Southern Gothic

We could easily have spent another day or two in New Orleans. But Spring Break is not that long and we had to push on to Mississippi. We had a pleasant chat with our hosts and our friends from Toronto. We pack our things and took a Lyft to the Avis/Budget office on Canal Street. 

Renting a car is never a particularly enjoyable experience, but usually it is relatively quick. This was about as miserable as a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles, no, maybe worse. There were only a handful of people working in this office and more people waiting in line. The ladies behind the desk not only had to punch all those credit card numbers into the computer but then had to rush back and wash the cars as well. 

Our drive to Natchez was fairly uneventful. Getting out of New Orleans was a lot easier than I feared it might be, and before we knew it we were just driving over swamp land on a raised highway by the end of Lake Pontchartrain. We stopped briefly to look for place of, er, refreshment, but for the most part we pushed on. 

The interplay of the human and natural environments is at times oddly beautiful. 

It took us a little longer than expected to get to Natchez, our first Mississippi destination. We had read that this town, preserved from damage in the Civil War when they had the good sense to immediately surrender, had possibly the best collection of antebellum domestic architecture in the South. And we were not disappointed … at all!

Little did we know that this is a big week in Natchez. This is the “Pilgrimage” when people from across the United States come here to visit old homes and to engage in a bit of politically-incorrect nostalgia for the Gone with the Wind South. We learned this when we pulled up to register at our bed and breakfast and John was greeted with a woman in a silk-brocade hoop skirt! Now that is what you want when you come to the South!

Our bed and breakfast was on the tour today. It is called “The Burn.” This is supposedly because “burn” is a Scots word for “creek” and there was a creek running behind the house. There were lots of tourists lined up to see it. We joined them.

This is our host, Ginger, the owner of the house. She was quite friendly and engaging, as just about all Southerners tend to be, and was delighted to fill us in with all kinds of interesting bits about the history of the house. 

The place had been pretty empty when she and her husband bought it, and we purchased the antiques and oversaw the decoration. The woman’s taste is impeccable! John fell in love with the gold and the cream and wants to completely redo our living room. This nice docent told us all about the mens’ and the ladies’ parlors.

Along with the great mansions there are many smaller homes, such also quite historic. Not all are in perfect condition as you can see. 

Our next stop was Choctaw Hall, and this is where things started to change from nostalgic to weird. Choctaw Hall is a large, handsome Greek Revival mansion. With Doric columns, painted bricks, and dozens of divided light windows framed with thin shutters, it could be in any historic community in the eastern United States. But the more time we spent at the house the more I felt like we had wandered into Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. The big bus tour had already come through and the owner, a tiny little man, came out to greet us. I believe his name was David. In a genteel accent and a hoarse voice, he told gave us the extended history of the house. I could not follow all of it but apparently he had some connection with the original owners of the mansion, a family, I think, named the Cupits. 

The inside of the house was where things became truly strange. We were met a rather obviously gay man who called himself “Jimmy the Cricket.” He showed us around the dining room, where a table was covered with every kind of Victorian configuration of fork, knife, and spoon imaginable as well as a dozen large pieces of what appeared to be eighteenth century French porcelain. Funeral size floral arrangements only made it even more excessive. 

As we walked around, we were told that the owners had collected over 800 pieces of Sèvres and Meissen porcelain, mostly Jacob Petit. Not all of it was on display, but a huge amount of it was. Along with this was a large amount of mid-nineteenth century furniture, much of it massive Eastlake and Gothic Revival pieces. These seemed quite incongruous when covered with the French pottery. 

A spiral staircase let to the second floor. We were met here by a man named Lee. I took him to be David’s partner, though in good Southern style, nothing was actually said about any relationship. Lee was considerably younger than David and had obviously once been quite handsome. 

Lee showed us the most bizarre room of all, the master bathroom. In fairness, I do think he said that a previous owner had constructed this monstrosity. Apart from the absurdity of building a baldacchino above a spa bath, the faux marble Doric columns hardly fit with the rest of the Victorian decor. 

Jimmy the Cricket had told us that there was one more house, not on the regular tour, that we absolutely had to see. He made some calls to “James” and left messages asking for two more people to be included on the evening tour of The Towers of Natchez.

