I have always tried to be a nice person – some days I get closer than others – and I like to think that God/the Universe/Karma is paying attention. We often refer to this as having a positive balance in the cosmic checkbook. And today I got one of those small rewards, a sign that I haven’t totally screwed up and that someone is paying attention.

It’s our last day of the grand birthday bash weekend. We got the latest possible flight home (nonstop at 9pm) so we could make the most of our short visit. A grand breakfast at the B&B of shrimp and grits was a great start. Then we were off to wander around the Garden District to see the great old homes. They ran the gamut from the former home of Anne Rice to the former home of Trent Reznor. We followed that wander with a stroll around Lafayette cemetery – apparently the oldest in the city. The above ground mausoleums seem odd to those of us from places where you can actually dig in the ground.   Some of them were better kept and others.

 

I liked the one decorated with an empty champaign bottle. I know it’s likely a leftover from underage drinkers partying after dark but I prefer to think of it as a final send off for a convivial wine drinker. 🙂

Then back to the French Quarter for one last hurrah and decided to get tickets for a steam boat jazz cruise on the Mississippi. While standing in line waiting to board, Frank noticed two familiar faces wander by: Bob and Helen Heald and Helen’a brother Steve. Steve is a new acquaintance but Helen and Bob are somewhat lost friends from VA whom we hadn’t seen in years. Not just ordinary friends though – Helen had been my kids first teacher as she did daycare way back when. Duncan and Jesse spent wonderful hours with this amazing woman who helped us cement the foundation for the fine adults my kids have become. As often happens, we got consumed with our lives and didn’t keep in touch very well, occasionally running into each other at store. But the ties run deep and as we marveled at serendipity and for caught up on the last several years over drinks as the banks of the Mississippi drifted by.

 

So we laughed, took selfies, shocked my kids, exchanged emails, and promised not to let this renewed relationship run dry. And I hope we don’t – we need to keep the Heavens (and us) smiling.

I really miss my dad. Don’t get me wrong. – I’ve missed him nearly every day of the 17 years he’s been gone but being here has made it much more acute. My dad was a huge jazz fan and I credit him with what ever musical appreciation I have. Not that I’m anywhere close to the aficionado that he was. I don’t know if he ever visited New Orleans – we certainly never did as a family  – but I know he would have loved this place. From a National Park to performers on every street corner, the music is everywhere.  

 

We started day two of the birthday weekend with a common activity for such trips: a visit to the local cathedral. The St. Louis cathedral is listed as the oldest cathedral in North America built on the site of a parish church built in 1720. One of the interesting things is that along one side of the nave are all the flags of the countries that have claimed New Orleans – and there are a few!   The stained glass was nothing exceptional so I lit a candle for my mom (old habits die hard) and we headed on. 

 

The only scheduled activity for the day was a walking tour on jazz history lead by one of the park rangers at the New Orleans Jazz National Historical Park (http://www.nps.gov/jazz/). It’s the only national park dedicated to an art form and the ranger went over the history of jazz and New Orleans as the two are inextricably linked. We learned about Storyville, Louis Armstrong and how Hugh Hefner helped the civil rights movement. Absolutely fascinating! Now I need to learn about the history of jazz in KC – I’ve been woefully neglectful of the art form in my own back yard. 

The rest of the day was spent exploring the French market , where the annual Foodfest is also taking place. Yum. Grabbing a cup of coffee while a jazz trio plays. (But not at Cafe du Monde. I don’t care it it’s a “must do” – I can’t eat the beignets and no cup of coffee is worth waiting in that line especially one with chicory in it!) wandering through the stalls with everything from alligator heads to voodoo dolls. Snarfing down gourmet fries with fresh thyme and goat Gouda. All accompanied by a tasty frozen beverage. 

We wandered all over town hitting the warehouse art district – like our crossroads district in KC- and even taking the ferry across the mighty Mississippi to Algiers. It was a eerily quiet little town but we walked along the levee wondering how well it would hold back the churning muddy water and enjoyed the views of the New Orleans skyline. 

 

A quick trip back to the B&B to drop of the purchases from the French market and then it was happy hour in a neighborhood establishment.  Very different vibe here – no frozen drinks of unnatural hues served in kitchy plastic cups shaped like fishbowls or hand grenades. This was a serious watering hole that understood how to really make a tall Tito’s and tonic and which had a single malt collection that even impressed Frank. 

