Shopping habits

[Yes it has been a long time. I can only blame it on the effectiveness of the previous and current job in ensuring that they occupy my entire brain, leaving little else for me personally. A bit sad, isn't it?]

There is a fundamental difference in the way men and women shop for presents.

Women continually shop for presents throughout the year, even if they are not aware of it. Passing a trinket shop they will automatically file the thought in their brain that that trinket would suit Uncle John or Jan or Jason. Three months later when Christmas comes around, straight to the trinket shop for that present.

Men shop usually at the last minute, and with their pathetic little (though carefully thought about) list in their hand. Most of the presents they can rush around and buy in the space of an hour within the one store, but there will always be one or two that just don't happen. This turns into a last minute panic to desperately think of something else and usually results in buying something not quite right or completely different or generic ("I thought you'd like this apple corer, sweetheart. It's yellow, like your apron.")

Speaking of aprons, and I know how this is going to sound, but I bought Alison a kitchen apron for Christmas. Don't hassle me — It's what she wanted! But going into the stores, you would not believe the crappy selection you have. And trying to find the blasted things?! The only resort is to ask one of those cranky old woman:

"Could you please tell me where the aprons are?"
"Certainly sir you chauvanistic pig. They are over there [pointing] near the tea-towels. Would you like me to point out where the shackles and whips are so you can use them on your poor unfortunate, opressed girlfriend?"

Or something like that. I mean I can't remember the words exactly, but what she said and the looks she was giving me amounted to the above. Sigh.

I have a new combined Palm Pilot/Phone. A lot easier than carrying around two items and I invariably left the old Palm at home for the sake of space in my jeans pocket. I'm going to pretend to be a chick and write down things that I see as I see them.

Maybe... If I remember.

I'll let you know my results January next year.

Mail

We have a mail/package thief in our building.

A few weeks ago I saw a notice up in the foyer from someone complaining about the fact that his/her Financial Review Paper had been stolen and would the perpetrator please return it.

One bloke has posted a notice in the elevator for the return of an video tape package that has gone missing. Apparently it is a video of him rock-climbing or something of personal interest only like that.

And my Scale Avaiation Modeller International October edition is missing. At least it is two weeks late in arriving.

I'm considering contacting the other two victims and forming a Unit Vigilante Group. I think we're looking for someone who is reasonably well-off, owns his/her own grampons, and has a slight smell of hobby plastic cement on their fingers.

Flower Power

I am quite awed by the power of the flower.

Yesterday I bought some flowers on the way home from work — that's just the type of guy I am. Not an expensive bunch, but one of those impressive-loooking, space-invading, conical shaped, multi-coloured deals.

Up on the platform I noticed it first. This young woman looked at me, glanced down at the flowers and smiled at me. Exactly the same thing from an older woman walking up the platform. What is going on?

I boarded the train, doing my customary stand-in-the-middle-because-I've-only-got-three-stops thing. As anyone who remembers the weather yesterday it was a wet and muggy day, so crowded in the little vestibule of the carriage, the faint bouquet of the flowers became a stifling, cloying stench. But that didn't stop the women smiling at me uninvited. One older, sharply attractive, power-suited woman squashed in the far corner even combined the look, glance, smile with a affectionate tilt of the head. This is probably a woman who is used to physically biting off the heads of people who oppose her in the boardroom.

So what is going on here? All have obviously made the assumption that, inspired by true love, I've bought the flowers in a spur-of-the-moment fit of passion. Don't any of these women make the assumption that the reason I've bought the flowers is in apology because I've totalled her uninsured car whilst in a drunken swerve attempting to hit a small kitten on the road on the way back from the motel with the most hated girl from her childhood sitting barely-dressed in the passenger seat and after borrowing it without telling her? That's certainly a more likely explanation.

On reflection though, I guess I shouldn't take too much stock in the flower power. I got the same look, glance, smile from the thin, clean fit and mustachioed man in the tiny tight running shorts who was standing on the pavement outside the train station at Waverton. Although I have a sneaking suspicion that the glance down was not at the flowers.

Sketch No 1

I've had this idea for a while. I don't think I've seen it anywhere. If you want to use it, contact me.

---

Scene: Smart fellow in business suit waiting for an elevator.

