Almanac Travel: New Orleans, 1990

 

 

It was the most turbulent of flights. Somewhere in the skies over Texas, the plane suddenly dropped hundreds of feet. Those passengers not buckled into their seats were violently thrown about the cabin, but luckily everyone escaped serious injury. The captain would later say that we had ‘hit an air pocket’. In the seat next to me, a young girl of perhaps fourteen clung to my arm with her eyes screwed shut. When the danger had passed, she apologized profusely in a southern accent which I struggled to comprehend. But she brightened up when she realized that I was Australian. We both could have used an interpreter. “I have a pen-pal in Tasmania named Jennifer,” she said earnestly. “Do you know her?” I made a show of racking my brain before answering solemnly that I did not.

 

When the plane touched down in New Orleans, those passengers who were able burst into a round of applause. I had two immediate thoughts: a, that on disembarking I would kiss the tarmac; b, that I would never again fly with Southwest Airlines. A third thought was not too far behind: that I really needed a couple of stiff drinks.

 

The youth hostel was located near the Garden District, in a stately old antebellum house that had seen much better days. On checking in, the manager gave me a list of dos and don’ts. He stressed that the streets in the area were too dangerous to walk, especially at night. There was a streetcar stop right out front. Walk straight from the streetcar to the hostel and vice versa, he said. I was sceptical, but having seen the undisguised decay in the neighbourhood on arrival, I assured him that I would err on the side of caution. After checking in, I proceeded to the communal kitchen and did what I always did: I raided the unlabelled food in the fridge.

 

 

 

I got talking to an Englishman named Brian. He told me that he was in the process of delivering a “drive away” Ford Mustang from Los Angeles to Miami. He was going to a live music venue near Loyola University and asked me if I wanted to come along. At that moment I didn’t have any other plans. The bar was small, and it was packed to the rafters, but the band was loud and excellent. Brian had probably downed too many beers to be driving, but we found our way back to the hostel unscathed. The following morning, the hostel manager announced that a number of vehicles in the street had had their windows smashed during the night. Sadly, the Ford Mustang did not escape the vandalism. Outside, Brian looked even more shattered than the windows of the cars. Distraught, he climbed into the Mustang and headed off for Miami.

 

Over a breakfast of whatever I could pilfer from the communal fridge, I met Hans. He was a Swiss-German who had been a champion downhill skier. In broken English he explained to me that he had tired of the discipline and training and had basically run away from that life to go backpacking across America. He was 25, a week into his journey of discovery, and his strict regimen meant that he never tasted alcohol before embarking on this epic solo trip. He was keen to have a beer or two, so we arranged to meet downtown later in the day.

 

The French Quarter was chockers, bustling with tourists, shysters, and buskers. There was an edge that warned you to keep your wits about you. I met up with Hans, and after a couple of beers in an Irish bar – yep, there was one right there on Bourbon Street – we got drawn into a garishly lit bar called the ‘Cat’s Meow’. There was a line of girls queueing up by the stage to take turns at choosing a song to sing along to with a microphone. I asked the barman what was happening. “It’s a new craze from Japan. It’s called carry-oh-key. It’s a novelty that won’t last long.” I wasn’t so sure. I looked at the queue, looked at Hans, and reckoned that this new craze might do alright in Australia.

 

At around midnight, a large group of the most gorgeous women poured through the door of the bar. The barman explained that every night before close, all the air hostesses from Southwest Airlines would come in, let their hair down, and belt out tunes on the karaoke machine. It was a sight to behold. But by this stage Hans was fried, and barely able to converse in his native tongue. In fact, he was barely able to stand. I helped him onto the streetcar, and he proceeded to hang out the window and vomit all the way back to the hostel. At one point, I hauled him back inside just before a trolley travelling in the opposite direction would have taken his head clean off. He stared at me, pale from both the grog and the shock of such a near miss.

 

The next morning, Hans grabbed me by the arms and thanked me for saving his life. During the night, he had come to the decision that this life was not for him, and that he was going back to Switzerland to train. He would go on to win a medal in Albertville in 1992, but I am not sure whether or not he thanked me. I told Hans that I, too, had made a decision: I had been far too hasty in dismissing Southwest Airlines.

 

 

You can read more from Smokie HERE

To return to the www.footyalmanac.com.au  home page click HERE

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?
And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help keep things ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

Become an Almanac (annual) member – CLICK HERE