Tripping to Donaldsonville, LA

GoNomad recently posted an article I wrote about the town of Donaldsonville, Louisiana.

I visited Donaldsonville in June and am still dreaming about the white chocolate bread pudding I ate there.

Here is an excerpt from the story:

Going to visit Donaldsonville is a lot like going to visit your grandparents.

It takes effort on your part to motivate and get yourself there, and once you arrive, you might very well look around and wonder why you made the drive. The town’s appearance is tattered and at first glance it’s not immediately obvious what there is to do.

But if you stick around, and if you are willing to listen, you will be drawn in. And when it comes time to leave, you’ll be surprised to find that there is a part of you resisting, a part of you that wants to linger, a part of you that knows there are more stories yet to hear, old stories, stories you didn’t think mattered to your fast-paced, contemporary life, stories you didn’t think had any power to pull you in. But it turns out that they do.

Historic Donaldsonville, Louisiana

As we head into a big holiday weekend here in the U.S., here's a new spin on a familiar public awareness campaign:

Speaking Frozen Daiquiri

My recent Louisiana daiquiri drive-thru experience has daiquiris on my mind.

They (daiquiris) make a strange subject -- perhaps -- for a blog entry, but it just so happens that I came home from my road trip through The South and got the bug to clean my office.

This bug doesn't come along very often, so when it makes an appearance, I've learned to heed it.

On this cleaning spree I decided to go through my book shelves. They are full and this is a problem as all the books I'm continuing to acquire are stacked in piles on the floor.

One of the books I pulled from my shelves during my cleaning is Islands in the Stream by Ernest Hemingway.

I bought and read the book after traveling to Havana, for it is partially set in the city.

I also bought the book because I'd been told the main character spends a lot of time drinking daiquiris at El Floridita, the Havana bar where daiquiris are said to have originated and where Ernest Hemingway is said to have spent a lot of time.

Like many tourists in Havana, I spent an evening while I was there drinking daiquiris at El Floridita in homage to Hemingway.

It's been a few years now since I read the book. I remember a main character that struggled with being a good artist and a good dad. And - as I'd been told - I remember a main character that passed ample time drinking daiquiris.

Turns out, I underlined Hemingway's every mentioned of daiquiris while I was reading the book.

For example, I underlined this:

He was drinking another frozen daiquiri with no sugar in it and as he lifted it, heavy and the glass frost-rimmed, he looked at the clear part below the frapped top and it reminded him of the sea. The frapped part of the drink was like the wake of a ship and the clear part was the way the water looked when the bow cut it when you were in shallow water over marl bottom. That was almost the exact color.

And, among many other words, this:

All I know how to speak now is frozen daiquiri. Tu hablas frozen daiquiri tu?


Photos:

Big Easy Daiquiris in New Orleans.
Drinking an original daiquiri at El Floridita in Havana.

Louisiana Wrap-Up

My Louisiana road trip all too quickly came to an end.

Even though I started the trip with a number of misgivings, I realized rather quickly that all my worries had been for naught.

Every person I encountered was open and friendly and every place I stopped was welcoming and interesting.

In fact, I was sad to see the trip come to an end and I'm already plotting a return to New Orleans.

It's impossible to recount every last detail of a trip, whether through words or photographs, but in this blog post I'm going to give it a shot. Here goes:

Number of turkey encounters:

One. His name was Gus.

Number of alligator encounters:

One. His name was Charlie.

Number of hornet encounters:

Unfortunately, one.

Number of ghost encounters:

Fortunately, one.

My first two nights in Louisiana, we stayed at the Hotel Monteleone in New Orleans, which is rumored to be haunted by 13 different ghosts.

On a tour of the hotel's upper floors, we passed through an event space used for business lunches and wedding dinners. The room was empty. Believe me. We walked through the whole space, poking our heads into the corners and around the blinds to check out the city view from all the windows.

We'd just left the room, just left that empty room, when a loud crash of dishes sounded from directly behind.

We beat it out of there.

Number of times I was called "ma'am":

I stopped counting and eventually came to accept the word's presence and the fact that it was being used to address me.

I do, however, feel sorry for the first young man who called me ma'am. "Ma'am?!" I jumped. "Did you just call me ma'am?"

"Yes ma'am," he repeated, his cheeks flushing. He was a clean-cut cutie, a restaurant manager with a recent college degree.