There is a ding and the door opens. We now see from his point-of-view as the door opens to reveal the left inside of the elevator with partial smoked mirror walls. Staying with his point-of-view, man enters the elevator heading towards the left side and presses a button. Doors close.

There is a change of point-of-view to see the man left side-on looking from the middle of the elevator. He breathes a huge relaxing sigh. He noisily scratches his under-carriage for an extended period, perhaps with a pause in the middle and then returns to it.

Then he spots a pimple on his nose in the mirror. He moves in close to the mirror to squeeze the pimple satisfactorily. It obviously pops and he wipes a spot of pimple gunk off the mirror.

Scratching his nose, he wrinkles it slightly and then inserts a finger up it. He hunts briefly and it emerges. He inspects the end of his finger and then holds his hand out at the side, flicking his fingers together to get the nose remains of it.

Straightening up, he has a slight look of discomfort. He leans slightly to one side and we hear a loud fart sound. He does a cheeky chuckle and then reacts to the obviously bad smell, waving his hand in front of his nose and the chuckle changing to a subdued, coughing laugh.

The point-of-view is now the outside of the elevator, slightly to the right. We hear a ding and the elevator doors open to reveal the man on the left looking somewhat bewildered as this is not his floor. His look of bewilderment changes to horror as a pretty young woman (that the man obviously did not see till now) quickly emerges from the far right rear of the elevator, running slighlty hunched and with both hands pressed over her nose. She briefly glances back at the man, and when her face returns to the front we see her look of disgust.

---

I swear this didn't happen to me.

Evolution

Yesterday was a beautiful spring day, so taking advantage of the weather I left the office and went hunting for food. After the kill I decided to sit down in the park to enjoy the sunshine while feasting.

There were pigeons everywhere, and a couple of white chicken-sized things with really long thin curved black beaks that a brief hunt through the internet did not find.

I noticed, watching the pigeons gathered round a pile of crumbs that used to belong to a Lebanese bread roll, that the fattest birds were the most aggressive. Obviously they were fat as a result of their aggressiveness. The other possibility, that they were aggressive because they were fat, is too complicated for me.

It occurred to me that a kind of natural selection was going on here. The aggressive pigeons were getting fat and the submissive pigeons were dying out. Does this mean that over time, pigeon aggressiveness will increase as the 'aggressive' gene is passed from parent to child? Will this mean that eventually, pigeons will be attacking us for food, rather than somewhat meekly gathering at our feet for our leavings? Has this already happened and they are simply biding their time, waiting for the most opportune time to simultaneously attack and remove us all from this world?

I left the park soon after, nervously flicking my head around everytime one of the conniving little bastards flew past.

More addiction

I have just discovered the answer to something which has been nagging me for weeks since starting this new job.

Lately I've had no drive and energy in the morning. Sometimes this lasts all day. I have heard stories of older friends who have gone through "listless" periods of their life where they don't want to do anything except sit on the lounge and watch the telly. There is no drive in their job and nothing to spur them on. I've been wondering whether I'm suffering the same thing.

But no! The answer is simple. I've discovered that the coffee I've been drinking at work is decaffinated. Yesterday morning in the tea room I overhear one of the blokes telling a new starter, "...that jar is the decaf, and that [huge] tin is the real stuff." AHA! One mug of the "real stuff" and I'm away.

The only bad thing about this is the realisation that I'm a caffeine addict. I guess I just add it to the list and deal with it when I retire?

Our US Trip: Part 8 -New Orleans - The Bell-Toucher

Friday 10th December

A late start this morning with a touch, just a touch mind you, of hangover. Probably that last Bass Ale in Ryan's Pub was off. We were woken, and not the last time on this trip, by housekeeping. The little "Do Not Disturb" sign just wasn't working its magic for us.

We'd decided that we'd had over a week in the States, it was laundry time. If it hadn't have been for the souvenir shirts boughts in LA, Disneyland, Universal and Vegas we wouldn't have made it this far. So while Ali showered, I hunted through the phone book and found The Washing Well LaunDRYteria on Bourbon Street. It was only a short walk away.