Off to dinner back in the craziness of the French quarter – Red Fish grill on Bourbon Street. Thank goodness for my OpenTable app or we never would have gotten a seat. The food was outstanding, the service excellent and the GF cheesecake for dessert was to die for. We then wove our way down Royal street back to Frenchman Street to Maison for more music. We encountered three street bands and one parade along the way. A couple of sets by the Smoking Time Jazz Club band and it was time to call it a day – a tiring (12 more miles clocked by the fitbit) but musical day. Hope dad enjoyed it too –  I’m pretty sure he was along for the ride. 

I’m 50 years old today. I thought that it might freak me out but either it hasn’t registered or I really don’t care. But I’m not one to pass up a good excuse to go somewhere new! So when Southwest had a fare sale one night when we had opened the “never a good idea” second bottle of wine, tickets to New Orleans somehow were purchased! Since neither of us had ever been, it seemed like a good idea to spend a big birthday in the Big Easy. 

So today we took the day off and headed south from KC. A short hour and a half flight and we were out of wind chills and into palm trees. Much to Frank’s dismay, we did not rent a car but hopped in a cab and headed to a b&b in the lower garden district. (Someone in the tourist board is a marketing genius. “Lower garden district” sounds way more civilized than some of the streets nearby!). The place is quite entertaining: all primary colors and ceiling fans with the palm trees. 

We dropped off our stuff and did what we always do- set out walking. We headed to the French Quarter for what we understood to be the quintiscential Nola destination: Bourbon Street. And what a disappointment. At 4pm on a Friday afternoon, the streets were crowded with people determined to “party hard” and well on their way to oblivion. We couldn’t decide of the street smelled more of horse shit or vomit. {sigh}

We found our way south towards the river to Decatur Street which seemed much more our style. We looked over the river  and wandered around Jackson Square. 

 
By this time we were getting pretty hungry so we found ourselves in The French Market grill – mostly because they had a menu posted with the magic GF notation. So I was able to have red beans, jambalaya, and shrimp maque choix. And a Hurricane. And a Voodoo lemonade. :-). Frank had a combo that involved étouffée and alligator. Blech. 

The waiter was fabulous and gave us great tips on where to go. He also told me about the tradition of pinning a dollar to your shirt on your birthday. Supposedly then people give you dollars or buy you drinks. He even found a pin for me. While neither thing happened, many of the locals did wish me a happy birthday. Tourists were clueless. In fact, one helpful couple felt the need to point out that I had a dollar bill on my shirt. Once I explained they blushed and wished me a happy birthday. 

After dinner, we headed to Frenchman Street, apparently another obligatory stop when visiting the city. First stop, Maison where we got to hear the Swamp Donkeys, a fabulous Dixieland jazz band.  

 
We wandered a bit more making a stop at the Spotted Cat but the smoky crowd made it difficult to enjoy the blues so it was time to move on. We wandered back down Bourbon Street on the way back to the B&B, thereby convincing ourselves that it wasn’t our thing. And decided to call it a night after several cocktails and about 12 miles clocked on the fitbit. Not bad for an old broad, eh?

Although St. Patrick’s day is not quite here yet, we went to the Brookside St. Patrick’s day “Warm Up” parade yesterday.  It is ostensibly a neighborhood event covering about 2 miles of local streets through the middle of Brookside. We live on the border of Brookside and Waldo and so had to walk about 3/4 mile north to get to the parade route. I wasn’t sure what to expect, I had seen neighborhood parades before – our old St. Andrew’s used to do one on the 4th of July – but this was something else.  There were thousands of people lining the streets, lots of little kids with front row seats and shopping bags.  Lots of parents in lawn chairs with keg cups and cans in koozies.  Police shut down the streets along the parade route.  Our new St. Andrew’s was at the start of the route and they had a lawn party for kids with face painting and a bouncy castle.

We picked a spot between St. Andrew’s and the Baptist church across the street and waited for the festivities.  At 2 p.m. the Grand Marshall came marching by  and the parade began.  Every local politician, every candidate, everyone
who had ever believed they had Irish ancestry was marching in the parade.  The local businesses had floats, as did all the local charity groups, the car clubs, the dog breed clubs, the mom’s groups, and so on.