"I'm not old enough to be called ma'am," I instructed him in what I thought was a playful tone.

"I'm just trying to do as my mama said," he stammered. "She'd be real unhappy if I wasn't polite."

I backed off. He hadn't meant the word as an insult, and as I saw him fluster and blush I realized that I had just insulted him by insinuating that his choice of words had offended me.

Which leads me to...

Number of women I met who shared the same first name:

Let's see. There was Miss Kitty, Miss Laurie, Miss Cynthia, Miss Donna. That's four. Surely I'm forgetting a few ...

Number of Huge Ass Beers consumed:

None.

Number of mint juleps consumed:

One. It was my first, and I must say, probably my last. I think I'm more of a mojito girl.


Number of times we pulled through a daiquiri drive-thru:

Once.

As we left the big city behind we started seeing "Daiquiri Drive-Thru" signs on store fronts.

Turns out, it's perfectly legal to swing by the drive-thru and pick up some daiquiris to go. The filled-to-the-brim cups come sealed closed with packing tape. So long as the top remains unpunctured (this includes the use of a straw) then it's perfectly legal to drive about town with a daiquiri.

Number of times we encountered a police sobriety check point:

Once.

We spotted the flashing cop lights before we reached the check point and even though we'd done nothing wrong by going through a daiquiri drive through, we freaked out, pulled into a Wal-Mart parking lot and promptly dropped the daiquiris in the trash.

I was disappointed to see the daiquiri go and yet it somehow seems very fitting that my one (and probably only) daiquiri drive-thru experience ended in a Wal-Mart parking lot.

Number of bread pudding recipes tried:

Six.

The one that gets my vote for the top spot was the "White Chocolate Bread Pudding" served at The Grapevine in Donaldsonville.

Number of fried foods eaten:

Too many to count. But I did discover a previously unknown love for beignets, which are lumps of fried dough covered in heaping spoonfuls of powdered sugar served up with cafe au lait for breakfast.

And last but not least...

Number of new words learned:

One. And it's a good one ... coon-ass.

Jams and Jigs in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana

Music. Music. And then more music. That's what the past 24 hours of my Louisiana road trip were all about.

We pulled into the town of Breaux Bridge yesterday evening, dumped our stuff at a local B & B, and then headed right back out for a night of fun.

We rolled into Mulate's, where a Cajun band was in full swing. The dance floor was in full swing, too. It didn't really seem to matter who you danced with, just so long as you danced.

There were couples dancing to be sure, but there were also moms twirling about with their babies on the floor in a sort of lullaby trance, sisters waltzing in pairs and dads teaching their wee ones basic steps.



The next morning, we got up bright and early for breakfast. Our goal was to arrive on the steps of Cafe des Amis at 7:30 am. When we arrived, we found that others had beat us there and a band was already inside warming up on stage.

Perhaps because the previous night had been spent taking in local music, I hadn't realized that our breakfast would also be spent taking in local music. I also didn't realize that I was in for the wildest breakfast outing ever.

The Saturday morning "Zydeco Breakfast" is a weekly event that local people obviously plan on attending. A $4 cover charge gets you in the door for dancing. If you don't mind waiting, you can try to get a table. But by and large, the majority of the people attending are there to dance.



And as if we hadn't already consumed enough coffee or tunes, we walked one block over to the local Breaux Bridge coffee shop, Coffee Break, where a creole jam session was just starting to pick up speed.

Swamp Tour, McGee's Landing, Louisiana

We loaded up on a air boat for an afternoon tour of the Atchafalaya Basin.

The basin looks like a really big lake. It's a spill over of river water as the Mississippi makes its way to the Gulf.

But looks can be deceiving. Even though it looks like a lake from the shore, or from the highway that passes directly over it, the basin is actually a swamp.

Cypress trees reach up and out of the water. Spanish moss hangs from their branches and sways in the wind, giving the trees an eerie sort of decaying air.

Alligators lurk. Sizable birds perch above. Crawfish populate the murky depths.

We boarded the air boats at McGee's Landing, making sure to eat lunch in the restaurant before heading out for our afternoon adventure.

And we would have stayed there overnight as well had the floating cabins not been completely and totally booked!

Me and You and a Man named Boo, Donaldsonville, Louisiana

Even though I'd love to spend more time in New Orleans, the city is not the reason I came to Louisiana.