The Washing Well was yet another in those eye-opening experiences we had. The woman running the place was as old and as large as my grandmother (except alive, of course). White, she had an equally old (though slimmer) black woman working for her who she ordered around to the response of, "Yes Maam." We obviously had no clue how the system worked so the old woman took charge of it all without moving one centimetre from her chair behind the counter. Two hours to wait, so we headed off to explore.

We headed down to the Decatur and decided to have some breakfast, despite being closer to lunch, at Cafe Beignet. A beignet is a little bit of a cross between a donut and a croissant, heavily dusted, OK, soaked, with powdered sugar. They were gorgeous. Ali had a more substantial breakfast that included grits. I'd always wanted to know what grits were, and now found out. They seemed to be a sort of tasteless ground oatmeal, a little bit ilke semolina. I heaped on the melted butter and the syrup to get a little taste out of them.

We walked west up Decatur and down to the Riverfront. We were accosted by this bloke, who gave me a ticket for being "too good looking" and demanded $10 off us for the New Orleans cap he had thrust upon us. Interesting sales line. The money was for some charity so we acquiesed and went on our way. The Mississippi is a very dirty river, a bit like the Yarra on a good day. Much wider of course.

While walking along the riverfront we were stopped by a couple of black kids who looked very, very out of it. One of them was the one who had tried to con us the previous night on Canal Street. And he tried the same trick again! Either a very short memory or very very out of it. We danced through the interruption and headed for the French Markets. Well I wasn't that keen, but you know, chicks. After wasting about an hour or so looking at the trinkets and the t-shirts, we thought we heard some music, and so we followed it's siren-like calling.

We ended up in a small bar just off the Markets, where I had a couple of Heineken and Al had something exotic and chicky. The band were very basic, Clarinet, Accoustic Guitar, Trumpet, Tuba. They were playing Trad Jazz, At The Jazz Band Ball, was swinging along. I calculated that it wasn't too early to send an SMS to a friend in Australia (about 7:30am). So I sent a message to Ray saying we were sitting in a bar in New Orleans listening to the standards and got one back moments later complaining that he was in Brisbane airport listening to the rotten muzak. We listened for a while, gave the bar a tip and went on our way.

Back to the Wishing Well to pick up our laundry. We had to fold and sort it, but that was no problem of course. The poor black woman was still being ordered around, and I noticed this time, muttering under her breath as well. We walked the length of Royal to get back to our Hotel and to rest, change and to book that evenings activities. We'd done a fair bit of walking and so were a little tired. We discussed for a bit what we would do the following day, and being a bit tired and niggly, we couldn't make any decision and so decided to make the decision in the morning or later that night.

Dressed in our finest and on our way. Down Canal to Decatur, and then the long walk east to Frenchman's. The restaurant guy was right, even that way was a little scary, New Orleans did really not make an effort to entertain 21st Century street lighting. So up Frenchman's, and we were aware walking along that here were some more contemporary Jazz locations. Snug Harbor, though spelt differently gave us a beautiful and local dinner. While I had the Atlantic Salmon, Ali had the Hush Puppies, which were like corn meal dumplings. A lovely dinner and some nice wine.

Downstairs after dinner to the tiny little entertainment area. We were seated towards the back of the room, but were still close enough to see and hear everything. I sneakily snuck off a few pictures without flash which came out moodily blurred. Delfeayo Marsalis was playing with his quartet. So him on trombone. This freakishly superb musician on Piano and Guitar, a Bass (tree not electric), Tenor Sax and of course, kit. All very, very good musicians. Despite the 30 minute wait for our bottle of red wine, we enjoyed the show. Delfeayo is a great trombone player, easily the best I've seen live. Interestingly, he's a "bell-toucher", which is something every learner trombone player is told NOT to do. When he plays notes in 3rd postion, the slide handle is adjacent to the bell of the horn, and almost every time, one of his fingers flicked out to touch the bell. Even on lightning fast runs up and down the scale; flick out it goes, flick in again. It didn't detract from the performance.

Afterwards we trouped outside. Ali was excited because on exiting through the crowd, Delfeayo had looked at her and thanked her. I mean he did that to twenty other people as he walked through, but it made it special for her of course. She chatted for a little bit with the bar lady, and managed to score a free CD of Snug Harbor recordings. Woohoo!