And the candy!  It became apparent early on why all the children had shopping bags – every float, group, dog, car, entity of any type had bags and bags of candy to give to the kids on the curb (or not on the curb – the police had to keep moving the line back out of the street as the urchins tried to be the first ones to get to the outstretched hands.)  The grownups weren’t completely ignored: there were wooden nickels for free pizza being throw to the taller folks along with hot dogs (Yup, the Knights of Columbus launched frankfurts, buns, and all), can koozies, vegetable and flower seeds, plastic beads, and heaven only knows what else.  I can now get started on my zinnias and bush beans (I wasn’t going to plant zinnias but I have the seeds) and I have a coupon for free cheesy bread from the local pizzeria!

What was missing?  High school marching bands!  Although we were but a block from a local high school, and there are others not far away, there was not a single marching band.  Nope, not one.  There were two pipe bands – including one that started the route with the stirring tune “Scotland the Brave”.  (I’d post the video but I haven’t paid WordPress for the Premium plan so no videos here.) Not very Irish…  And there were marching drill teams.  At least 6 of them, all African American dancers and drummers, all hugely talented and entertaining.

And our favorite float?  Why KC Bier of course! They had their mascot pulling a keg in front of the float, and many kegs on the actual float.  In fact, one lucky person standing just next to us got a keg cup of pilsner delivered!

For nearly two hours, we watched our neighbors march by and we could hear the drums long after we got home.  My biggest regret?  Our spot for viewing was fabulous except for the fact that the ugliest condo complex in all of KC is in the background of every photo.  😦  Frank hates the blue monstrosity but it’s a handy landmark to know when you are almost at our house.

While it is true that I don’t consider myself having lived in San Diego, that doesn’t mean I don’t have fond memories of the time I spent there or in Southern California in general. I spent three of my four college years here and some of it I actually remember.

Yesterday I went for a run around Mission Bay.   I never spent much time in this part of San Diego when I was here – my parents lived 20 miles north of here just barely inside the city limits. Yet about halfway through my run I came upon the Catamaran Resort where we had stayed when we first moved to San Diego from Massachusetts.  Even though we drove across country on “vacation” (with all the flotsam and jetsam that didn’t make it into the moving van stuffed in the back seat with me and my brother), the moving van took longer and we ended up spending about 2 weeks in the hotel just waiting.  We’ve stayed there since then as well and my clearest memory is of the plastic balls that floated on top of the jacuzzi to keep the heat in. They made awesome projectiles for bored teenagers back in the day.

The resort I’m staying at for the next few days while attending a conference is nice enough but they consider it a “destination resort” which means they really don’t think you should need to leave. Which is good because it’s on an island in the middle of the bay and THERE IS NO WHERE TO GO. At least, no where to go without a car – which is really true for all of San Diego.  So I am stuck with the hotel restaurants (which I am sure are very good) or I have to take taxis everywhere.  I have nothing against the resident bistros but on this day of remembrances, I wanted to turn back the clock and have a favorite dish that I haven’t had in years and can’t readily get where I am.

And so I hopped into a taxi and headed for the Gaslamp Quarter.  There are really no memories for me here – I don’t think I ever set foot in this part of town other than to wander around nearby Horton Plaza which was my dad’s favorite mall.  (Ugh.) We got stuck in beach traffic as it was a lovely sunny Sunday and $30 later, we pulled up to the desired destination:  The Old Spaghetti Factory!  Yes, it’s a chain of family restaurants.  No, it will never get any recognition by James Beard or Michelin (but maybe by AAA). I walked past gastro pubs, farm to fork establishments, and every kind of upscale ethnic cuisine you could think of.  But they didn’t have what I was after:  Spaghetti with Mizithra cheese and browned butter.  No redeeming nutritional value and probably no where close to authentic italian but….

It brought back memories.  Of heading to the OSF in Newport Beach when I was in college.  Liz and I with assorted roommates and other friends would sometimes go there and since I wasn’t a fan of tomato sauces at the time, it was heaven to have spaghetti with butter and cheese. Now I had never been to this particular establishment and I did have to fight past all the parked strollers to get upstairs and take a seat at the bar – neither of which were part of my remembrance but that seemed to matter little.  What might have stood in the way was the fact that as I have been diagnosed with Celiac disease, pasta in restaurants is generally off limits.  But wait!  They have gluten free pasta!  Okay, we are now deviating even farther from the memory but who cares.  The big question was:  would it taste as good as I remember?

