The Farthest We've Ever Been

Who Dat Nation continues to celebrate after the Saints' spectacular win over the much-touted Cardinals in the Dome on Saturday. Moving on to a championship play-off game has never happened in all of franchise history, so the fans and the players are totally psyched. (Although former Saints quarterback -- and famous crybaby -- Bobby Hebert pointed out before the game that current Saints players weren't even born or were mere infants back when the Saints were a reliably bad team, always, as one wag said, "Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory," so maybe they don't feel the press of past history the way the fans do.)

Throughout the city in the days before the game, the sense of excitement and anticipation was nearly palpable. Sacred Heart, a costly Catholic private schools for girls on St. Charles Avenue, had apparently declared Friday Saints Day, and the schoolyard was filled at recess with little-bitty white girls in black and gold jerseys. (I assume the teachers were similarly attired.) Grocery shopping and gas getting on Saturday early afternoon was a madhouse scene, stores and gas stations being PACKED with all the folks who were going to desert the streets at exactly 3:30 pm. (The Times-Picayune reported that crime drops in New Orleans during Saints games, because even thugs and gang-bangers are plunked in front of their TV sets for the duration.) Nearly every person we saw was sporting Saints attire, as I was. (Big Man was saving his for the gig Saturday night; he said it felt weird NOT to be wearing something Saints, like he was naked in public or something.)

In the Dome on Saturday, it was like Mardi Gras came early. Judging from the TV coverage on several channels (stations that didn't have the right to broadcast the game aired everything that happened beforehand, outside the Dome), fans NOT wearing costumes were vastly outnumbered by those who did. There were nuns and clowns and skeletons and Vodou orishas. There were men with painted faces, painted bald (or shaved?) heads, and painted chests. There were wigs galore on both sexes, and there mustn't have been a feather boa left anywhere in the Quarter. Lots of home-made hats -- towering fleur de lis, top hats, dome hats, football hats. (I expect that folks seated behind the hat-wearers at some point must have politely requested the hat to be set aside.) Black and gold sequins sparkled in every camera shot, and there were tons of home-made signs. "No place like Dome." "This house believes." "Going to Miami." "Cardinal gumbo." And on and on.

That first touchdown by the Cards in the first damn play of the game was a stunner, and caused many hearts to flutter with something like doubt. But the way the Saints came roaring back and completely dominated the game, made Big Man say that maybe they LET the Cardinals have that first one in order to build up momentum. I dunno. But it was a wonderful game -- and the fans went wild. Many of us, even at home, were hoarse from screaming afterwards. In sports reports, the anchors and sportscasters were calling the team "Our Saints" over and over and never just "the Saints."

The TV stations interviewed as many members of the Who Dat Nation as they could grab. There was the requisite amounts of "Woo-hoo"ing and hollering, but some of the quotes were really, really poignant. One man choked up when he spoke of going to Saints games in Tulane stadium with his father, now deceased, and how much this win would've meant to his dad. One fan was asked what would happen if the Saints won the Superbowl and the answer brought tears to my eyes.

"If we win the Superbowl, the city will double in size!" "Why?' asked the reporter. "Because then everyone from New Orleans will come home."

If the Saints win the Superbowl, we will all come home. May it be so.

The Cold

On my gosh but it's been cold. Temperatures have been as low as 28 degrees, with wind chill factors bringing it to the teens. Can't put Keely our dog in the yard for more than 5 minutes at a time, and she really makes short shrift of walks in Annunciation Park. No matter how many layers you have on, some part of our body is not covered up enough, and breathing is actually painful. Puddles end up shattered, with shards of ice sticking up like broken glass. Many people have had their water pipes freeze, and some burst. Almost everyone else is letting their taps drip, so there's almost no water pressure. The homeless are at risk, as are poor folks who try to use unsafe space heaters or even their stoves for warmth.

At our house, the central heat is working well, however, since the vents are up in the ceiling, the second floor stays cozy even with the heat OFF, while the first floor is probably comfortable if you could get yourself up into the 12th and 13th feet of the room. In other words, the thermostat can say 68-70 degrees, but down where you are, on the floor or the couch, it's A LOT colder than that. (Even though my siblings laughed when I got the Snuggie in the family Christmas gift exchange, I was darn glad to have it. But I need to find a way to fasten it at the back of my neck -- I don't like the draft.)