Across the road was The Spotted Cat which was crowded as buggary, and they had a large, and we both thought, not great, Jazz band playing. There was this old guy propping up the bar despite the crush and as the band played one tune, this old bloke pulled out a trumpet from beneath him and took a turn at a solo! We had one drink each only, but we weren't really in the mood for shitty music after the good stuff we'd heard already that night, so we decided to give it up.

We'd heard about the Beignets place, Cafe Du Monde on Decatur and so we stopped there for coffee and beignets on the way back to the Hotel. The place was crowded as, and we had to fight for a table. The waiter was very attentive, and I think I remember hearing that they don't actually get paid properly by the Cafe, but they make their money from the difference between what the Cafe charges for coffee and what they charge the customers. I could not spot any price boards in the place. I wasn't impressed by the coffee though I must say. Beignet was beautiful of course. This was our last call for the night and we tiredly walked back Decatur and Canal to our Hotel for another sleep.

Gameshow advertising

One of the few things I like to watch on television, now that is is back on, albeit in a new guise, is Temptation. It's your standard three competitors, trivia and general knowledge questions, races against the clock, most money at the end of the night -type affair. I must admit to not liking the new hosts Ed Philips and Livinia Nixon, he forces his smiles too much and she's, well she's just awful.

I don't know whether it is always been the way with these shows, but twice now I've noticed that they have thrown in questions relating to advertisements that have been aired during the preceding break. A few weeks ago it was a commercial break for Jetstar Airlines, and in the next period of the gameshow, one of the questions had the answer: Jetstar Airlines.

Last night it happened again. Commercial break which included a plug for the musical Fiddler on the Roof, back to the show and there is a question, "What musical tells the story..." The answer: Fiddler on the Roof.

Now I don't have an objection to the need of a show to advertise, I mean, come on, they are providing me with free entertainment for the simple cost of me ignoring the stupid friggin' commercials that happen every six minutes or so. But this sneaky little way of tying in a gameshow question with the advert that preceeded it, I find a little disconcerting. Disconcerting because it works; I don't remember any other commercials that have been on since the show started, and these brand names have stuck in my head now. Disconcerting because I thought I was ignoring the commercials, obviously something has gotten inside my conciousness. Sneaky. Sly. Insidious, even.

Strangely I am reminded of the quote from Goldfinger -- the book by Ian Fleming, not the film: "Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action." I'm waiting for that third time.

The worst word in the English Language

[Again I delve into profanity. See this for my last effort on this topic.]

There is no doubt what the foulest word in the English Language is. As a hint: it starts with the letter "C".

I must admit, I have occasion to use this word, usually when behind the wheel of my Honda Civic, when discussing the merits of Channel 9 TV personalities, or when discussing telephone companies. Never in front of the children of course (unlike my mother who used it in front of me). But it is strongly frowned upon when I use it in the home, for whatever reason. When I do let it slip out, I hear the "C-Word signature" cough from my Chick. She does not like hearing it.

It sounds a little like "hup-hrrm", but in a coughy way.

"Gee that Eddie Macguire is a bit of a c..."
"Hup-hrrm!!!"

You get the picture. I've worked out that the cough is not because of any liking she has for Eddie Macguire, either.

Today, I got the "C-word signature" cough for another reason. I was in the office/spare room, listening to Mozart whilst working, she's in the loungeroom listening to a Charlie Parker CD. I reckon Charlie is OK, but, waggishly, while returning the Mozart CD to it's rightful place in the bookshelf in the loungeroom, I attempted to get a small rise out of her:

"<big smile>What's this sh*t you're listening to?"
"Hup-hrrm!!!"

I think if you analyze it carefully, you will realise, as I did, that she has used the C-word on me!

Defeat of the Great Green Monster

WARNING: This post is going to get a bit icky.

This morning was the first since Friday I have not woken up and immediately coughed up or spewed up huge amounts of green glutinous matter.

Yes, I've had the flu.

Last Friday was the worst. I spent all day on the lounge watching crappy daytime telly, with a prime diet of panadol and sudafed, turning paper tissues into soggy green papier mache. To rub salt into the wound, I missed out on going to the Lord Nelson with a bunch of mates. And I love the Lord Nelson.

