Weekend at Bernie's

I recently listened to a podcast where the son of internationally famous negotiator and bestselling author Herb Cohen described his father's stories from his Brooklyn childhood. In particular, he was impressed with the colorful characters who populated those stories. Herb's son said, 

"I grew up with stories. It was very romantic and exciting for me ’cause I grew up outside of Chicago, very suburban. And when I talked about my friends on my block, they were Todd, Mark, Dennis, Jamie, Chris. When my father talked about his friends on his block, they were Inky, Sheppo, Hoo-ha, Gutter Rat, who was called that even by his own mother, ..."

I smiled when I heard that, since my Brooklyn childhood friends include The Curl, Penaldo,  Goonobs and his younger brother Junior Goo, along with four Greek brothers, two whom went by their Greek nicknames, Kostaiykee (my transliteration) and Dmitri, while the other two were The Elder Statesman and The Walrus. The group of us formed a core of a more extended gang of neighborhood friends, hanging out in the Greeks' backyard (they and Goonobs lived next door to each other, so there was kind of critical mass at their houses), shooting hoops, tinkering with cars, playing drinking games, and so on.

I'm providing this history in an attempt to provide an idea of the depth of such Brooklyn street friendships. Herb Cohen stayed lifelong friends with his Brooklyn pals (who included Larry King and Sandy Koufax - what a group!), and even though I don't see my friend Charles (a.k.a. Goonobs) very often, when he invited me to his 60th birthday celebration, I immediately said yes even though it meant a six hour drive each way.

Charles is one of my few friends who has stayed in Brooklyn all these years, but he has also recently become the owner of a somewhat rundown farmhouse on 90 lovely acres in the Southern Tier of New York State - basically the middle of nowhere about a half hour from Oneonta. I will not go into the whole story of how Charles came to own this place, except to say that it was yet another well meaning idea hatched by his father Bernie, who has always been and at age 85 remains a major force in his sons' lives. You can see Bernie in his prime here.

The drive up through Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New York was uneventful - it's a pretty non-descript part of the country - and before I knew it I found myself turning onto the steep gravel driveway that leads up to the house. I must say, the place presents well when you first pull up. The setting is lovely - the house and barn are sheathed in rustic native hickory planking, there's a pond, and just lovely greenery all around. Also, from the driveway you can't see the two derelict RV campers Bernie has dragged onto the property to serve as additional housing. For a Brooklyn-born Jewish guy, Bernie has a remarkably redneck sensibility.

The barn

The house

The pond

Bernie, who splits his time between New York and Florida, makes frequent trips up to the farm and is actively involved with renovations on the property (have I mentioned that he's 85?). Unfortunately, he tends to go for the cheap and quick over real quality - like I said, he's a city boy with redneck building ideas. As I walked up to the house I immediately stumbled across (almost literally) a Bernie-ism. To accommodate Charles' mom, who uses a mobility scooter, Bernie had installed a handicap ramp up to the front entrance - but not the sturdy metal or concrete kind of ramp I see around my neighborhood. No, this is some bright yellow plastic ramp which is slippery and sags when you walk on it, and which is also about a foot too short, so it's supplemented with some wood pieces. Both sides of the ramp have what are I guess are intended to be handrails, made of sections of aluminum fencing roughly sawn to the right length. Neither Charles nor his brother like this jury-rigged handicap ramp, but their dad is a force of nature who basically does what he wants.

When you enter the house you discover that (a) it came with the first floor fully furnished - in fact, overfurnished, (b) Charles and his family have moved a bunch of additional stuff into it, and (c) everything is moved around because parts of the place are under renovation. The result is that there's the feeling, at least for someone like me who doesn't like clutter, of way too much stuff crammed into the space. My understanding is that the place in its current state is much improved over how they found it, bt it's still pretty stuffed with stuff. Whew.

If this living room had less stuff in it it would be quite nice

While the first floor is in good shape and will be quite nice once the clutter is pared down a bit, the upstairs had basically been abandoned by the previous owner and is in a terrible state of disrepair. Up a very steep and narrow staircase you find yourself in rooms which have 1940's (or thereabouts) wallpaper - at least where there's still plaster on the walls. It appears that at some point there was significant water incursion which caused major damage to the walls and ceilings. In some places the ceiling has been stabilized with duct tape, while in others everything has just crumbled down to the studs. Add in the low gable ceilings and the overall first impression is pretty creepy. But if you take a breath (preferably through a respirator - I'm guessing there's mold aplenty up there) and look around, you see that with some work, it all could be lovely - and probably will be, after a period of work.