Now the first thing almost anybody would say when they first approach this Italian Renaissance Revival house is, well, where exactly are the towers? We learned later that while there had originally been two third floor rooms on the far right and left of the house, these had been removed some years ago. It seems odd to call a house without towers “the towers” just because it once had them. Still, I recall a comment that the mayor of Seal Beach California had made when reminded that there were no seals on the beach there:  “Well, do you think it would be an improvement to call it Sealless Beach?” The Towerless of Natchez makes even less sense. 

The owner is a woman named Ginger Hyland. Her father, “Buzz” Hyland is credit with discovering radar, and he became a close associate of Howard Hughes during World War II. Ginger was born in Los Angeles and raised in the comfort of Holmby Hills. She attended the Westlake School for Girls along with Candice Bergen. She became interested in horses at a young age, and became the first woman president of the American Quarter Horse Association. 

Now all of that is the official stuff you can find about Ginger from the discreet sources. But this is the South and there is always something dark and sinister lurking about. We figured out later why Ginger decided to withdraw the house from the Pilgrimage Tour even though she had once been the president of the local garden club. Ginger is 70, though thanks to the wonders of Beverly Hills physicians she had not even the slightest suggestion of a wrinkle, but she has a boyfriend over 25 years her junior named James Wesley Forde. There was a portrait in the hallway of James as a young man, and he was rather devastatingly handsome. Alas, James had a little issue with a teenage boy, and this made the crime blotter of the Natchez Democrat. (Are there really Democrats in Natchez?) This is a family blog, but you can read the sordid details here if you must. 

Ginger did not want allow any photographs to be taken on the tour. This was a bit of a pity because so much of it was so weird. Ginger, who must still be living on the income from the radar royalties, has the world’s largest collection of beaded Victorian handbags and the walls are covered with several dozen of them. They were obviously the nineteenth century version of “bling” but at least show a great deal of handiwork. Less explicable is Ginger’s collection of nineteenth century eye cups. We saw a few examples of Ginger’s obsession with faux-jeweled Christmas decorations. Apparently there are hundreds of these and they are all out in December. 

We took a few snapshots in the garden as we left. Most of them did not come out that well, but I liked this one of the real cat amid the fake ones. 

In the evening we went down to the Natchez riverfront for a bite to eat. This area was huge slave market before the Civil War, but if there is a monument to this sordid bit of history I did not see it. Instead, there was a casino, every dying city’s hope for renewal, and a bunch of restaurants. We had a mediocre dinner and headed home.

We leave for northern Mississippi tomorrow. Both of us want to come back to Natchez again … but only during “The Pilgrimage.” This place is just too weird not to see again. 

Genteel New Orleans

We had our bikes for a second day, and we decided to head toward the Garden District. John wanted to explore some of the antique stores on Magazine Street, but as we went past them none seemed all that compelling. So we went on to Audubon Park. 

We had spent a little time here over 30 years ago when John and I did our first cross-country trip together. We wanted to go to our first World’s Fair. Not all that many people joined us and the 1984 New Orleans World Fair is regarded as a serious financial failure for the city. But the two of us had a good time. We stayed out in the dorms at Tulane University — everything was on a serious budget back them — and I can still remember hearing the animals in the nearby Audubon Park Zoo howling during the night. These ducks seemed calmer. 

John wanted to have lunch at the Commander's Palace, one of New Orlean’s oldest restaurant. We had always dismissed it as a tourist trap before, the Southern equivalent of Fisherman’s Grotto in San Francisco. But John had read that it had received several James Beard awards for distinguished regional cuisine, so we decided to give it a try. 

The food was indeed good, and it proved to be a fun place for lunch. They have 25 cent martinis, though customers are limited to only three! It seemed like half of the restaurant was wearing either bow ties or hats. Sondheim’s “ladies who lunch” are still alive and kicking in the Crescent City. But if the food is good, the decor even better. Happy plantation scenes! Really! The only thing missing was a statue of a Negro stable boy with a lantern. 

New Orlean’s most famous cemetery is across the street. We never seem to be here when this place is open. 