I guess it is my own fault. I had the sniffles early last week and suspected it was going to turn into a flu, but instead of cutting out the booze and diary products and taking it easy, I pissed up, ate lots of ice-cream, exercised and played a basketball semi-final. The basketball was on the Thursday night and that was just the nail in my (albeit temporary) coffin.

[Oh in case you're interested, we lost the semi-final. Drawn at the final buzzer we played an extra period of 5 minutes, were down by one-point up till less than 1 second before the final buzzer, when our guard threw it up from half-way. Straight through, nothing-but-net, for three points. HUGE cheers! The ONLY person on or off the court who thought that the ball left his hands after the buzzer was one of the referees, who somehow managed to convince the other referee that the points didn't count. The other team congratulated us on our win, and they will now go through to play the final. I guess the best way to lose is knowing that you really truly won.]

[On second thought, no it's a shitty way to lose.]

One thing I have noticed in recent years is the way that the flu knocks me around now, compared to when I was younger. At 20, I'd get the flu and feel a little crook for one day, but usually panadol and sudafed fixed me up. Rarely did I need to take time off school/Uni/work. At 40, I am out for almost a week, with one or two of those days incapable and in bed. No amount of drugs can turn my head from a nauseous constantly-moving spring to normality. Nothing stops the tap dripping at the back of my throat.

So: is it the drugs, the age or the flu? I'm quite willing to accept that it is the age thing. But I suspect that just as much, it is the inadequacy of the drugs and the ferocity of the flu virus. It is not solely the age thing.

Blog Confessions and a solution

Forgive me BlogGod for I have sinned. It's been 16 days since my last blog...

It is quite difficult to maintain a reasonably regular blog. I think the key must be short entries. Of course the quality would drop...

I have found a partial solution to one of my problems though. The Aust Direct Marketing Assoc. has an "Opt-out" form that you can fill-in on-line to stop receiving their harassing phone calls. I heard an interview/discussion topic on ABC radio last night with this bloke who was telling about how his company does surveys and how they are moving from telephone surveys to on-line surveys. Of course everyone rang up to tell their worst telemarketing experience. At first I felt sorry for the bloke as he was at pains to distance himself from the telemarketers, but then I thought, no, well, they're just as bad. One caller mentioned the ADMA and the opt-opt form. I can't wait the six weeks "take effect period" for the calls to stop.

Of course, the bloke also mentioned random-number dialling from overseas centres, there's nothing you can do about that.

Harassment or marketing?

So. When does phone marketing become harassment?

When you have received your third call for the evening, and the last one was well after 9:30pm, does that constitute harassment or is that valid marketing??

Bastards!!

Not long to go now

Firstly : Hello Beefa!. It's not a US trip entry I know, but Part 8 is on it's way, trust me.

Last night, my girlfriend's boss and his wife had their first child - a little baby girl Charlotte Elizabeth Dries. I won't have a crack at them for stealing my own child's name although I'm itching to. In a totally nice, caring and supportive way of course. <cough cough /> Maybe they are just fans of Sex in the City (Mmmm Kristin Davis -- I don't care if she's lesbian). I believe she was late and induced (newborn, not Kristin), not that this makes any difference, Christine was late and induced with our Charlotte. Hmmm do you see a pattern for Charlottes here?

When I was at high school my favourite teacher, a physics teacher who also played the trombone, Derek White, and his wife Wendy had their first child, and they named it Michael. Derek and I were friends outside of school as we both played in Bankstown City Band. I felt a little bit uncomfortable about them naming the child, although I'm certain that they didn't name it after me. More like despite me. I think I was a disappointment to Mr White, as I didn't do as well in my HSC as I was meant to. I haven't seen them in many years. Ah never mind.

Many, many years indeed. It's occurred to me now that (and this is actually quite disturbing) Michael White should be about 23 by now! Wow, am I old.

When Christine and I were deciding on names, we went through a hell of a time. "No we can't call it Jennifer because I know a horrid, slutty girl called Jennifer." That sort of thing, spread over weeks and weeks as a kind of sporadic, drawn out conversation. You know what I mean, we'd be watching The Simpsons or something and I'd offer, "How about Jason for a boy?" She'd respond with something like,"No, wasn't that the killer in Friday the 13th?". And there the conversation would pause until three or four days later while we were in the car driving to the shops when she'd offer, "Well what about Jennifer for a girl?" You get the picture. We got there in the end, obviously.