YES!  I had no illusions going in.  The plate of iceberg lettuce with “creamy pesto dressing” reminiscent of Bob’s Big Boy was just as expected. The curly GF pasta instead of spaghetti was optically jarring for a moment but it was still everything I remembered. Right down to little bowl of spumoni at the end. Never mind that my glass of wine cost nearly as much as the “3 course dinner”.  Never mind that the entire dinner bill cost less than the cab ride to get there.  I had my nostalgia.  And I ate every last corkscrew, drop of browned butter, and shred of cheese on the plate.  And I was happy.

Epilogue:  for those frugal types who worry about the price of my adventure, let me add this slightly redeeming postscript.  Instead of having a second high priced glass of wine in the restaurant, I opted to head to the nearest Ralph’s where I obtained the finest French red with a screw top that $10 would buy.  On hearing that I didn’t have a loyalty card because I was from Missouri, the cashier scanned her store card saving me $3 on my $10 bottle.  And the return cab fare was only 2/3 of the outgoing trip because the beach traffic had cleared.  Sometimes, nostalgia is priceless.

Note:  the photo above was blatantly borrowed from another website because I did not think to take a picture of my actual plate.  Not because I was embarrassed but because I wasn’t willing to wait any longer.  I certainly don’t get embarrassed about randomly photographing items in retail establishments or I wouldn’t have taken pictures of half a dozen screw top wines to run through my wine app for ratings before deciding that a 3.4/5 was all I was going to get for $10.  Oh well.

Yet another note:  I have subsequently learned that there are actually two Old Spaghetti Factory restaurants in Missouri – in Chesterfield and St. Louis.  {sigh}

Today I visited my parents’ graves. I don’t get to do it often as they are so far away. They are buried in Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego, a city that they both loved but where I never found a home.   They moved there after I graduated from high school and while I spent a summer or two at their house, I never thought of it as “home.”  I would never tell anyone I have lived in San Diego because I haven’t; I suspect that Kansas City will be the same for my kids – it’s where mom and dad live but they don’t. And that’s okay.

 

 

 

 

 

I think back on when I was growing up.  We were in Massachusetts.  One set of grandparents (no cousins) was in Pennsylvania.  Another grandmother (with a few cousins) was in New Jersey.  It was always a major production to go visit family because they never lived close.  That was how I thought it was supposed to be. Distance doesn’t matter if you are family.

So when I  got married and had kids, we lived on the east coast of the US. We never questioned that one set of grandparents (no cousins) lived on the west coast and the other grandparents (with a few cousins) lived in Scotland.  We used to joke that we had it great because we each were 3000 miles from our in-laws.  It is quite a distance and continued the trend that visiting family was a major production.  But distance doesn’t matter because they are family.

Then my dad died.  My mom moved closer to us and for 10 years, my kids and I discovered what it means to have family nearby.  Frustrating. Exhausting. Comforting.  When she first moved to Virginia, mom used to come to our house for Sunday dinner – on Friday.  Yup, she spent every weekend of those first two years with us. My kids were little (3 and 5) and got to build a relationship with her that I never had with either of my grandmothers.  I got a sense that distance might matter, even with family.

And now both my parents are gone as is Frank’s dad.  My kids have one grandmother who still lives 3000 miles from them (with the cousins).  They have other cousins now – still on the west coast, still 3000 miles from them.  Mom and dad have moved 1000 miles from where they go to college.  And they are 600 miles apart. They have made sure they have a bond that crosses miles though:  they now have matching tattoos designed by a friend of Jesse’s representing how close they are regardless of the distance. [I think it’s a little crazy but love the fact that they are so close.]

 

When we moved to Kansas City, everyone asked if the kids – especially Jesse – would transfer schools to be closer to us.  That never occurred to any of us. She loves Vermont and we never had any expectation that she would go anywhere else.  Now Duncan is graduating and applying for jobs everywhere.  Again, people have asked me if he’s looking to move closer to us.  And again, we would never consider that a requirement. That’s not to say it wouldn’t be nice.  I would love to be able to have them over for dinner and spend time with them that doesn’t involve airports and TSA screenings. But I still believe that distance doesn’t matter – even if I feel it more now.