Upstairs bedrrom

The upstairs master bedroom

The barn is also interesting. You could say the old farmer (the most recent owner's father) was a frugal country guy, or you could say he was a hoarder, but boy, he crammed a lot of stuff into his barn. Old furniture, baby carriages, a TV set from the 1940's, .22 ammo, tools, and so on and so on. Parts of the barn were built as chicken coops, and there's still 70 year old chicken poop in them. There's a loft filled with stuff. The main barn is filled with stuff. The chicken coops are filled with stuff. Exploring the barn is one of those things that's kind of fascinating and scary at the same time. There are a lot of interesting and potentially valuable things, but also - omigod, So. Much. Stuff. But isn't it cool to have a barn?!

Barn - main area

Barn photo

The worst of the chicken coop area

In terms of sleeping arrangements, I chose to stay in the larger of the two campers - the one without water damage to the sleeping area. Staying in the camper was a little more civilized than my other alternative, the crumbly, moldy upstairs bedrooms, though still, Bernie-isms abounded. Power was supplied to the trailers by, in effect, a long extension cord running from the barn. The wire gauge seemed adequate for the load, which is good, but the cable just ran along the grass and had at least one big splice just sitting on the ground - potentially dangerous in the rain, or even if someone tripped over it! I tried turning the water supply (a garden hose run from the house) to the trailer on, but shut it off when water began to mysteriously appear on the trailer's kitchen floor (meaning no water or toilet without walking back to the house). The built-in lights  and fan in the trailer didn't work (maybe they're on the 12V power circuit?), but the outlets did so lighting was supplied by a couple of thrift store table lamps plugged into the outlets. I've got to say, it was still much more civilized than sleeping in a tent, but it was a few clicks short of a 5-star rating.

My accommodations

So, what did we do all weekend? Not a lot, but plenty. I rarely get to see Charles and hadn't seen his brother in over thirty years, so we had a lot of catching up to do. Friday afternoon we went on a walk around part of the property - he hasn't explored the whole place yet. Friday night Charles' friend Ed arrived. We made a fire in the chimenea and sat outside and enjoyed the evening (much cooler than in DC this time of year!). Saturday we had planned to go paddling at a nearby lake, but the birthday boy decided he just wanted to relax.

On our walk. You can see the house down below. We are a ways from the edge of the property.

When we were kids, Charles and his brother had the reputation of being klutzy - if there was a way to hurt yourself or break something doing any activity, they'd find it. So, Saturday when Charles decided to go outside and play with his new shotgun, it worried me a little bit. OK, maybe more than a little bit. Meanwhile, his brother was engaged with trying to jury rig a connection between a propane tank and the BBQ grill using various parts cribbed from the trailers and found in the barn. I sat there wondering if I was going to die by an errant shotgun blast or propane explosion. I'm happy to report that neither of these things happened, and kudos to Charles for having the sense to hold off on intoxicants until he was done shooting.

You have no idea how scary this is

Mid-day Saturday our friend Sheri and her husband Ken (and their dog) showed up. Sheri has had an interesting life - at one time she dated Arlo Guthrie's tour bus driver. She traveled on tour with Arlo and mingled with all those old-line folkie musicians. Pete Seeger was on the invite list to her wedding (he didn't attend, but Sheri has saved a lovely personalized note from Pete's wife Toshi). I met Sheri when I was in college and she was dating a guitar player friend of mine. Over the years she's become very close with Charles and his family. But it's been maybe seven years since I've seen them, so we spent a bunch more time just kinda hanging around catching up.

Charles, Gordon and me

The brothers, Sheri and me

At one point we all decided to see if there were fish in the pond by dropping in a fishing line (Louisiana-raised Ken served as our fishing expert). Fishing became pretty boring pretty quickly - no bites - so we propped up the fishing pole on the dock and just sat in our chairs and relaxed, enjoying the scenery and some beverages. Our tranquility was eventually disturbed when a fish took the hook and swam away, pulling the fishing pole (which no one was holding by that point) into the water, causing Charles to jump in after it. Unfortunately, the fish got away, but we successfully determined that the pond has fish! We got another little nibble later on, but again the fish escaped. Charles had better luck with a fishing net he dropped into the pond, which netted (literally), a bunch of minnows, a handful of slightly larger fish (juvenile bass?), and a turtle (which fortunately we freed before it drowned).