Aside from the pain of deciding on a name that suits both of you, the worst thing about naming a child is that everyone's taste is just a little bit different, and when you offer up the name of your newborn for the first time, you get all those false smiles from the people who think Charlotte (or Josephine for that matter) is a crappy name. Usually from the same type of people who call their children Cool Modine or something like that. Or from your parents.

I've strayed somewhat from my original brief. Let's get back on track.

My brother and his wife are almost there. Maybe a month to go with their first one. I'm looking forward to it because Mum and Dad will have someone else to focus their grandparenthood onto, rather than just lumping it all onto my narrow shoulders. Hopefully anyway, despite the Sydney/San Francisco distance. I'm actually surprised that Mum hasn't booked a ticket already. Also I guess it is just exciting seeing my little brother become a Dad as well.

What I'm desperately trying not to do, despite my eagerness to hear the current state of play, is to bother Paul and Ros. There are few things more annoying when the baby is due than people continually hassling for information: "Is it born yet? Is it born yet? Is it born yet?" as if they are sitting in the back seat during a long trip. Yes, definitely, they are only asking because they are concerned and interested friends, but it can get very disturbing after a while. And particularly for the Dad-to-be, because he doesn't really do anything other than ensure his mobile phone is always fully charged, and to be ready to speed his car dangerously through traffic to the sounds of a screaming woman in the back seat at a moment's notice. In truth, it is an anxious enough time as it is, without others adding to it, well-meaning as they are.

And in my day, it was pager, not a mobile phone.

Anyway, Charlotte Elizabeth Dries, welcome to the world. Sorry about the state it's in at the moment. We were hoping to clean it up before you got here, but you know how things get put off and put off. We're actually hoping you can do something with it. Maybe paint it up a bit, new curtains possibly?

Our US Trip: Part 7 - Las Vegas to New Orleans - An Epiphany

Thursday 9th December

In contrast to the previous night, this night's sleep was very poor. I struggled to get up at 7:45 with a sore throat which I explained away as the air-conditioning. The other possibility – that I was coming down with a cold – was too painful to think about. Wake up, clean up, pack up, and then downstairs to dodge the cowboys and slot machines and pay our bill. As we exited to the extremely cold and dreary day, I thought that it must also be a cab-driver's convention at Vegas as well, the number of taxis that were lined up to take us to the airport. The cabbie was your typical strong, silent type, and despite the fact that he drove in the exactly opposite direction before hitting a freeway to the airport, I didn't disturb his solitude.

Check-in was painless and quick. Here was the first place where I noticed people taking off their shoes and belts for the run through the metal detector. Some of the cowboys had belt buckles the size of dinner plates, so it was no wonder. Ali and I didn't remove anything, and weren't asked to, we didn't beep, so everything was jake.

Breakfast was Cinnabon – $15 for a bun and an orange juice! The alternative was (of course) Starbucks, so of course we settled for the sugar. While sitting in the cafe eating, I noticed this bloke from outside the shop come into the shop at least three times and re-fill his paper mug from the soda machine. One of the employees was getting a little tired of it, and she had a word to him. He obviously had some (ummm) developmental problems the poor man, and I'm not sure he understood her.

After breakfast we headed to the departure lounge. Poker machines and cow-persons everywhere. Undoubtedly the NFR was winding up, and people were heading home. Ali just had to try the slots at the airport, and one machine swallowed $2 worth of nickels in the space of two minutes.

Our flight to New Orleans via Fort Worth Dallas left on time. There were more Texans than Australians on this flight I can tell you, and there were a lot more fat, noisy people than thin, quiet ones also. Hmmmm do I dare to draw a parallel here? No I think I'll leave it. We arrived at Dallas around midday, and entered the busiest airport we'd been in yet. A lot of Texans with big hats. A lot of people from the Armed Services, the "Ambassador Club" was where they were all going – unfortunately I'd left my army ID at home.