On Friday, I attended a party at a parishioner's house and the cold was brutal, just walking to and from the car. To my utter surprise, when I was leaving, I discovered a young black man sitting on the porch next door, practicing scales on his trombone! (Maybe his mama or someone forbade him blowing it in the house, I don't know.) I couldn't believe this young man was putting his lips and tongue in that cold metal mouthpiece in that awful freezing cold! What dedication! I hope he didn't hurt himself or anything.

Thank god it finally warmed up this week!

Phunny Phorty Phellows Returns to St. Charles!

I'm late reporting on the annual ride of the first-to-roll Carnival krewe, the Phunny Phorty Phellows, which by tradition is held on the night of Epiphany, January 6th, also known around here as the first day of the Carnival season. (I'm late because Big Man took the laptop with him to New Jersey, and I'm used to posting these from home using the laptop. Not a good excuse, I know.)

The PPP are a revival of an older organization from the late 19th century that went defunct at some point and were reborn in the early 1980s. Their deal is pretty simple. A group of costumed revelers meet at the streetcar barn, drink and eat kingcake. Whoever gets the baby is the "Boss" of the evening, their name for their "king." Then, along with their trusty brass band -- it's been the Storyville Stompers for some years now -- they all pile into a decorated streetcar and ride the streetcar line, throwing beads and stuff to whoever's on the street. Afterwards, the group repairs to their "bal masque" for some hard partying. (This year's ball was to be held at the new Rock'n'Bowl with Benny Grunch and the Bunch for your listening and dancing -- and laughing -- pleasure.)

Last year, in a driving rain, the PPP had their gathering in the Canal Street barn, since the St. Charles streetcar was not yet back post-Katrina. (You can read all about it in my post from back then.) But this year, they were back where they belong, in the Willow Street streetcar barn, across from the Carrollton Station bar (which, as you might expect, does a brisk business).

It was really, really COLD on January 6th -- in fact, we were in the middle of this hard-core winter freeze that had gripped the whole country. New Orleans was actually below freezing for several days in a row, which, as you might imagine, we're not equipped for. The good folks of the Phunny Phorty Phellows were game, however, and most had on layers *under* their costumes, so as not to spoil the effect. (A few had had to put coats on on top of their costumes, which marred the look.) A much bigger crowd than last year's was there to see them off, including goth young people, families with young children, older folks, and much media. Despite the cold, everyone was in a terrific mood. There was much kissing and wishing of "Happy Carnival" and even "Happy Mardi Gras" (I know, I know, too early, but the distinction seems to be getting lost).

Many in the crowd, like my sister and brother-in-law and I, had fortified themselves with adult beverages from Carrollton Station before braving the cold. Folks huddled in clumps for warmth, and to gossip. The mayor was there to see the PPP off and to officially proclaim the beginning of Carnival. (Gee, we've never needed his say-so before and where was he last year?) Most folks politely declined, in the spirit of Carnival, to boo him, but a few people could not resist.

The proclamation done, and with the band's fanfare, the PPP folks filed onto their streetcar -- there was a proctor at the door to make sure everyone had a costume on -- packed themselves in tight, and, with the cheers and waves of the crowd, they were off. It was reported later that St. Charles Avenue was lined with a bigger-than-normal crowd of well-wishers and parade-goers, a good sign for the parades to come. I managed to score a necklace of giant beads in the traditional purple, green and gold, so I was happy.

Later, at a nearby BBQ restaurant on Oak (Squeal -- we recommend it), the Mayor and his bodyguard came in to pick up their take-out dinners. He was surrounded by people who wanted to shake his hand or take his picture with their cellphones. I felt the Mayor was lucky that Big Man was out of town, or he might've ended up with a piece of Big Man's mind.

Despite the weather, a good start to Carnival 2010.

Believing

Yes, it's the Christmas season and you'd expect -- if you were anywhere else -- that signs posted around town saying, "I Believe" or simply "Believe" would refer to Christianity or to a literal faith in the Biblical nativity story. Anywhere but here, that is.

"Believing" in New Orleans right now refers strictly to a deeply held faith in the Saints perfect season. It means believing with all your heart that the Bless You Boys will beat Dallas on Saturday, and more than that, will go on to win in the playoffs and end up as Superbowl winners. If faith is "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen," then what New Orleanians of all classes and colors have right now is true and authentic faith.

