most of the time, the culture manifests this assumption into a reality. 

Burning Man: Life Is What Happens When You're Busy Planning Other Things

When you pass through the welcome gate and into Burning Man, one of the first things you'll receive is a guide detailing the events of the upcoming week. It will be your first real glimpse of what's to come and you'll likely peruse through it in disbelief. A margarita drinking party for clowns and kings wearing crowns, a channel your spirit animal yoga class at sunrise, a jazz jam session on top of a tie-dye double decker bus serving wine, glass blowing, fire throwing, a hiney hygiene station for your crack when it gets dusty (yes, someone will wipe it for you), an air-conditioned orgy dome in case voyeurism (and exhibitionism) are your thing, a chili cookin' competition...the list goes on. As you're reading through it, you'll start getting excited. "I gotta do that and that and that and ooo that!" To you I say, good luck. You'll learn quickly, the guide isn't intended to guide. More than anything, it's intended to inspire; to put the potential for exploration at the festival into perspective.

Like in Vegas, time doesn't exist at Burning Man. Distractions lead to other distractions; days melt into nights which melt into days. You'll inevitably get lost in the Playa and after a few days you'll realize that an agenda's not only futile, it's unnecessary. You'll find what you need most, when you need it most. Soon enough the idea of being anywhere other than where you are, or planning anything other than what flows spontaneously, will seem laughable. Cultivating presence has never been easier.

Burning Man: A Cathartic Culture

photo courtesy of: blog.gaiam.com

I've been waiting in line for over an hour directly beneath the blazing sun. I've been standing for so long I've forgotten, I'm butt naked. I'm in front and behind dozens of strangers of every shape and size. We're all in this together. 

Burner virgins tiptoe to the dressing area diffidently. They look around as if to rhetorically ask, "do I take off my clothes now?" They expect gawking, but everyone's just minding their own business. Soon enough, so do they. 

Finally, I get to the front of the line. I step out of the one-hundred degree weather into a tiny wooden dome that's even hotter: a makeshift steam room. It's about twelve feet from one side to the other and there's bodies, bodies, bodies crouched everywhere: squatting on the floor, sitting on the bench and stretching. It's hell, but when I get out the desert will feel like a freezer. 

Inside the dome, the dynamic between the bathers evolves. Sometimes, it's a spiritual environment with a unified chant or meditative ohm. Sometimes, there's massage trains or an impromptu yoga session. Often, everyone's just chatting, laughing and getting to know one another. 

It's a space of relaxation and rejuvenation. Like everywhere else on the Playa, you make it your own. 

A hose spraying cool mist is passed around the dark sauna. Eventually a kind voice turns to you and asks, "need a spritz?" It's a godsend and when you're handed the hose you return the favor without hesitancy. It's karma in its most simplistic form and the added element of vulnerability in the form of nakedness is what breeds this atmosphere of trust. 

Nudity is just one manifestation of this culture built around supporting people to explore and become comfortable with every facet of who they are. As a first-timer, it'll only take a few days for you to realize that no matter how square or strange you might be Burning Man loves you. It's a moment of disbelief and liberation simultaneously. What will you do then? Not even you can predict, but I can assure you that you'll find yourself in circumstances you couldn't have imagined in your wildest dreams. When the week's over, you'll return to your life changed forever. 

Burning Man: Absurdity On Wheels

Mr. Potato Head art car

I'm dragging my feet through the Black Rock Desert under the scorching summer sun. My skin is burnt and crusty; my entire body covered in a white layer of salty, dessicated powder. I'm reaching for the lasts of my warm electrolyte powder-filled water when I suddenly hear a parade of 1940s big band music. I turn around to see a flat wood platform on wheels with a five piece jazz band slowly rolling up behind me.

"Hop on!" they say as I continue to walk next to them. "Come on!" they urge enthusiastically. The saxophonist reaches out a hand and I jump onto the moving stage. Behind the drum kit, I see an old, fading brown couch; something someone's parents stuck in the garage for the kids to eat pizza and play video games on after the remodel. I sink in between the ripped, absorbent cushions. A wave of relief washes over me.

My weary legs are recuperating and a new friend aboard hands me an ice cold beer. We continue our journey. The band's jamming and I'm sprawled out in the back staring up at the blue sky. We aimlessly cruise around the festival, smiling and waving at appreciative passersby who do a little spin or dip as a nod to the live soundtrack. Just as I think it can't get better, two rods protrude from the center of the platform and starting showering me with cool mist. Once again, an art car to the rescue.

There are hundreds of these "mutant" vehicles driving around Burning Man each year.

They're made from cars, trucks, golf carts or any other kind of motor vehicle that's been converted to go no faster than five miles per hour and has been dressed up to look nothing like its original form. When out at the festival you'll see every shape and size of art car; big furry marine animals covered in LED lights, pirate ships, magic school buses, flaming dragons, genie bottles...you name it.

They all offer different amenities on board: cushy seating, DJs, full bars, stripper poles, dance floors and every other kind of bell and whistle you can imagine. At nighttime they transform the landscape; glowing mobile sculptures that trickle the horizon with a blinking neon rainbow.

Yes, that's a flaming octopus

They're a party on wheels and most have speakers so loud they vibrate the desert floor miles away. Day or night, classical music playing cupcake or bluegrass boot, they're a hitchhiker's dream and at Burning Man, everyone's welcome to a ride in style.