We eventually squeezed into a two-person booth in a Mexican restaurant called "Chilitos". And here we had the best American food since the Thai food on the first night. A great Nachos shared, Margaritta for the Chicky and a couple of Dos Equis para mí. I didn't know anything about this beer but it was quite OK. My poor Spanish at this stage led me to believe that Dos Equis might actually mean "Two Horses" — OK, the big "X's" on the label should really have given it away to me — and I thought of my beloved Two Dogs beer at home which I missed very much. [Yes I know they aren't dogs, they're Tasmanian Tigers.]

About three hours later and a takeoff delay and we boarded our flight to New Orleans. It was quite full. I had the middle seat, and was next to this big black fellow. He fell asleep during the flight, and had this really attractive bottom-lip droop when he slept. No really, it was just beautiful. We talked a little during the flight. Apparently he'd flown straight in from Bangkok, 27 hours of air-planes and -ports, and was going home to New Orleans. Later that night, despite his obvious exhaustion, we spotted him on Bourbon Street. I guess that's one way to regain energy.

The flight into Louis Armstrong airport was a little scary landing over the lake. I experienced the same tension that I see in other people when I am on a flight landing at Sydney and the trip in is over Botany Bay. I think it's called payback.

A long, long wait for the bags and people where crushing in around that baggage carousel as if getting closer would get their bags quicker. Our friend Kevin had mentioned the Louisiana time that everyone runs on, and I didn't expect the bags in a hurry. After pickup into a cab. The driver made some quick enquiries in a very thick indeterminate accent and then ignored us till he took our money. In fact he spent most of the time on the phone to a friend. Not that we could understand what he was saying — it wasn't English, and it wasn't Spanish, and it wasn't French, so I don't know what it was.

Into the French Quarter, our hotel was the Alexa on Royal St, near the corner of Canal St. Despite having a tidy (and tiny) reception, the passageways to the rooms were labyrinth-like, and it appeared that the Hotel was a number of adjacent buildings tacked together. Where the floors didn't meet up there were stairs, and it was obvious that you had enterd a different building. After meandering for a while, and including one time going through the same intersection in a different direction, we ended up in our narrow, double-height room. You could easily have fitted another room in the space between the top of my head and the ceiling. Ali went in to the bathroom to shower before we went out, and while she was in there I heard a Jazz band startup somewhere in the street downstairs. New Orleans we have arrived!

So out we went, along Royal, up Canal, turn right into Bourbon Street. The band that I had heard was here. Traditional Jazz. Some nice trombone-playing too. Along we went, pushing through the Thursday night crowds. Crowds!! People everywhere. On the street - no car could ever get through here - on the pavement, in the bars and the dodgy sex shops, on the balconies above our heads. People with beads, people mostly drunk, music everywhere, not the Jazz I was expecting but more 80's & 90's rock and pop covers. It was a complete madhouse. We walked along Bourbon till we reached St Peters. Ali wanted to go down and see Preservation Hall, I reluctantly agreed, I mean it was on our ToDo list, might as well tick it off straight away.

Preservation Hall. Wow. I will never forget walking into this place. Some officious and previously (like 30 years previously) attractive woman demanded $15 each off us before we could enter. No problems of course. The first thing I noticed was the plump and fluffy cat curled up on the lounge chair in the corridor outside the Hall. Cute. And we went in.

The Hall was quite small mostly dark wood with a brick and concrete wall on the side. It was only half full, and there in front of us was 6 blokes, Trombone, Kit, Bass, Clarinet, Piano, and the Trumpet/Vocal man. These blokes were not just old, but old old. Three black, three white. When we got in they were standing playing "Tiger Rag" which was coming to it's raucous end. The piano had it's front board off so it was louder. No electronics, no microphones. And then the Vocalist, Gregg Stafford, gave the intro to the next song in this teeny, tiny, Armstrong-like croaky voice. "When You're Smiling."

They started as usual, with a tutti run-through the verse. All sitting down in their hard-backed chairs. Then the vocalist stands up and starts singing/speaking in this almost whisper of a voice that somehow managed to carry over the band and implant itself indelibly in my brain. I was absolutely spellbound. My mouth gaped open, tears welled in eyes. This was the most beautiful music I had heard in my life. I realised that up until that point in my life, I had not, not even come close to understanding traditional Jazz. And he didn't sing at us, he sung to us, highlighting his phrases by looking at individual members of the audience, smiling, singing and looking, holding his free hand out and palm up. It was an incredible, engaging performance.

