//------------------------------// // A Sidewalk named Desire // Story: A Seed in the Big Easy // by The Blue EM2 //------------------------------// Morning arrived, and Babs pulled herself out of bed and looked out of the curtains. She was rewarded with a glorious Louisiana sunrise. Even though it was only 7 in the morning, the city had already woken up, with streetcars and automobiles already rolling around as people headed off to work or to do their daily chores. There was a murmuring from the beds next to her, as Silverstream and Raindrops pulled themselves out of bed as well. “What time is it?” the latter asked. “7 in the morning,” Babs replied. “Oh gosh!” Silverstream cried. “We’d better get going!” and with that, she sped off in the direction of the shower before anyone could stop her. Raindrops shrugged. “I suppose that settles the question of who’s going in first.” “But second?” Babs added. “There’s a challenge.” Babs went in second, as the water helped to wake her up in the morning. The three of them got dressed, and headed for the elevator. Or rather, they would have had Silverstream not forgotten the key. Once that issue was rectified, they headed downstairs to see Featherweight and Tender Taps had already got their breakfast. Cool Jazz was playing over the speakers, getting them ready for their day. On the note, like many urban hotels, breakfast was self-service. There were cereals, and cooked meats, and yoghurt. Silverstream was a little perturbed. “Where’s the fresh fruit?” she asked. “They don’t do that here,” Raindrops reminded her. “It’d go off in these temperatures.” “At least there’s sausage and bacon,” Babs added. “I hate to imagine how my cuz’s friend’s sister would react to the fact there’s no salmon.” Silverstream gasped. “NO SALMON?” she cried. “THIS IS... THE! WORST! POSSIBLE! THING!” Raindrops shook her head. “Good grief.” Once breakfast was concluded, the tour group marshalled to go on a tour of the French Quarter. They excited the hotel and headed across the street into the old winding streets. Even at this time in the morning, the bars and restaurants were full, and the halls resounded to the thunderous noise of honky-tonk pianos and small jazz ensembles. It was a wonderful sound, mixed in with the cool air of the January morning and the light reflecting off the roof of every building. They saw many buildings, including one that was notorious for housing ghosts, the home of the NOLA Collection, and a handful of homes built in the Spanish style. These homes were of particular interest to Mr Rolls, who spoke about them to no end. Featherweight looked at Raindrops. “Does he ever talk about anything else?” Suddenly, a trumpet flared up in the distance. “Listen!” called Tender Taps. “West End Blues, Louis Armstrong, 1928.” “It’s pronounced Lewis,” Babs informed him. “He wasn’t French!” “Irrespective of that, he was one of the greatest trumpeters who ever lived, and the public face of African-American music for decades alongside players like Chuck Berry, Duke Ellington, and Fats Domino.” “Shall we dub you ‘the walking encyclopaedia’?” joked Silverstream. “Uncyciclopedia,” Tender replied, “which is like online encyclopaedia called Wikiped.” Babs sighed. “I honestly wonder whether the reader will even get that.” “What?” Raindrops asked. “Just breakin’ the fourth wall.” They stopped on another street, where Mr Royce addressed the group. “Everyone,” he said, “pay attention.” He indicated to the road in front of them. “This road was the original route of the Desire Line. Opened in 1920 and closed in 1948, it was immortalised in Tennessee Williams’ play, A Streetcar Named Desire. Subsequently converted to a bus route, there are currently talks to reinstate the line in its entirety, though how well that goes depends on the performance of the Rampart line.” Tender turned to his friends. “Yeah, somehow A Bus Lane Named Desire doesn’t have the same ring to it.” “Did you know that the route quoted in the play is actually impossible?” Silverstream said excitedly. “What was it again?” Raindrops asked. “They told me to take a streetcar named Desire, transfer to one called Cemeteries and ride six blocks and get off at—Elysian Fields!" Babs told them. Silverstream started speaking again. “The Cemeteries line didn’t go to Elysian Fields at all. The Desire Line actually crossed Elysian Fields Avenue on the way to Canal Street. There you could board the Cemeteries Line, which