Turtle upon release from the net

Fish from the pond

Ken and Sheri headed home around dark. The brothers and I made another fire and spent yet more time relaxing. Sunday morning we all packed up and got on the road pretty early. I wanted to get a jump on the long drive home, and the brothers were scheduled to meet up in the afternoon in Brooklyn with their father.

All told, a very nice weekend. The farm is a place with amazing potential, though I think Charles has his work cut out for him for the next decade or so. It was nice to catch up with old friends, and - contrary to my usual nature - just slow down and relax for a weekend. 

Mason Neck Lotuses

I launched my kayak from Mason Neck with two goals: (1) since it was lotus blossom season, to visit the grove of lotuses (can an area of water flowers be called a grove?) I discovered last year, and (2) to get in a ten mile paddle. It's hard for me to believe, but it's mid-July and I have neither broken ten miles on a paddle nor practiced rolling this year. Sheesh. Anyway, I succeed in my first goal, but there were so many distractions that I didn't nearly achieve the second (according to Strava my trip totaled 7.1 miles). 

There's not much to say about Mason Neck that I haven't said before, so this post will be mostly pictures. Mason Neck remains my favorite local place to paddle. The big, open bay, the birds in the wildlife refuge, the easy launch - all great. 

On this trip I didn't head across Belmont Bay towards the Occoquan (and therefore didn't check on my geocache). Rather, I followed the shoreline with the goal of heading to the lotuses and then out into the river. I was surprised on the paddle out that I saw not a single eagle, but they must just have been on coffee break or something, since on the way back I saw so many that I eventually gave up photographing them.

Sticking the nose of my boat into the lilies.

The lotus grove (or whatever it should be called) sits behind some breakwaters near where the bay opens out into the river. I was a week or so early - the lotuses were just starting to bloom - but with the lotus flowers and the water lilies, it was still pretty spectacular. The lotuses at Kenilworth Gardens are pink; these are yellow.

That bee appreciates the flowers too!

A sunny day - the flower looks illuminated.

After nosing around the lilies and looking at them from both sides of their extent (see, I avoided using the word "grove"), I continued on, around the corner into the river, where, it appeared, the eagles had finally shown up for work. There were a lot of eagles in immature plumage mussing around like the teenagers they are, plus plenty of eagles in mature plumage. Every once in a while an eagle would fly past low to the water like something out of Top Gun. I couldn't get pictures of these high speed maneuvers - by the time I'd get my camera out they'd be long gone - but it was fun to watch.

Here's a subset of my eagle photos. I didn't even bother photographing any other birds - heck, as I mentioned above, I couldn't even get all the eagles.

I think this is an immature bald eagle

Because I had spent so much time looking at flowers and birds, I turned around well before the five mile point. On the way back I stopped at the paddle-in campsite, which seems to be little used and poorly maintained. There are three campsites, each with a gravel pad. The whole place, including the campsite pads, is now overgrown with weeds. Two of the campsites site right next to each other, and the third is very close by as well. Best used by friends, or neighborly people. Up the hill there's a Portapotty, which means there must also be a road back to civilization. The landing area is a small beach. From the beach there are some crumbly steps up to the campsite, and a wood ramp which looks intended for people to slide their boats up to campsite level (there's really not enough room at the bottom to securely beach them).

I had brought my good camera with me (hence the better than usual eagle photos). This camera is not fully waterproof, but it is supposedly splash-proof - can get a little wet. I always carry the camera in a dry bag, but on this trip I was a little sloppier than usual about keeping water off it. It never got really wet, though. Still, when I got back to the launch I found that the viewfinder screen wasn't working. I thought I must have shorted the whole thing out. Plus, there was condensation inside the eyepiece. I figured the camera was toast. Fortunately, once it dried out it resumed working properly. Lesson-learned: splash-proof, not so much. I still managed to get a few pictures, including a little head sticking out of the marsh. I thought it was a frog, but was informed that it was a turtle.

