This Is Happiness

Saturday, February 9, 2008

So this is what happiness looks like, New Orleans-style:

I wake up early on Saturday and find that it is a beautiful day. I get dressed, putting on a light jacket, and head out to go vote in the Louisiana Primary. As I stroll down to the International School, my polling place, I notice I'm overdressed for the weather -- it's so sunny it's sparkling and warm, in the 70s. On the walk, I see azaleas and irises and camellias in bloom. And folks used to wonder, when I lived up North, why I wanted it to be Spring in February.

At the International School, I see that one of my polling commissioners is someone I've known for years, but whom I haven't seen since I moved home. I was delighted by this small coincidence, just another example of New Orleans as a small town. After voting (don't ask, it's private!), I walked with Ellen as far as the totally-fabulous Surrey's, where she would be taking her lunch break. (There was a big crowd on the sidewalk, waiting to get in. If you're going to eat there on a Saturday or a Sunday, get there EARLY.) She told me that normally she doesn't work on Saturdays, it being Shabbas, but that serving as a poll commissioner seemed like a spiritual exercise to her. I smiled at that.

When I got home, in an excellent mood, Big Man was up and dressed, and more than ready to eat. I told him it was a perfect Magazine Street day, and he readily agreed. (We'd been talking for months about taking a day where we just walked Magazine.) I ditched the jacket I had on, and we left the house and began walking the 2 blocks to Magazine. The sun was so bright I regretted not putting on any sunblock or a hat, but I thought a little sunburn would be a good price to pay for such a day.

We decided to eat at J'Anita's, whose sign outside said "Breakfast-BBQ-Beer." But it was too late in the day for breakfast, so we ordered coffee and lunch -- the excellent barbequed beef brisket. We loved the feel of the place, the little history on the menu (telling how the owners, a married couple, had run a barbeque trailer in Mid-City after Katrina and had ended up with this little place, named after the husband's parents), the local art on the walls, the tiny courtyard in the back. The owner, Craig, came out and passed some time with us, very friendly and personable. The check was amazingly cheap and we overpaid. In a good mood, we continued down Magazine.

We popped into every antique store we passed (Big Man enjoys this as much as I do, so don't think he was forcing himself), class to kitsch, vast hodgepodges of real antiques, semi-antiques, used furniture, and absolute junk in prices from the affordable to the astronomical. Shopkeepers were friendly and chatty. We all agreed that this weather, this kind of day, was one of the best reasons to live in New Orleans. (On this trip, we skipped all the dress shops -- that's going to have to be another Magazine Street day with my sister.)

At Jackson Avenue, we crossed the street and headed back in the direction of our house. We went into Stein's Deli at the corner of Jackson and Magazine, and got some good ol' Philly-style Italian cold cuts and cheese and reminisced with the counter men about good times on 9th Street in the Philadelphia Italian Market -- one of the things we miss most. Swigging from a bottle of Italian soda water, we continued on the other side of Magazine. We came upon a little store called Prince Michael's Chocolates, which I had heard about, so we went in. A small glass counter held handmade chocolate truffles, including a plate labelled "Chipotle Cinnamon Truffle." A youngish woman was in the back, working on something, and called out to greet us. I said I had heard good things about her shop, and that we wanted to try the chipotle chocolates. She laughed. "I'm making more of them right now," she said. "Here, try them" and she held out in cocoa-encrusted hands two halves, one for each of us, and we opened our mouths and took them straight from her hands, like communion.

First there was a burst of intense and rich dark chocolate flavor, then the taste of cinnamon arose, then it finished with the heat of the chipotle pepper. "Oh-my-God," breathed Big Man, when we could finally speak. "I bet you hear that more often than a Bourbon Street hooker," he told the owner, and she laughed again. "I do, I really do." We purchased 2 of the heavenly little truffles and, noticing that she made her iced coffee with COFFEE ICE CUBES, ordered that as well. (Why hasn't anyone else thought of that?? It's brilliant!) While the owner made our coffees, we chatted with her. She told us that the shop was a lifetime dream for her and her brother, Michael, but that he had died before it opened, and in his honor, she had decided to name the shop after his nickname. We offered our sympathy, complimented her on the beautiful shop and her wonderful wares, said we'd be back, and headed back out into the sunshine, armed with fabulous iced coffee.

A stop at a bank-turned art gallery revealed wonderful colorful works by a local black artist, portraits of Mardi Gras Indians, jazz musicians, and perky fleur de lis (of course!). We visited tiny Sophie Wright Park, admiring the statue by New Orleans artist Enrique Alvarez. Since we both needed a restroom, and being across the street from J'Anita's, where we had started the walk, we crossed over. While Big Man headed to the restroom, I ordered a beer -- and got a long explanation from the young waitress about not having a liquor license yet, but she could let me have one of the owner's beers for a "donation." I got a nice cold Abita draft, and license to use the rest room. Craig, the owner, came out and saw us, and we had a long conversation about music and food -- 2 of New Orleanians' favorite subjects.

Beer and conversation finished, we crossed back over to the world-famous Jim Russell Music store and spent a very pleasant half-hour browsing through stacks and stacks of vinyl and cassettes and CDs (and even 8-tracks!). The current owner sat on a stool near the front door, near a big glass jar labeled "Jim Russell Roof Fund." She told us that Katrina had damaged the roof of the building, revealing something that no one had known: that there had been a fire some time in the 1800s, and that instead of actually repairing it, in those days they had just created another roof on top of the fire-damaged one. Katrina's winds blew holes in the second roof, revealing the damaged roof beneath. She said she had leaks all over the place. Even though we didn't buy anything (on THAT trip!), Big Man put some bills in the jar.

Our last visit was to the Bali Shop in the fabulous tropical triangle building at the junction of Magazine and Sophie Wright Place. The shop was filled with furniture and accessories and sculptures from Bali and Indonesia, beautiful stuff. Big Man noticed a wondrous carved bed and as we walked to it, the owner came out of a little office. I asked her, "Is that an opium bed?" (I had heard about them and read about them, but I don't think I've seen one before.) "Yes, yes!" she said delightedly, "Opium bed! Yes! It's beautiful, come see!" She was so enthusiastic about her lovely merchandise, we were charmed. We looked at everything and wished we had a place for a $43,000 carved and painted opium bed.

We walked home from there, a little tired, a little sunburned, sated and happy. When we sank down on the couch in the living room, we looked at each other and said, "Wasn't that great??" And Big Man said, "I am so happy we live here" and I had to agree.

So that's what happiness looks like, on an early Spring day in New Orleans.