Religion is supposed to be a uniting force in society, and it is sad how often it is not. You can't imagine how this Saints-faith has brought us all together. Our beloved quarterback, Drew Brees, has been selected to rule over the Bacchus Parade on the Sunday after Superbowl -- picture the pandemonium in the streets! Many houses have Saints-themed Christmas decorations. My personal compromise: our house has Christmas lights and wreaths and mistletoe -- and a gold and black fleur de lis flag. The drug dealers on the corner (OK, I can't prove it, and they're perfectly nice to us) have a glittery gold and black wreath on their door. A swanky maternity dress shop in Old Metairie had a pregnant mannequin outside sporting a black Saints-themed baby-bump hoodie -- and a sign on the door proclaiming "13-0 Woo-hoo!" At my bank this morning, a car in the parking lot had a preprinted sign saying "14-0" -- although many around here would disapprove of counting our winnings before they hatch. (Superstitions abound -- some folks refer cryptically to the "S Bowl.")

With our shared faith in the Saints, and our renewed pride in our city and ourselves, it feels like we can do anything we put our minds to. It's a welcome and much-needed feeling this still-battered and bruised and not-fully-recovered city. What a wonderful Christmas season -- what longed-for gifts!

Love and gratitude to the Bless You Boys for all of this good feeling and unity.

Teddy Bear Tea at the Roosevelt

Big Man got an unusual gig this holiday season -- he's portraying the Toy Soldier who plays the herald trumpet for Santa, Mrs. Claus, the Christmas Elf, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and the Snow Fairy at the re-established Teddy Bear Tea in a beautiful ballroom at the Roosevelt. In a revived tradition from pre-Katrina, every weekend leading up to Christmas, beautifully dressed and generally well-behaved little children, accompanied by parents and doting grandparents, make reservations to sit at round tables in the gorgeously decorated ballroom -- white trees glowing with white lights, the arched ceiling glowing with blue lights interspersed with giant dangling snowflake chandeliers, the "Santa house" at the stage made to look like gingerbread and candy -- to nibble at little cucumber sandwiches, ham and cheese sandwiches, and various sweets, all served with hot tea and coffee for the adults and hot chocolate for the kiddies. Each child leaves with a teddy bear (and possibly a stuffed crawfish or alligator if the accompanying adult has trouble saying "no").

There's a brief musical program, with Big Man blowing Christmas songs on the trumpet, and then the characters make the rounds of the guests, meeting and greeting, and of course there's photo ops with Santa. (Santa told me a lot of the children slid right off his lap, due to the satin and taffeta and other slick fabrics of their holiday finery.) During the table visits by the other characters, Big Man takes a break, since, quite frankly, kids are not lining up to get their picture taken with the Toy Soldier and his herald trumpet.

When the program is nearing the end, they bring Big Man back in, with all the characters except Santa (who's *always* swamped with kids, either taking pictures or just trying to tell him what they want for Christmas), and they all do a big Christmas secondline all around the ballroom, Big Man leading the characters in a little parade of Christmas songs, the kids following behind, waving their red napkins in the air. (Only in New Orleans!)

When the whole thing is over, the characters -- including Big Man in his Toy Soldier guise -- line up to form a "receiving line" as everyone leaves, and it's touching to see the little ones give big hugs and pose with their favorites. (A few even squeezed Big Man and stood for pictures with him! It was sweet.) Later, the Roosevelt's lobby was crowded with holiday-dressed children clutching teddy bears.

If you're a New Orleans-area parent or grandparent of a child older than 2 (the younger ones found Rudolph and his light-up red nose frightening and cried) and younger than 10 (any older than that and they'll just roll their eyes at you if you suggest it), then we recommend the Teddy Bear Tea to you. And be sure to say hello to that large Toy Soldier with the horn.

Too Funny

Last Sunday, the Saints played a cliff-hanger game against the Washington Redskins (horrible team name, they should change it), and the whole city paused to watch in wonder. There was hardly a car on the streets from about 12:30 to 4-ish pm. It seemed everyone in the city was glued to some means of following the game -- no matter what else they had to do that day.

I understand through letters to the editor to the Times-Picayune, that Sunday Brunch at quiet, staid, traditional Galatoire's Restaurant was punctuated by waiters bearing sweating sterling silver pitchers of ice water to the tables, reporting to the well-dressed and well-heeled customers on the game scores from the radios blaring back in the kitchen.