Turtle (or maybe a frog) in the marsh by the put-in.

A snake which swam past my kayak,

 

Supporting the Washington's Crossing Swim

People organize open water swims with a variety of goals: to raise money for a charitable cause, to give swimmers experience in distance swimming, and so on. While every swim is different, two goals common to every swim are to (1) not lose any swimmers, and (2) not chew anyone up with the propellers of a motor boat. That's where kayakers come in.

It's great to have power boats accompany packs of swimmers out on the water, but a power boat can safely get only so close to a swimmer before violating goal (2), while if the boaters stay at a safe distance they might wind up to far away to notice or help a swimmer in distress, tragically violating goal (1). Kayakers, on the other hand, can mix with the swimmers with little risk of injury. So, swim organizers always try to recruit "safety boat" kayakers to shepherd the swimmers along the route.

Those of us in Chesapeake Paddlers Association used to participate in a lot of swims (and I have a pile of event t-shirts to prove it) but we somehow got away from doing swim suppoert - events were to chaotic, or the kayakers were treated like step-children. I don't know - we just got out of the habit. I was surprised when I got a notice about a swim support from Sue, our club secretary. I didn't sign up immediately, but neither did I delete the email. In fact, it wasn't until Tall Tom mentioned that he was thinking of doing it and pointed out that this was actually a paid gig (usually swim support is a volunteer thing) that I signed up. In the end, Tom, Rob and I, along with another kayaker who occasionally shows up to our Thursday group, volunteered and, because we were the experienced kayakers, were assigned the farthest out area to patrol (there were other folks in kayaks handling the closer in zones, though I wouldn't exactly call them kayakers).

This event was being managed by a swimmer named Michelle, who Rob knew. In the past he had been her kayaker on some really long distance swims, where each swimmer is paired with a dedicated support kayaker. She did a really nice job of organizing and communicating, providing almost too much detail to fully digest ahead of the race! I mentioned patrol zones above - this is the first time I had ever been assigned a particular zone to patrol. She even had a map.

Patrol Zone Map

We arrived at National Harbor bright and early to be ready to launch around 7 AM. Our launch spot was an abandoned gravel ramp which was clogged with driftwood and other detritus. A little bit of a challenging launch, but not too bad. We "Zone 4" kayakers paddled out and wound up killing a bunch of time, as the race start ran late, in part because they had to hold off the start while they rescued someone who had fallen out of a kayak (did I mention that the people in the other zones weren't exactly skilled kayakers?). At one point I got tired of bobbing in place and started paddling laps around the little launch bay area, inadvertently causing consternation on shore. I heard them on the marine VHF radio saying "Is that guy one of ours who's lost? Or just some random kayaker paddling through?" Neither, sir. I was one of yours, but I wasn't lost. Just restless because of your dawdling.

Launching - the little beach was gone when we came back (higher tide)

Anyway, once the swimmers got under way it was a pretty easy swim support. Triathletes are typically great runners and cyclists but relatively poor swimmers, so supporting a triathlon involves a lot of active support - people want to rest holding onto your kayak, or they're in distress, or they're lost. The participants in this event, in contrast, were swimmers in an open water swim training program and were really proficient. Through the whole event no one was in distress or too tired to continue. They did, however get lost. 

Kayakers with our "rescue tubes"

Swimmers

I guess it's really hard to see where you're going from water level, or even to see the brightly colored eight foot tall markers. I also guess that not everyone understands compensating for current, because swimmers went every which way, particularly as they came around the turnaround point at the Virginia side of the river. So, most of my work was in chasing down swimmers who were heading off in random directions - north to the Wilson Bridge, south to the sea - and getting them pointed back in the right direction. I wound up escorting in the very last swimmer to finish. He was trying, frequently stopping to sight where he should be going, but as soon as he'd resume swimming he'd veer way off course to the left - I think the current was spinning him to the left. So I just paddled alongside him and whenever he'd pause to look around I would redirect him. As we got close to the finish other kayakers joined us (since there was no one else left on the water for them to track) and the group got a good cheer from shore when he finally made it to the finish.

Collecting the course markers at the end of the event

After the race Rob, Tall Tom, and I helped Michelle pack up and load her stuff into her car, then I headed home. I got home just in time for a shower and a short nap before heading back to Maryland with Valerie for a backyard concert/jam session/party.

