November 6 to November 12, 2016
Davis Bayou, Gulf Islands National Seashore, Mississippi
Spent my first night in Mississippi, at the Davis Bayou campground, the western extension of the Gulf Islands National Seashore. This is a far cry from the dazzling sands and blue water of Ft. Pickens in Pensacola. This part of the park is in the bayou on the mainland behind the barrier islands. The barrier islands are a mile out and their descriptions very inviting; a longer stay here should include a kayak trip. We stayed two nights because there were some nice trails for walking and biking, and a large visitor center. The Davis campground was turned into a sort of refugee camp after a recent hurricane (Rita, perhaps?) that made many Mississippians homeless. For over a year the park was filled with full-time residents in campers and tents and some FEMA trailers.
We headed west, through Mobile and Gulfport to New Orleans. The infrastructure of the petroleum industry starts appearing here—drilling platforms on the horizon, lots of tanker activity in the ports, pipes stacked in the shipping yard.
A friend of our daughter from high school and college, Chris A., lives in New Orleans, in the Algiers neighborhood, and very generously allowed us to park our trailer in his driveway and hook up to his utilities. Not only that, our friends Donald and Lucy flew down from Bushwood and Chris made his extra room available to them. His house is very cool, a refurbished shotgun style home, only a short 2$ ferry ride to the French Quarter across the Mississippi. There is an historical marker on Chris’s house identifying it as the home of the renowned jazz trumpeter Henry “Red” Allen. (Chris rents his room as an AirBnB so if you are looking for nice accommodations in NOLA let me know.)
We made the crossing to the French quarter a couple of times each day—in the morning to take in the sights, in the evening to take in the sounds.
Among the acts we saw in clubs—the Iguanas at the Circle Bar; Wendell Brunius and the Preservation Hall All Stars; Tuba Skinny on Frenchman Street; The Palm Court SwingMasters; The Royal Street Windin’ Boys at the 21st Amendment and another night at a club on Frenchman Street. Several of the city’s hard-charging funky brass bands we encountered on the streets blowing their souls out, nothing held in reserve. One such group had about fifteen members, including five trumpets, and took over an intersection on Frenchman Street for about 20 minutes blasting some high-powered anthems. There were dozens of clubs on a three block stretch of Frenchman street featuring world-class entertainers with a minimal or no cover charge. I don’t think there is a comparable concentration of music to be found in any other city of the world.
Election day coincided with our arrival in New Orleans, which cast a pall over the proceedings for a couple days. I kept hearing the tag line from a Melvin van Peebles song, “This ain’t America/ you can’t fool me.”
Veni, comedi, audire – We came, we ate, we listened. And we walked. And imbibed. And generally soaked up the scene. My third time in new Orleans, and each time I discover a new neighborhood to explore. Thanks to Chris I have some sense of Algiers. Next time we’ll spend some time in the Lower Garden district which was only glimpsed from a bus this time. I know what it means to miss New Orleans but after a few days we had to give the town some rest.