Burning Man: The Playa Will Provide

Nothing’s visible, but the small circle of ground in front of my tire as my aching thighs steadily push through thick sand.

Suddenly, a small light appears in the distance. It’s a dehydrated hitchhiker’s canteen, a glowing log cabin in a snowstorm, a home cooked meal for an upset stomach…without thought I pedal in its direction. As I approach with a desperate curiosity, I notice a Broadway like sign surrounded with Edison bulbs displaying show times: “12 a.m., 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.” It’s a small retro movie theater and one of the seemingly infinite surprises built in the middle of nowhere Nevada for Burning Man this year.

Inside there’s an intimate concessions area decorated with old movie posters. There’s a shiny glass case with neatly organized king size Snicker bars, Kit Kats, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and gummys. After three days of trail mix, it’s a salivating display.

A charismatic clown is happily gifting the snacks in exchange for a joke. Next to the entrance is a miniature rectangular opening cut into the wall.

I crouch through it; an inquisite Alice stepping into Wonderland. I find myself in a musky screening room with velvet seats reminiscent of an old Hollywood theater. At 4 a.m. it’s packed with familiar strangers sitting in aisles, cuddling on the floor in front of the first row and crowded in the back watching the 1940s American classic Citizen Kane.

I walk in and sit down. The milk chocolate satisfies my deprived taste buds like the most sentimental childhood dessert. As blood recirculates into my icy cheeks, I’m reminded of a favorite festival mantra, “the playa will provide.”

The playa, an endearing name for the piece of land Burning Man lives on each year, always manages in the most unbelievable of ways to give you what you need most, when you need it most. It’s a magic that can’t be fully understood until you’re dying of thirst and someone hands you a popsicle, you’ve been walking miles in the heat and you stumble upon a misting dome with couches or you’re feeling achy and a professional masseuse offers you a two hour long Swedish massage. It’s the beauty that’s born out of a community in which people invest themselves fully and expect nothing in return, but a thank you.

Burning Man: The Five Ws Answered

Each year, 65,000 people spend a week frolicking around one of the most arid and unlivable climates on earth. The Black Rock Desert is a dried lakebed with a high concentration of alkali salts that irritate the skin. Storms kick up unpredictably throughout the days and nights creating clouds of dry sandlike dust that whirls around at speeds of up to 30 miles per hour. Not a single insect has survived there and yet that doesn't deter people from pouring in every summer for the one and only Burning Man.

Google images of the event will bring up photos of people in the most elaborate costumes standing on a seven square mile stretch of desert expanding into the horizon. It's enough to spark some intrigue, but provides no real insight.

So, what is it exactly? It's not a music festival. It's not a crafts fair. It's not a yogi conference or a rave. It's certainly a gathering of all things new age, but for many it's also home; the only place on earth that they can be who they are without reservation. Everything is flipped upside down in this temporary city of unconditional openness, artistic expression and support. It breeds a society that's unfathomably compassionate and overflowing with a creativity that has impressed curators and collectors worldwide.

I'll be there next week to see it for myself. When I return, Backpacktress will take you there.

Fire Island: A Ferry, Fun Ritual

For many summer residents, a stop at Nicky's Clam Bar on the way in or out of town is a sentimental ritual. It's right across from the ferry on Bay Shore, Long Island and is the perfect way to start or end a trip to Fire Island.

This quaint, little restaurant seats about thirty people. Its nautical-themed decor and wood paneling make it feel like the intimate dining room on an old ship. 

They're famous for their steamed lobster right out of the tank, manhattan and new england chowders and, of course, their impressive variety of clams. You can get their little necks fresh from the bay baked with bread crumbs and bacon, sauteed in a white wine and garlic sauce or raw on the half shell if you're feeling brave. There's also large baked clams stuffed with a creamy, bread filling, deep fried whole belly top neck clams and a killer clam bisque. 

Their menu captures the nearby clam culture on Fire Island. It's common for locals to head out to the tidal flats in big rain boots and dig into the sand for these oceanic treats. Each year, there's also a clam shucking contest in the small town of Kismet. It's always packed as people from every corner of the island bike over for this spirited event. 

If you're looking for a taste of timeless, nostalgia before heading over on the ferry or back into the real world, make a stop at this neighborhood gem. You're sure to leave as happy as a Fire Island clam. 

Fire Island: The Giant Playground

Growing up in Los Angeles, there were few opportunities for me to explore freely without supervision. I have fond memories of the liberation I felt on those rare and special occasions when my parents took me to Disneyland. They didn't let me roam around the park, but there was one little area where my imagination and feet could run wild: Tom Sawyer's Island. It was a fantasyland of log cabins, tree houses and caves; the perfect place for tag.

For kids, Fire Island is like Tom Sawyer's Island, but real. It's a place where they can follow their playful intuitions without limitations. It's common to see children as young as five or six strolling down the sandy paths alone minding their own business. They're eating ice cream, humming to themselves, skipping or going to their friend's house to set up a lemonade stand. During the day, you'll see big groups of kids biking in single file lines. Their agendas reminiscent of Peter Pan and The Lost Boys as they march with comical intention to their games. Meanwhile, parents are summering somewhere else on the island trusting that worse case scenario their son or daughter will be escorted home by a neighbor with a scraped up knee.