Later that afternoon, jammin' with Bobby and company ...

The three of us had a good experience and we mutually agreed that we'd like to support more of this organization's swims. So, perhaps more swim support reports to come?

New Orleans JazzFest

Going to JazzFest in New Orleans has been a "bucket list" item for me. I had plans to go in 2020 which were thwarted by the pandemic. Then they scheduled and cancelled twice in 2021. When they announced that the Fest was back for 2022, I made plans right away.

Wednesday

Let me start with the surprising observation that there’s a Jazzfest style. Most of the music festivals I’ve attended have been largely int the jam band genre, featuring bands like Dead & Co., Tedeschi Trucks, and Greensky Bluegrass. Attendees of such events have a generally hippie-ish vibe. You’ll see plenty of  tie-dye, peasant skirts and other hippie-signaling garb, both among the greying Boomers and the younger “wooks”. Also, these festivals have a somewhat counter-culture flavor which means there’ll always be a good supply of freaky people – from the Bluegrass Chicken Man to folks in outrageous multi-colored garb.

JazzFest is different. There are fewer eccentric dressers, and very little tie-dye. While this isn’t a country music festival, it is located in the south and I saw far more women than I’m used to in the full Daisy Duke outfit of jean shorts, boots, and cowboy hats. That, and women in wide-brimmed straw hats and sundresses, often with cute shoes not completely sensible for walking around what is normally a horse track. For guys, the Jazzfest look is these boldly colorful Hawaiian shirts – not the traditional kind with palm trees, but more sort of pop-art figurative representations in bright colors. Here and there, guys even wore matching tops and shorts in that kind of print. And once again, straw hats – fedoras, porkpies, and large sun hats. Plenty of festival-goers were dressed for comfort in basic t-shirts and shorts, but overall the crowd looked a little more “dressed” than I’m used to at festivals. I think that’s in part because this is a Southern event, and people in the South are a little more proper about dress than we Yankees. Secondly, the mainstream pop nature of the artists – Stevie Nicks, Kool and the Gang, for example – means that the Fest draws a more mainstream and less counter-cultural crowd. Last, the fact that it’s not a camping festival means that people can dress a little more for style rather than for crawling around a dusty campsite.

A couple sporting JazzFest style

I knew none of this when I headed for the airport wearing my straw porkpie. A guy at the gate looked at me and said, “I know where you’re going, with that hat.” I had no idea what he was talking about. Given we were at the gate for a flight to New Orleans it was obvious he was referring to Jazzfest, but this is a hat I wear all the time. I had only accidentally adopted what turned out to be stereotypical Jazzfest garb.

I didn’t even wear my apparently festival-appropriate porkpie to the event – I had other hats for that purpose. I recently received a call from my dermatologist confirming that the funny red area on my shoulder was indeed skin cancer, so my Jazzfest daytime wardrobe was long pants, sun shirt or t-shirt with sun guard sleeves (borrowed from my cycling kit), and a really big hat. Plus goopy zinc-based sunscreen which goes on like Elmer’s Glue.

Anyway, I got to New Orleans without incident –it did feel weird traveling after two years of sticking pretty close to home. My AirBnB was a lovely little suite upstairs in a restored 1840’s house, reached by an exterior spiral staircase. The owners live downstairs. It’s actually quite a property, with a separate building which serves as a woodshop, and a lushly landscaped garden. I was staying in the Seventh Ward neighborhood, which sits midway between the French Quarter and the Fairgrounds, where Jazzfest is held – a little over a mile from each. It’s a funky local neighborhood filled with pretty antebellum homes. However you might feel about gentrification, it definitely has the feel of a hipster gentrifiying neighborhood, though perhaps without quite the pretentiousness which would accompany such a thing in New York or DC. It was really nice to stay in a neighborhood a little bit away from the touristy areas. It felt more like “real” New Orleans, and yet both the Fairgrounds and the French Quarter were close bay.

Entrance to my AirBnB

Houses in the neighborhood

Another house on Esplanade Street

My Air BnB hosts lent me a beat-up old single speed cruiser bike which was perfect for local transportation (though it was adjusted for someone much shorter than me). I took it for a spin over to Canseco’s, the local market, and bought some basic supplies – cereal, coffee and soy milk for breakfast, some water bottles for the festival, etc.