 Everything about it, even the decaying walls, is perfect Southern Gothic. Oh, where are the vampires?

We had to rush back to the Marigny to return our bikes before the shop closed at five. We took a nap, and in the evening we went out looking for more down home cooking. We ended up at a soul food restaurant on Frenchman Street. The food was disappointing, but the atmosphere was fun. 

Monday in the Big Easy

Despite going to bed early, I managed to wake up at something close to the usual time. Still, I felt generally rested. I think having a real bed instead of the top bunk on a train did make for a better night’s sleep. It was definitely softer for my aging back!

I had sent a text yesterday to our friend Sherry. She lives in Shreveport, and while this is definitely the Paris of the northern parishes, she misses New Orleans a lot, a place where she spent many happy years. So I thought I would just let her know that I was thinking about her as we approached. She called right away. She happened to be coming to New Orleans to meet up with some friends and they were all heading over to Fair Hope, Alabama for what the British call a “hens party.” But she did want to stop by a see us on her way out of town. So we made arrangement to meet mid-morning. 

Meanwhile, John has been having something approaching withdrawals from his healthy morning smoothies. So when we discovered that there was a local branch of what used to be just a local Southern California juice shop, John had to go to imbibe some antioxidants. 

I had the peanut butter and chocolate shake, so no doubt I will oxidate while he does not. 

We had just returned to our room when Sherry called to say that she and “the girls” were there. I happily went down to the lobby of the Ace Hotel to meet them. The Ace Hotel is in a genuinely historic building, but not much there is genuinely old. I looked around the cluttered room for  a bit but did not see anybody. 

At once I heard “John” stretched out over three syllables and I knew Sherry was there. We all hugged and she introduced me to her dear friends Alix and Diane. We ordered coffee and sat down and talked for something close to an hour. What a fascinating group of ladies! We could have talked for many hours more. 

But before they had to push on, we had an agreeable young woman take some pictures of all of us.

After they left, it was about time for us to go, too. We change hotels today. We wanted to stay in a bed and breakfast in the Faubourg Marigny, but they did not have any space for us on Sunday night. So we reserved for just Monday and Tuesday. After turning in our room keys, we caught an Uber over to our new New Orleans home, the Marigny Manor House.

We were met there by our innkeepers, Brian and Alvin. They showed us around this beautiful antebellum house with great Victorian details.

There are some more modern features as well like this lovely deck.

After setting into our room, John and I took pictures of each other taking pictures.

We also looked out at the nearby houses, some of which are also bed and breakfasts. 

We were ready for adventures now, so we spoke with our hosts, Alvin and Brian, about where to rent bikes and where to get a good lunch. They recommended a couple places in the Marigny for bikes and Fiorello’s in the Quarter for a fried chicken lunch. And off we went down Frenchmen Street.

We figured we would pick up lunch first, but somehow we stumbled across Michael’s Bicycles on our way. They offered us a good deal on two bikes for two days, so we were mobile for the rest of the day. John wanted to pose with his bike in front of one of his favorite jazz clubs, The Spotted Cat.

We rode down Esplanade and over Decatur to Fiorello’s, only to discover it was closed. We had an unexceptional lunch, enlivened only with a friendly waitress, at a restaurant near the French Market. From there were decided to explore some parts of the city we only driven through. On the map, it looked like it would be fun to go through Crescent Park. This was easier on the map than in person. Crescent Park is not much of a real park. It is obviously a former industrial or port area along the Mississippi separated by train tracks and a ten foot wall from the inland residential areas. You have to take an elevator and walk across a bridge of the tracks and then take another elevator down to reach it. I think it is aiming to be something like the High Line or the Hudson River bikeway. It is not quite that wonderful. On the other hand, it is so inaccessible that we had no trouble riding a full speed along the river. None of those High Line crowds….

We went through Bywater, an area people are touting as the next Marigny or Treme. It is not quite there yet although I can see the potential. We went back to Esplanade, which has some wonderful bike lanes, and headed north to City Park. 

On the way, we stopped at one of the city’s famed cemeteries. Because of the high water table, nobody is buried underground in New Orleans. Instead, there cemeteries like like Gothic Revival versions of a Roman necropolis. They are cool. 