That's amusing enough, but the capper was finding out that folks attending the matinée of "The Color Purple" at the Mahalia Jackson Theater of the Performing Arts in Louis Armstrong Park were entertained during intermission by a TV set turned to the Saints game in the theater lobby.

Yes, but then both the play AND the game resumed. Theatergoers reported later that the darkened auditorium was strangely lit up in places by the Saints fans continuing to check their cell phones and Blackberries for text messages about the game's progress.

And then in about the 4th act of the play, the actors were startled and the play halted as news quickly spread through the theater that the Saints had won a squeaker, 33-30, in overtime play, and had won their division. There was actually 2 minutes of applause and cheering that had absolutely nothing to do with the play, and the actors onstage had to wait til the fans subsided (somewhat) in order to finish the play.

Turns out that one Metairie Carnival organization has announced that they are canceling their parade for Superbowl Sunday, and the annual so-called "Family Gras" on Veterans Highway (yeah, like Carnival in the city *isn't* for families -- I hate that) has likewise been canceled for 2010. One blogger to the NOLA.com site has already complained they doing that might actually jinx things.

How "Who-Dat" is that?? Now that we're Division Champs, God help us all if the Saints actually do get to the S--------. (Yeah, I'm THAT superstitious!)

Christmas at the Roosevelt

Last week, my sister D and I made trip after work to go visit the newly unveiled Christmas decorations at the Roosevelt Hotel. Of course, no New Orleanian can do this without remembering and thinking about the old decorations, back in the day, of the whole block-long lobby draped in fluffy angel hair (and don't even start telling me that you can't use angel hair any more due to safety concerns). So that memory -- or those memories -- were in our minds as we parked the car, walked past the poor sad still-shuttered Orpheum Theater and went through the big brass revolving door of the Roosevelt. Entering, we joined the throngs of people strolling through the lobby -- some were natives like us, reliving their happy holiday memories, and others were tourists pulling wheelie bags, just checking in.

It WAS lovely. All the way down the block of the lobby, you could see the massed bare white branches of tall trees set in urns lit with tiny white lights and hung sparingly with elegant oversized ornaments in clear and iridescent glass and medium-sized flocked trees. It made quite a sight. It was festive and sophisticated, VERY "New York" as one woman said to us. Which I guess is appropriate, since the Roosevelt is owned by the Waldorf-Astoria. I liked it, I did, but it was like the present decorations were laid over the ones I remembered, like a memory scrim. Strange feeling, seeing them both at the same time.

A pretty large Christmas train set made with candy and icing and gingerbread was set up in the new Coffee Shop in the Roosevelt's lobby (the old Fairmont Court location -- I still can't get used to seeing it so bright and white). It looked charming and delicious, and while it was not as impressive as the life-sized gingerbread village that used to be part of the old Roosevelt decorations, it was enjoyable and sweet.

D and I walked the whole length of the lobby, admiring the ornaments and trying hard to appreciate what we had instead of missing what was gone (ah, this is the lot of New Orleanians from now on!). D had never been in the new gift shop and we went in and scouted the merch. D was impressed, as Big Man and I had been earlier, by the breadth and quality of the goods offered, and by the reasonable prices. D and I found many great items that fit the Morel Family Christmas gift limit ($15-$20). D showed me a new book by localite Peggy Scott Laborde called "Christmas in New Orleans" which has photos and text about everything we remember: the department store windows and Santa areas, the Centanni house, Mr. Bingle, and all the rest. THAT is going on my Christmas list, f'sure!

Afterwards, we went into the new John Besh restaurant in the old Baily's location, now called Domenica, and sat at the bar to have a glass of wine and peruse the menu. (No way I could eat -- it was the same day as the regional ministers' annual holiday lunch at Commander's Palace, and I couldn't have eaten again if it had been FREE!) Great items on the menu, and there were options for either large or small plates -- terrific innovation and more restaurants should do it. The decor of the restaurant reminded me of Steven Starr restaurants in Philadelphia -- spare and elegant, with sheer curtains made of chain metal and single high-tech spotlights over tables, each with a wineglass full of tall skinny bread sticks. (D ate one and pronounced it very good, but I couldn't even take a bite.)

As we left, I remembered the lovely Christmas decoration at the Ritz Hotel, in the old Maison Blanche building, and I promised D we would do that on another night. More later on Christmas in New Orleans....