My ride

Canseco's has foods not available at supermarkets back home

That first evening I had plans to see a Baltimore musician named Cris Jacobs, who was scheduled to give a solo performance at a club called Carrolton Station across town. Cris is a great musician and songwriter who is a fairly big name on the festival circuit (note – he sat in with my band for a song once), and I figured some of the DC/Baltimore locals in town would show up for this performance. Sure enough I ran into Cornelius there. Good show, though I was the only one in the entire place wearing a mask. My introduction to the idea that in Louisiana, the pandemic is over (n.b. Cris Jacobs came down with COVID a few days after this show).

Towards the end of Cris’ show I made my exit and grabbed dinner at a Mediterranean place a couple of blocks up. I ate outside and had a pretty good eggplant sandwich. I had taken an Uber to the club (too far to bike - particularly on my first night when I hadn't gotten my bearings), but I’m pretty cheap and a believer in mass transit so while I was eating I got out my phone and figured how to get home by bus. I was a little concerned about COVID on mass transit, but I needn’t have been in this case, as I was the only passenger on the bus for most of the ride (a few other people got on and off along the way).

Cris Jacobs at Carrolton Station. Apparently I was visible in the live stream

Thursday

Thursday was my first day of JazzFest. I packed up my day’s supplies – sealed frozen water bottles, my collapsible camping chair, sunscreen, and snacks, and headed off to the festival by bike. Let me say that bicycle is *so much* the perfect way to get to JazzFest. While everyone else is scrambling for scarce parking, waiting on insanely long lines for shuttle buses, or waiting and waiting for an Uber, I would roll right in an out on my bike. The festival has a designated bike parking area with plenty of racks, which is even staffed all day.

I was sort of by myself and sort of with other people at the Fest. I was traveling alone, but I knew various people at the Fest. My drummer friend Brian and his wife were my sort-of traveling companions. We flew down on the same flight, and I hung out with them a bunch, but they were staying over in the French Quarter and so we didn’t see each other outside the festival.

I quickly discovered that JazzFest is a very friendly place. I set up my chair at one of the main stages near a group of eight or so people who had established quite an encampment. I got to talking with them and when they heard this was my first JazzFest they “adopted” me and said I was totally welcome to hang out with them. The group was made up of people who for the most part knew each other from having all lived in the U.S. Virgin Islands decades earlier – Nancy and Ron, Rudy, and a bunch of other people whose names I’ve already forgotten. Now they live all around the country, and they reunite every year at JazzFest. I hung with them for a while, but JazzFest has a dozen stages and so I set out wandering to explore the immensity of the place.

With some of my adoptive family 

It's a little overwhelming at first. The Fairgrounds is pretty big – at least a mile long. The two headlining stages are at opposite ends. In between there are stages which focus on jazz, blues, gospel, local culture and local music, as well as several other large-scale stages. There are also two large areas of food vendors, villages of craft vendors, brass band parades, Louisiana culture exhibits, and, spread throughout this massive event, two – count ‘em – two – places where you could refill your water bottle for free.

Billy Strings performs

Brian and I kept meeting up then splitting up again all day. His wife, not being interested in as many days in the hot sun as we were, had stayed back at the hotel to relax and enjoy the amenities – pool, and so on. Thursday was the only day I ate a real meal at the festival. While the food includes a lot of local cuisine and so is way better than typical festival food, for a combination of religious and health reasons I can’t eat much of it, so the pleasure of the festival’s food is largely lost on me. I had an order of vegetarian red beans and rice for lunch. Not bad.

With Brian

After the Fest, for dinner I ordered takeout from 1000 Figs, a nearby Mediterranean restaurant recommended by my AirBnB hosts. I biked over to pick it up and ate it back at “home”. It was actually really, really good!

Traditionally, after JazzFest ends for the day at 7 PM people go out and party all night long in the clubs. I was a little too COVID-wary to go out to crowded indoor clubs, so I stayed in and got a good night’s sleep.

Bands seen: The Iguanas, New Orleans Suspects, Kermit Ruffins and his BBQ Swingers, Mikayla Braun, Wayne Toups, Billy Strings, and more I’ve forgotten.

