It's a Breeze
Puttered around the house after coffee and the paper. It's the first Saturday in a few weeks that I haven't had work in front of me, either at the office, in the car (as in...drive to a booth at the country club -- yes, I know, devilish duty, but I'm being paid to do it) or driving to BatonRouge, and I enjoyed lounging. Then...shower, feed animals, walk animals, still lots of time left in the morning. A leisurely 1/2 hour later, still with no 'face' on and no bag packed, a glance at the clock alerts me that the 10:00 Algiers ferry will leave the dock in about 15 minutes. Whoosh!! Slap on some makeup and sunscreen, scramble for a little cash, a credit card, more sunscreen, door key and trot to the ferry. I managed to huff and puff up and down the loading ramp before the boat shoved off. Whew! But wait! the RTA city bus to the Jazzfest only takes 'exact fare.' In this case: $3.00. Well, I wandered around the deck asking a few folks for change for a $20. The first person (naturally, I queried the cute, tall, mustacheod guy first) lamented he had scrounged for some loose change for bus fare. No bills. I privately reminded myself to ignore the issue of cuteness, that my next partner must be self-supporting, and moved on to another potential bill-changer. Finally in possession of correct change to board the bus, I followed cute guy off the ferry, knowing he would be headed to the bus. He was. He noticed I was in hot pursuit. (Really, I only sought the Jazzfest bus). We chatted: He is Todd, I am Paula. We both live in the Point. He lives in the last house on Seguin, etc., and a friendly debate about who dwells closest to the ferry ended in a draw.
The bus stop is almost just across the street from the ferry drop-off. The transportation is cool, modern and only $3.00 to the Jazzfest. (Did I mention I've never been to Jazzfest?)
Naturally, tall, cute one and I are seated together. He spots a friend in the seat near us and they converse, New Orleans-style: they revisit mutual friends, where they are, etc., one notes the other is finally beginning construction on a garage, with the tongue-in-cheek about how essential a garage is to a male psyche. I'm taken in a couple of times, early on, as they joke about how often they frequent certain expensive joints, etc., then I catch on that both eschew the 'uptown' bent, and are really, after all, just average joes who favor $5.00/bottle wine, etc.
It doesn't take very long before I begin to connect the dots between exaggerated conviviality and a certain unforgettable, shall we say, fragrance. It is the aroma of imported (?)leaves distilled and reconstituted and smoked to produce the enviable, but, to me, long-discarded route to "hiya...I'm fine...we're all fine, we're all stoned." Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not me. Anyway, I lost tall cute one around Liuzza's, a bar enroute from the bus to the Jazzfest pedestrian entrance. He pointed me in the direction, I took it, and the rest is, well....
The lines were dismally long. No, they are cruelly long. Let me rephrase that: don't bother showing up between 3:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. There just isn't any point, unless you really groove on seeing hundreds of miserable people stand around for an hour, not moving, barely milling, until the gates open and people ahead of you stream through for at least an hour.
Around 11:00 a.m. I began to hear the music, watch the endless stream of street traffic: every size, shape, age, mood, income, intellect (or not), sex (or not), heading for the heavenly portal: Jazzfest 2006.
On the way back to the bus on Esplanade, I stopped off at Liuzza's, paid homage to the port-o-let, put a mango marguerita on the AmXpress and boarded the bus for an air-conditioned ride back to the ferry at Canal. Breezes on the ferry, tired, happy people walking off the ramp, disappearing into Algiers. Cal was happy to see me.
Today I was tabling for Sierra at the entrance to the Fest, barking at the passers-by about Shell's open loop LNG port in our Gulf. I can't want 'till tomorrow, when I can do it all again, and actually go in the gates to my first Jazzfest ever!
The bus stop is almost just across the street from the ferry drop-off. The transportation is cool, modern and only $3.00 to the Jazzfest. (Did I mention I've never been to Jazzfest?)
Naturally, tall, cute one and I are seated together. He spots a friend in the seat near us and they converse, New Orleans-style: they revisit mutual friends, where they are, etc., one notes the other is finally beginning construction on a garage, with the tongue-in-cheek about how essential a garage is to a male psyche. I'm taken in a couple of times, early on, as they joke about how often they frequent certain expensive joints, etc., then I catch on that both eschew the 'uptown' bent, and are really, after all, just average joes who favor $5.00/bottle wine, etc.
It doesn't take very long before I begin to connect the dots between exaggerated conviviality and a certain unforgettable, shall we say, fragrance. It is the aroma of imported (?)leaves distilled and reconstituted and smoked to produce the enviable, but, to me, long-discarded route to "hiya...I'm fine...we're all fine, we're all stoned." Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not me. Anyway, I lost tall cute one around Liuzza's, a bar enroute from the bus to the Jazzfest pedestrian entrance. He pointed me in the direction, I took it, and the rest is, well....
The lines were dismally long. No, they are cruelly long. Let me rephrase that: don't bother showing up between 3:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. There just isn't any point, unless you really groove on seeing hundreds of miserable people stand around for an hour, not moving, barely milling, until the gates open and people ahead of you stream through for at least an hour.
Around 11:00 a.m. I began to hear the music, watch the endless stream of street traffic: every size, shape, age, mood, income, intellect (or not), sex (or not), heading for the heavenly portal: Jazzfest 2006.
On the way back to the bus on Esplanade, I stopped off at Liuzza's, paid homage to the port-o-let, put a mango marguerita on the AmXpress and boarded the bus for an air-conditioned ride back to the ferry at Canal. Breezes on the ferry, tired, happy people walking off the ramp, disappearing into Algiers. Cal was happy to see me.
Today I was tabling for Sierra at the entrance to the Fest, barking at the passers-by about Shell's open loop LNG port in our Gulf. I can't want 'till tomorrow, when I can do it all again, and actually go in the gates to my first Jazzfest ever!
posted by Pelican Stories at 6:51 PM
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