The Deep South Tour – 2008

In general, the Americans were quite dismayed when they heard that Jules and Shelley would only be seeing Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama and a teensy edge of Florida on their first visit to the States.

It reminded me of my first six months in New Orleans, when people would ask, "So where else in the US have you lived?" and I'd say, "Louisiana is the only place I've lived since I left Australia."
"Oh," they'd say gravely, "I'm sorry. The rest of America is Really Not Like This." (Trust me, I could hear the capitals.)

If I had limitless funds and a nanny for the two-year-old and someone else to haul Kickbaby around under their shirt, I would've loved to take Jules and Shelley to other cities I love, like Portland and Seattle and Santa Fe and Atlanta and New York, and to places I'd love to see – like Savannah and Charleston and Chicago and Washington D.C.

But with Berry and Kickbaby in tow, we improvised our own itinerary – one that will never quite be replicated by anyone else, ever.


We made Jules sick with the American Breakfast at Waffle House; we made Shelley sick with rich soul food at the Praline Connection (Australian stomachs just aren't built for Southern fare); we stalked the wedding cake house on St Charles Avenue in the Garden District so Shelley could get the perfect picture (the upside-down one just didn't cut it); and we compiled a veritable photo essay on the hazards of New Orleans' crazy footpaths.


We sat out a pouring should've-been-sunny Saturday in Perdido Beach, we built sandcastles with Berry, we went all over New Orleans' famous French Quarter by day, and by night Nathan (a French Quarter bar expert if ever there was one) took Jules and Shelley to some of his favourite haunts. There was jambalaya at Napoleon House and a streetcar ride down St Charles and frisbee in Audubon Park and the best Southern-diner food ever at Camellia Grill. And last but not least, I enthralled Shelley with the appalling-ness of Wal-mart. She berated herself for leaving the camera at home at least 18 times in that one trip, especially when she spied the jumbo jar of pickled pigs' ears. You think I'm joking; I'm not.

It was an unconventionally action-packed two weeks – certainly not the way Fodor's or Rick Steves or Lonely Planet would've done it.

And all I can say about that is: thank goodness.

Secret garden

I walked straight past it, even though I was looking everywhere for the sign. My favourite coffee place can be tricky to find.

It's on my beloved Royal Street, right by the famous Court of Two Sisters, but it's set back from the footpath, through a dark cool tunnel and behind a courtyard garden – the way I've decided every coffee house should be.


We discovered Royal Blend back when we lived in the French Quarter, and I went there for breakfast with Berry and her nanna when we stayed in New Orleans a couple of weeks ago. It still has every bit of its charm.

I wanted to ask the girl serving how long it had been there, how old the building was too (like everything in New Orleans, it probably used to be something else) but she kept disappearing – to work! imagine! – so we contented ourselves with watching the fish and seeing barely another soul the whole time we were there. And those we did see were quiet souls.

Which is exactly the way I like it.

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Royal...

Can you choose one favourite street out of your whole country?

I can. My favourite – of all the avenues and streets and roads and boulevards and circles and ways in America – is Royal Street, New Orleans.


To me it feels at once like a lovely mystery and like coming home.

I was going to write all the reasons why, but even in my head they sound like a tourist-book tallying of attractions and histories and quaintnesses... and that's really not what it's about.


It's just that when I'm on Royal Street, I want to stay.

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Napoleon House

If you're ever looking for a place that has the feeling of the real New Orleans driven into every corner, every window pane, every floorboard – Napoleon House is it.

In the heart of the French Quarter, it's a wonderful, historical retreat from the Bourbon Street masses. The building's first occupant, Nicholas Girod, was mayor of New Orleans from 1812 to 1815. He offered his home to Napoleon Bonaparte in 1821 as a refuge during his exile.

Napoleon never made it, but the name stuck, and since then, the Napoleon House has been a haunt for artists and writers throughout most of the 20th century. Step inside and you'll feel like waxing lyrical too.

John came down to visit from Dallas and after searching fruitlessly for a place serving lunch at 3pm, we were thrilled to find Napoleon House. We lived in New Orleans for four years and I'd never been there (for shame!) but apparently Nathan used to hang out at Napoleon House a lot. Incredible real New Orleans food, amazing atmosphere and (cue choir of angels) – Pimm's. Ahhhh.

Back to New Orleans

We went back to New Orleans. It's been almost two years and thousands of miles since Hurricane Katrina sent us to the other end of the country, but despite all the changes it still felt like an old friend. A bit like coming home.

New Orleans was the first place I lived after moving to America, and it took me a long time to realise that really, New Orleans is a bit like a country of its own. You won't find a city like it anywhere else. I know, I've looked.




The people and the buildings and the culture and the city as a whole have all taken a battering, through Katrina and ever since. But it's the kind of place that's hard to keep down. Some parts of it will never be the same again, but I'd like to think in the end the optimism and irrepressible spirit of the people will win out.