Friday

JazzFest is said to be awful in the rain, when the dirt track, which is really made of a combination of soil and horse poop, turns to a most disgusting form of mud. Fortunately, the forecast for my visit had only a half day of rain, on Friday morning, in it. I decided I’d skip the morning at JazzFest and do something else until the track dried out a little. The rain conveniently stopped around 10 AM. I biked across town to the newly opened Museum of Southern Jewish Culture, where I talked the guy at the door into giving me two dollars off the admission price (maybe negotiating is part of the museum experience?). It’s a fun little museum – just three galleries, really – where I learned that the first documented Jewish person in the U.S. was Joachim Gans, a metallurgist (it figures he was a professional), who arrived in 1585 in … Virginia! So there have been Jews in Virginia for 437 years, yet it’s still hard to find a decent bagel here.

The museum

19th Century Southern Passover recipe

Gold bagel from the "Krewe of Jieuxs"

Biking back - note the streetcar

After my museum visit I biked back via the French Quarter, ate the previous night's dinner leftovers for lunch, then headed to the fairgrounds. My adoptive festy family had texted me their location, so I stopped by to say hello. I won’t bore you with a play by play of going from one stage to another – I’ll just say that on the second day I knew my way around a little better and so it was less overwhelming. Bands I saw included: Tribute to Art and Charles Neville with the Funky Meters, Ivan Neville, etc., Chubby Carrier, Sonny Landreth, Adonis Rose and the New Orleans JazzOrchestra, Elvis Costello and the Imposters, and some more I can’t remember. Plus, my mud avoidance plan worked - by the time I got there the hot sun had dried most everything out.

Chubby Carrier

Elvis Costello

Me!

Bike parking, early in the day

In the evening I biked over to Frenchman Street, a street of music clubs and nightlife near the French Quarter. I had no intention of going into any of the clubs, but I knew that even staying out on the street I could hear the music and mix with the vibe. My dinner was a portabello Po’ Boy sandwich, which was tasty but incredibly salty. While I sat outside the restaurant eating at a picnic table, a group of partying tourists asked if they could share the table. I said “sure”, and the group of us got to talking. It turns out they were from the NY/NJ area, were Deadheads, and were in town for JazzFest as well. We chatted for quite a while before they headed off to a club and I biked home. This was a totally random interaction between people who live in different parts of the country and who were in the same city only because of a music festival. There was no way I would have any mutual connections. However, when I posted a picture of the group of us to Facebook, Cornelius, who knows positively everyone, tagged one of the people – he knows her! Too strange.

Frenchman Street

Random people - at least one of whom knows Cornelius

Saturday

JazzFest doesn’t start until 11 AM and I’m an early riser, so every day I had time to fill in the mornings. On Saturday I tried going out for breakfast for a change, but the closest neighborhood coffee place had nothing but coffee – no pastries, no food, no nothin’ – and the other wasn’t open that early, so I went back and ate breakfast at home.

The idea of eating lunch before entering the fairgrounds had worked well, so I did it again. This time I visited a vegan soul food restaurant very close to the fairgrounds. It was soooo good. Okra gumbo, vegan mac and cheese, and sweet potatoes. I could eat there every day.

Vegan soul food!

My plate

Once again I met up with Brian and Amy inside the fairgrounds. I also noticed my neighbors Lawrence and Hannah had been posting pictures from around New Orleans and so messaged them. They were at JazzFest too – we sat together for a band. The last act I saw was Mavis Staples, where I ran into local Realtor® and music impresario Tori McKinney. Tori loves all things New Orleans (she lived there at one time and still has a condo there) and all things music so it was no surprise that she was at the event. A lot of fest-goers were excited about seeing 73-year-old Stevie Nicks, but I skipped her to instead see 82-year-old Mavis Staples. I later watched some video of Nicks’ performance. Sadly, her voice isn’t what it used to be. She cleverly relies on backup singers to hit the high notes while she sings in a narrow range. Staples, on the other hand, still has a voice which nearly set the tent on fire. Her only visible concession to age was that she sat down between songs. I chose right - it was one of my favorite performances from the event. 