Each bloke did his turn at the solo, standing up if possible, and at the tutti at the end, all the frontline stood up to do the last run-through. Then onto their last number of the set, which was "Careless Love". They were to break for a while, at least 90 minutes. So we went looking for some dinner.

We found Pere Antoine Restaurant on Royal Street. It was getting close to closing time, there were only four other patrons, but the menu and the price looked OK, so we gave it a go. I had the Snapper Gaige with Crawfish — to me they looked like tiny little prawns — and Ali had Shrimp Creole. The little waiter was quite friendly with an unusual accent. He apologised to us for asking if we were English — I guess he must be aware of the average Australian's reaction to being called a Pom — and launched into us about Australia's War-in-Iraq policies. This was a little bit uncomfortable, because I agreed with the bloke, but you sort of feel honour bound to defend the government you hate because of outside attack. I guess governments have always known this and use it against us, right? As it was in this case, we were both dumbfounded by the suddeness of his tirade, and could only stare back at him. To make it up to us he came around later and advised not only where to go and what to see, but also which way to get there. "Don't walk along this street. If you go to here go directly down Decatur and then up Frenchmans, etc, etc". He knew the phone numbers of the clubs off by heart and wrote them down on a little napkin for us. His "Preservation Hall is just for the tourists" didn't sit well with me, particularly after the experience we'd just had, but OK, we were tourists. But the food and service were excellent otherwise, and I would not hesitate to recommend it to others. Two great meals in the same day, but only three good ones in seven days!

After settling up we went back to Preservation Hall for the next set. It was as entertaining as the partial set we'd seen earlier. On the wall behind the band was a sign which listed the prices for requests. Standards $5, Saints $10. The Jazz equivalent of a brass band's "Colonel Bogey". Someone obviously coughed up the $10, so they played The Saints. At the end of the performance as everyone filed out, Alison gave Greggy a $5 or $10 tip over the cover charge. "Thank you, Darling," in that croaky, southern accent.

We went back up to Bourbon Street, the crowds had multiplied, and we toyed with the idea of going into one of the bars, but it was just too much of a crush. The beads, everyone had beads, and the effect they had on people as they were thrown down from the balconies was as if someone was throwing down some form of currency. Ali was able to score some which she put on — at this stage we didn't understand the significance of them. But we scored our beads and marvelled at the crowds and walked back along Bourbon towards Canal and our Hotel. The brief walk along Canal was very scary, with young drunk black blokes hassling us in the street. And the Hustlers. Their gambit was the old, "If you give me $5, I'll tell you where you got them shoes." Kevin had warned us about this one, so we were wise, brother; I got these shoes on Canal St near the corner of Royal!"

We made a quick toilet stop in our Hotel, and then we went down to Decatur to try to find The House of Blues. We did. The line up to get in wasn't too long, but I soon realised that if we did line up, we would be both the oldest and the whitest people in the line. So we bypassed this and went further up Decatur. We found Ryan's Irish Pub, of course, so Alison (Ryan) felt quite at home, particularly with a Baileys. I had a pint of Bass, so also felt quite comfortable, if not at home. After a couple of these, we decided to call it a night.

Just past the Hotel in Royal Street there was an all-night convenience store, so we stopped in there for some supplies. The store was very-very dodgy, I think even the bloke behind the counter was spaced out. We did not feel safe at all — this would not be the last time we would feel this way in New Orleans — I picked up a six-pack of Heineken to keep me company and Ali picked up a chick drink. It was 1:30am — back to the Hotel for bed and sleep.

New Orleans had blown me away on the first night, and I was wondering if it could be topped. Bourbon Street was not what I imagined it to be; yes the drunken raucousness and crowds, but I'd sort of imagined more Jazz, rather than the overloud pop music that was billowing out the doors of the bars. When our friend Kevin had insisted we go to Preservation Hall I had thought, yeh OK, but we'll do it just to say we've done it. Not that I doubted Kev, he's never steered us wrong yet, but when you travel, you want to make it your own trip, rather than someone elses.