After a rather rough flight, including multiple delays, birds sucked into intake valves, horribly random seat assignments and a pledge never to fly Northwest again, we finally made it to New Orleans. It’s much as we remember it, except for the absence of mobile command stations on the medians from last year. Baby steps, I suppose. After a quick meal of thai, coffee at Cafe Du Monde and drinks at the R Bar, we took in some of the music. There was the obligatory street brass band performance, and then we returned to the Maple Leaf for an amazing show from Johnny Vidacovich’s trio. George Porter, Jr. wasn’t there this time, but the group didn’t disappoint at all. Grimy funk in the Maple Leaf was exactly what we needed to get over the flight nightmare.
My wife also wishes to inform the readers of this blog that it was I that cried “Uncle” first this night and not her, upsetting the normal balance of the universe and surely foretelling the end of days.