Mardi Gras Indian. He must have been schvitzing in that outfit

Buckwheat Zydeco Junior

Rickie Lee Jones

More Indians

With Tori

The great Mavis Staples

Lawrence and Hannah (and their son Isaac)

I decided to eat dinner in and so stopped at Canseco’s Market again on the way home. The market was busy with other fest-goers, but not too bad. While I was on line to pay, two kids – one maybe 14, the other 10? – approached me and the older one asked if I wanted to buy any water (there are any number of people outside the gates selling bottled water to fest-goers). I said no, but he persisted. Sometimes he would just ask again, “Do you want to buy any water?” and other times he would riff about his product or on things I had said in answering him. This was cute for a minute or two, but he just wouldn’t stop. It got past the point of fun and into being harassing. Being a paranoid New Yorker at heart, as soon as the kid started talking to me I slid my left hand down and kept it in place so that I could feel my wallet and keys, just in case his goal was to distract me while the younger kid or some other accomplice picked my pocket. I even sent them off to talk with someone further back in line – but they returned to me. It was a little weird, but they laid off once I got to the cash register and I didn’t see them again.

The bike ride itself was a party - the JazzFest spirit expands into the neighborhoods

Dinner that night was a corner market hodgepodge of soup, salad, bread and fruit. I didn’t go out in the evening.

Bands seen: Buckwheat Zydeo Jr., Rickie Lee Jones, New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars, Mavis Staples. I took it a little easy and didn’t go rushing from stage to stage in the heat, but there must have been more than that.

Sunday

Sunday morning I biked down to Café du Monde in the French Quarter and had their famous coffee (with chicory and hot milk) and beignet. It being New Orleans, while it was only 8 AM, there was a brass band playing for tips outside the café. Brass band version of Big Chief with breakfast :)

Coffee and beignet

Jackson Square

Front entrance to my AirBnB house

After once again eating the previous night’s leftovers for lunch, I once again rode to the fairgrounds. I didn’t hear from Brian, so spent most of the day by myself; however, once again I noticed FB posts from JazzFest from yet another friend. I met up with my friend Linda and her beau for Kool and the Gang. Linda used to live in Arlington. Our kids were friends many moons ago. Now she lives in New York and so we never see her, except somehow I keep running into her at concerts – last year it was Dead & Co. at CitiField in New York, and this year JazzFest. Kool & the Gang took a little while to find their groove, but a few songs in everything clicked and the rest of their set was great.

Gospel group

Kool and the Gang with Linda

It was hot and sunny

I once again took it a little easier. JazzFest weather is pretty hot, and seeing shows at many of the stages involves baking out in the Gulf Coast sun (fortunately other stages are in large tents, where you can get a break from the sun). I sat for a little while in the racetrack grandstand, which is air conditioned and less packed with people than elsewhere. There are no performances there; it’s just a place to cool off and, if you are so inclined, wait in enormously long lines for some of the few real bathrooms in the place.

I did go see Trombone Shorty’s big closing set, but I left a little early. On Saturday I had experienced the crush when everyone leaves, and I wanted to avoid being in that wave again.

People put up flags or other markers to mark their spot

On the way home I stopped at Nonna’s Pizza, which offers mediocre pizza and poor service, and jacks their prices up for JazzFest – but it was convenient. It was my last night in town and I was tempted to go out to a club, but ultimately opted to stay true to my vow not to hang out in clubs. I stayed in and packed.

Bands seen: Trombone Shorty, Kool and the Gang, Tribute to Dr. John, Dwayne Dopsie, Chris Thomas King, some gospel group (don’t remember the name), and more.

Monday

Monday morning I biked around City Park, then headed to the airport. My flight was delayed for four hours, but I made it home safe and sound.

Biking at City Park

Swan boats at City Park Big Lake

Streetcar by City Park

Another cool house

All told, a great trip. A chance to hang out in New Orleans which was both non-touristy (staying in the 7^th Ward and commuting by bike) and ultra-touristy (JazzFest). Good food (unfortunately I am constrained in this regard, and was eating alone so didn’t go to sit-down restaurants for the most part). Great music. The festival is very hot and sunny, something which worried me given my recent skin cancer diagnosis. I made lots and lots of visits to the water refill station – hydration is key. Had a fun time with fun people. Great fun, but not necessarily an event I need to go to every year. Maybe if I went with a group. Given that I kept gravitating towards local music, next I might try French Quarter Fest, which is all local bands rather than national headliners. We’ll see … 

Slimy sea creatures for sale at Canseco's

New Orleans lizard!