Louisiana

Just past Lafayette, a small town called Breaux Bridge is where Zach’s Poppa Joe (now in his mid-nineties) went to work for a sugar company after he struck out on his own. We rolled in late to a B&B (Maison des Amis) next to the bridge. Crickets and cicadas pulsed in air so still and moist it could bear little oxygen. Jonah tried to enchant the local cat while Zora and I walked to a gazebo overlooking the bayou stream. I felt my soul opening to the climate, flooded by memories of places similarly steamy I had loved in childhood. We spent the night in a room appointed with plantation antiques and paintings of women whose faces took on a ghostlike cast in the light from the bridge.

The next day we walked down the street for breakfast at Chez Jacqueline, a cook who was opening her café just for us and the other couple from our B&B. We ordered a plate of baignets, crawfish etouffee, a spicy Cajun omelette, and pancakes (which were each nearly 1” thick and infused with almond). Jaccqueline cooked everything by herself quickly, entertaining us the whole time – a feat I have only seen French women pull off with such grace. When we showed interest in the swamp tours, Jacqueline called up a friend and made a reservation. Our roommates from the B&B decided to join us, so we all met up at Lake Martin and climbed aboard the flat-bottomed aluminum vessel of Norbert LeBlanc – an old Cajun who has spent his life hunting in the swamp and who has been featured in National Geographic and its French equivalent. Norbert scooted expertly through the cypress swamp under cascades of Spanish moss, only rarely striking his prop on a hidden log. We saw several birds and managed to spot one alligator all the way out of the water. The moment it saw us, it slipped into the swamp and cruised past our boat with only its eyes and nostrils showing . Next to a 600-year-old cypress stump Norbert brought out a bottle of homemade moonshine made from corn and peaches and aged 3 years in oak. With the crew pacified by its daily ration, Norbert puttered us back to shore, filled with knowledge about hunting gators, ducks, crawfish, birds (“if it’s good to eat, it’s illegal to shoot”), and just about anything else one might want to eat from a swamp.

We took the long way to New Orleans, on back roads around hwy 90 that led past old sugar plantations. There seemed to be a great number of new homes – Norbert had told us that people keep trying to build in the swamp, then get surprised when their homes are flooded. We crossed the Mississippi and reached New Orleans in heavy rain, which felt poignant as we drove past the superdome. Cousin Justin’s “drifter pad” is in the Treme district, famous for Jazz and home to the nation’s oldest African-American church. We had hoped to stay at Justin’s overnight, but it was fairly hazardous even for us (sheet metal and pieces of plaster everywhere, an open spiral staircase for the kids to fall down). Just three blocks away was the French Quarter. We walked into the Lafitte Guest House (http://www.lafitteguesthouse.com/), and because it was the off-season in the middle of the week they offered us a discount. Tennessee Williams wrote “A Streetcar Named Desire” in the brought the kid attic of that building.

After a very nice (but very very slow) dinner by the river, we put the kids to bed in our hotel room. Justin brought his computer & coffee and set to work on his new article for the Audubon on birds & the oil spill while the kids fell asleep – then we proceeded to enjoy the nicest date we’ve had in years, sashaying hand-in-hand down Bourbon Street.