Settings: New Orleans

I rolled into New Orleans' French Quarter during a nineteen-seventies winter, finding a youth hostel at Chartres and Dumaine, a couple of blocks from Jackson Square. Winter chill, wind and humidity made the Quarter seem dreary; at that point I didn't fully appreciate the magic of rainy days. The early spring would be lovely; the streets would bustle with colorful characters as we watched from a sagging wrought iron balcony. It felt surreal when I passed Tennessee Williams on the street --- dapper in his linen suit and Panama hat (the extreme humidity could induce Williamsesque 'spells': "I'm feeling a bit faintish, could you fetch me chilled refreshment?" )

The hotel entryway led directly up a dark flight of stairs which took a sharp left turn. There was the check-in desk (with its overweight, sexually-harassing proprietor), which preceded a maze of wide, dark hallways. At the back of the hotel was a large communal kitchen where scavengers hung out. It was big and bare, with only the basic necessities. It was a good idea to label your foodstuffs or lock them up, due to the bands of roving residents suffering from the munchies, or genuine starvation, or both. Large cast iron skillets sat on the ancient stove.

Cast iron skillets: I always found them to be interesting: organic, funky, homey, decorative, and could be handily used as a weapon (see the film Eating Raoul). Cooking in a cast iron skillet could be exciting, as cast iron gets very hot. How does one time the cooking process? Meat could be black on the outside and pink in the middle. Can you say 'trichinosis'? The Fried Breaded Stuffed Pork Chop Incident lingers in my mind. The huge pork chop stuffed, egg- washed, dredged in flour and bread crumbs, I managed to lift it, and ease it into sizzling skillet. The result was blackened on the outside and devoured by the kitchen lizards.

To the right of the kitchen was a hallway which led to many small, funky rooms. The rooms had old, leftover mix-and-match furniture. Some had fireplaces. My room was on the second floor, facingDumaine St. It had french doors that led to a wrought iron balcony. There were bathrooms down the cavernous hall. The bathroom near my room had a huge claw-foot tub; it paid to bring Comet or Ajax. Its large, bare window faced a small, neglected courtyard. 

I met lots of people here: not only at the bathroom or in the kitchen, but throughout the establishment. Appearing spaced-out, many milled about near the check-in desk and sat on the stairs. I made a few friendships; some were cemented by impromptu cross-country road trips. From New Orleans to Montana to Oregon to California to New York I went, growing and shedding new friends, like snakeskin. But the Quarter was special.