It is probably disrespectful to both the living and the dead to ride a bike through a cemetery, but that did not stop us. 

Those of more modest means have less elaborate final resting places,

and like everywhere else in New Orleans, one is reminded here as well that this is fundamentally a Catholic town.

City Park is quite a jewel. It is well-maintained and has a number of attractions in addition to trails for walking and jogging. Had we more time, we no doubt would have explored the city’s art museum there. But it was close to closing time and the weather was so lovely we had to be outside. Besides, where in Los Angeles can you enjoy vistas of Live Oak dripping with Spanish Moss?

John sat down on a table  

 while I laid down on the ground.

There is a small amusement park here, though it was not open for the day. We loved how the bright colors and lines of the ride blended with the surrounding trees. 

We were set to leave when we stumbled on the Botanical Garden. There was less than 45 minutes until it closed and we debated whether it was worth paying six dollars each for such a short visit. We decided to splurge, and it was a good decision. This is not a large garden, but it is beautifully laid out and utterly charming. 

There was a decent rose garden, though I am not sure that this is the best climate for roses. The Japanese garden was small but quite beautiful.

As John observed, the secret of a great Japanese garden is the ability to pay for a lot of maintenance!

Much of the work on the garden had been done during the depression, and there were bits of WPA-era art everywhere. John really loves this stuff.

And there were other things that seemed to mix a number of different eras. 

But it was soon time to leave and we were ready to rest after several hours on our bikes. Along the way we went through Bayou Saint John, an utterly charming neighborhood. 

In the evening, John made reservations at Bayona, one of the city’s most celebrated new restaurants. He ordered all the most famous stuff on the menu like the veal sweetbreads and the cream of garlic soup. I was not quite as adventurous, but I had a nice meal as well. 

We have another day on the bikes tomorrow, and we plan to explore the Garden District and the antique shops.

A Long Sunday

When we woke up today the train was not moving. The GPS on our phone told us that we were just outside of San Antonio, where we were scheduled for a fairly long stop, but we knew that this was not where we were supposed to halted. We dressed and took some coffee to the observation car. It was still not moving, and listening to the conversation of the other passengers it was clear that we had not moved for hours. Nobody had any idea what was wrong, and apparently the Amtrak crew was not particularly forthcoming about the problem. 

We learned later that a train ahead of us had hit somebody walking on the tracks, and that the trains had to stop while the police concluded their investigations. While we waited I had breakfast. Amtrak food is not particularly good, but there is a lot of it and it is included in the sleeper fare. One of the best parts of eating on the train is that you are seated with other passengers, and you get to know a little bit about some other people. My breakfast companion was named Don. I never did get his last name. He was a member of the US Merchant Marine, and he was traveling around the country by train while he waited to start his next assignment. He was an interesting guy, and we both had a chance to talk to him more later.

I amused myself while I waited by playing with the camera. Most of the pictures were a mess, but I did rather like this one of a bird taking flight. 

After a bit, the train started moving again. We came about twenty minutes later into the San Antonio station. This one is no doubt as historic as some of the others, but it has been painted in this weird pinkish shade and I have to admit that I did not much like it. 

Apparently some evangelical group called “CityChurch” — the efforts that go into “branding” these congregations always rather appalls me — and they were apparently going to do something to celebrate Palm Sunday.

After this, we went through a lot of Texas. Much of it looked pretty sad. 

We both had lunch with Don and learned a little more about his background. After lunch, we talked some more in the observation car.

In the late afternoon, we pulled into Houston. This is the worst excuse for a train station so far. It’s just a platform underneath a freeway interchange. So depressing!

Apparently, this train is the only thing that stops here so the signage is pretty limited.

We did not spend all that time there. Nobody wandered far from the train, and everybody was happy to get back on when we heard the “All aboard!"

The saddest part of losing all the time early in the morning was that by the time we came to Louisiana and would be traveling through the Bayou it was pitch black. So we did not to view all the swamp we had been looking forward to. And it was well past midnight by the time we pulled into New Orleans. We  are staying the first night at the Ace Hotel. Tomorrow we will switch to a bed and breakfast in the Marigny and start our NOLA adventures.