Instead, I came to Louisiana to go on a road trip through Cajun country. The journey started early this morning with a stop at Starbucks to ensure we were properly hopped up on caffeine before we hit the road. We had about two hours of asphalt ahead of us before we'd pull into the town of Donaldsonville.

At first glance, Donaldsonville doesn't look like much. The streets are lined with rickety shotgun houses. The old Main Street drag seems a little down on its luck.

But stick around, scratch the surface, and suddenly, Donaldsonville turns into a sort of small town cultural mecca.

While many of the area homes looked as if they could do with a little (okay, a lot) of refurbishing, a massive catholic church loomed on the outskirts of downtown.

The Ascension of Our Lord Catholic Church looks like a building that should be in a big city. It seemed completely out of place in this scrappy-looking town. But that's kinda the point. It's symbolic of its people's faith. A member, a man who was introduced to us as Mr. Boo, gave us a tour of the cathedral.

We also stopped by Rossie's Frame Shop to check out the work of a local artist, Alvin Batiste. Turned out that Alvin was there, as he is every day because the frame shop is actually his studio.

He left his painting behind to talk with us, take us around and tell us about his work. He pointed out his favorite pieces and then played a little ditty for us on his guitar.

We also hit up The River Road African American Museum. The museum is small but mighty ... probably because its founder, Kathe Hambrick, is mighty herself.

A former corporate gal, she left the suit world behind to start a museum that would showcase the contributions of African Americans in Louisiana's Mississippi River valley and teach children about the hardships of slavery and the realities of the Underground Railroad.

It's evident the museum and its mission is her passion. She was there when we came in, as she is most day since she lacks a full staff, and showed us about her collections.

Our meager Starbucks breakfast had long worn off and we were ready for lunch before we wrapped up our Donaldsonville tour and headed on our way.

We got a table at the Grapevine Cafe and just as we started contemplating the menu, dark clouds rolled into town.

When the owner and chef herself made an appearance at our side, we gladly gave up our plan of a quick bite to eat and decided to let her select our meal. She stuffed us full and entertained us with tales as an afternoon rain fell and fell and fell outside.

Chillin with Che in the Big Easy

So I made it to "Nola." That's New Orleans, Louisiana.

Luckily I'm not here alone. My good buddy Che is -- of course -- here keeping me company.

I was so excited to have spotted my Che so early on in my Louisiana trip that I almost didn't notice the verbiage on the sign.

I certainly hope the store owners aren't implying that Che is a "Killer."

I'm pretty sure it was the "cigars" they were after, but when it comes to Che ...

Well, one can never be too sure.

What I can be sure about, however, is that after only one day, Louisiana has smashed all my preconceptions to little bits.

I am completely intrigued with the French Quarter and wish wish wish that I had days to explore the city, as opposed to just today, this one day, which was over and done with in a flash.

In fact, after walking just one block from my hotel, I found that I was chiding myself.

Why, why was it that I so long resisted a trip to New Orleans?

Prove Me Wrong, Louisiana

I'm off. Again.

June is turning into one big travel fest for me. I've been to New York and back, San Diego and back and today I head out for Louisiana.

I've never pictured myself going to Louisiana. Even prior to Katrina, New Orleans never beckoned me. The whole concept of Mardi Gras just didn't pull me in. Beads for boobs isn't my style. And the jazz? Well, sure. I'd go listen for a night, but I'm not an aficionado.

Images of a swampy bayou didn't call me either. As a Minnesotan, I've seen my fair share of mosquitoes. I don't exactly feel the need to travel in order to find more. And crawdads? Well, I'm kinda a picky eater. Digging through their petite little shells for a petite little morsel of meat ... again ... not my style.

And if I'm going to be completely honest, I have to admit that the North-South divide does lurk in my mind.

As I said, I'm a Minnesota girl. Born and raised. I'm a liberal, white, Minnesota girl (not exactly 'granola' but close) with an Asian husband, and even though the Civil War has long since passed, "The South" retains the ability to anger and frighten me.

So why am I going?

Because the opportunity came along.

Because I realize the irony involved in the fact that I would willing travel to Burma, but not to Louisiana.

Because I pride myself on having an open mind and refusing to travel in "The South" is not open-minded.

So stay tuned. Let's see if Louisiana can prove this Yankee chick wrong.