itself never ran through Elysian Fields.” “I did not know that,” Raindrops added. “But apparently the idea of calling Streetcars by their route names is something Williams made up. Desire Line doesn’t make for a memorable title.” “The rest of the group’s movin’ on!” Babs called. “Let’s go!” After a talk about the French Quarter from the National Park Service, the crew went for lunch. Truth be told, their lunch (muffulettas) had been prepared beforehand, so it was simply a case of picking it up. And delicious they were! The cheese and salami mingled with the olive and sauce perfectly, leaving an absolute explosion on the taste buds. “I’ve never tasted anything like it!” Raindrops said. “It’s apparently characteristic of the city,” Featherweight added. “Funny, because it has all the hallmarks of Italian,” Babs noted. “True,” Tender noted. “But you’re the expert on that.” “Sorry?” Babs asked. “What do you mean?” “You’re half Italian, aren’t you?” Tender asked himself. “If not, then no offence.” “I’m not half Italian,” Babs corrected him. “I’m half Italian-American,” putting particular emphasis on ‘American’. “Ah,” Tender replied. “Sorry for any confusion.” “No worries,” Babs answered. “But before any of that, we are all Americans,” Silverstream added. “Agreed!” they called. “But there’s no denying that this is delicious,” smiled Raindrops. Nobody was in a position to disagree. They followed up a most filling lunch with a trip to the Mint. The Mint was a large, imposing building which had once been one of a handful of places allowed to make US coins (hence mint). The National Park Service was busy converting the place into the Jazz Museum, which housed artefacts such as vintage pictures, original suits worn by the performers, several pianos, and even a live performance space, where the group listened to a band playing a number of Jazz standards. After that, they popped back to Jackson square to partake of another N’awlins tradition. In Jackson Square, on the side next to the promenade on Decatur Street, sits a small open-air café. This establishment is an icon of the city, and goes by the name of Café du Monde. People flock there to try their most famous product. These are called Beignets, roughly synonymous with fritters. Usually served with sugar, they are a delicacy that have gone unchanged since 1862. Our intrepid heroes made their way here to sample the wonders of Café du Monde. “Your part of the school group, I believe?” asked the waiter. “Yes sir, we are,” Babs replied. “What will be your order?” “We can’t see any menus,” Tender observed. The waiter pointed to the back of the sugar box. “Oh!” Silverstream exclaimed. “Thank you.” “OK,” Featherweight nodded, “3 Beignets each and a drink is what we’re allowed, if I remember correctly.” “So that’s 3 Beignets and an iced coffee each?” the waiter asked. “Yes please,” Raindrops replied. “Very good,” the waiter answered, and headed away. “What do you think they’ll taste like?” Tender asked. “Apparently they’re pretty similar to fritters,” Raindrops noted. “Babs, don’t your cousins make pretty good fritters?” asked Silverstream. “That they do!” “Yeah, you were seriously popular at that tasting session,” Featherweight laughed. Presently, the Beignets arrived, and did not disappoint. The iced coffee, however, left something to be desired. Babs took a swig of it-and the look on her face was priceless as she swallowed it quickly. “Did you burn your tongue?” asked Raindrops. “No, quite the opposite! It's hard to describe, being somehow strong and yet cold.” “Well, down the hatch!” Tender smiled confidently, and took a sip. He regretted it pretty promptly. After that incident, and dinner, they headed back into the French Quarter for a trip to Preservation Hall. Preservation Hall opened as a jazz venue in the 1960s, and was a nondescript building with closed windows. Guest musicians had the honour of playing there, but most performances were done with the resident jazz band. And now they were going to hear a truly authentic jazz performance. As they were led into the venue, Babs suddenly became aware of a problem. The band leader was talking to one of his fellow players. “This is bad!” he said. “Our pianist has injured her hand, and cannot play.” “How are we gonna play with no pianist?” asked the other. “Without a pianist the harmony won’t hold up.” “Uh, I play piano,” Babs suggested. The band leader turned around. “How well?” he asked.