He countered, “Hesse ist yoofinile leeteraoora. Im Deutchland wir read tsose booken vor grammer shoola. I love Kundera thoe. Die Unertragliche Leichtigkeit des Seins ist not hiz best booke. Da popular filme made it zeem better tan itz really waz becutz von itz janeric subyect matter. I preferred and alwayz recokommend Das Buch Vom Lachen Und Vom Vergessen. Itz mutch better und tutchez on var deeper zentimentz.”
I took his suggestion to heart and eventually did read The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. I’ve actually read the book numerous times over the years since and consider it my favorite novel. Armand’s assessment was correct. I think that ULB is more political in nature and TNLF is more personal.
We spent the rest of the afternoon walking around the French Quarter of the city. The cable car dropped us off on Bourbon Street where we wandered around aimlessly looking for familiar sights, like St. Louis Cathedral and Antoine’s, taking a few pictures of the buildings and listening to the street musicians.
The streets were very alive with smells, sounds, shapes and colors. Above us were the proverbial cast iron railed balconies and on both sides of us were lots of kitschy souvenir shops and bars. I could not tell if it was all authentic or just an act to attract people from out of town (and their money).
The main stretch felt very touristy for the most part, but if you strayed away onto some of the adjacent side streets there appeared to be many other equivalently interesting places to visit that seemed oriented towards residents rather than the tourists. I learned about those places later on in the evening.
When you travel somewhere over thirteen hundred miles away from home with only a few hundred dollars in your pocket, your budget is quite limited if you plan on having enough money to get back home with. Whenever feasible I prefer walking around cities instead of riding public transportation or driving my car.
I did it during my backpacking trip to Europe a few years before as well as a recent weekend visit I made to New York City. Walking saves money because it’s free and I think you end up seeing a lot more sights on foot that would be missed otherwise.
There were all sorts of street performers, vendors and swindlers touting their skills and wares to everyone who passed by. People selling tie dye bandannas, cheap sun glasses and watches from canvas backpacks. Several groups of young boys dressed in black, whom I suspect were playing hooky from school, tap danced synchronized routines with pennies taped to the bottoms of their sneakers in three or four locations.
Mimes and magicians entertained onlookers with their acts by pretending to be statues and puppets or pulling handkerchief rainbows and foam balls out of their sleeves and children’s ears. Jugglers blew fire, tossed balls and bowling pins while telling tawdry jokes.
Music was everywhere. Banjo players, trumpet players and makeshift Dixieland bands played classic standards and original material. Soloists, duets, trios and quartets played on corners and under street lamps. There was even an obligatory Bolivian music band amongst the variety with their pan flutes, charangos and bombos, a form of bass drum.
(It seems to me that there’s one of these Central American bands in every city I go to. I saw them in Burlington Vermont, New York City and throughout Europe.)
One unusual sight I noticed, compared to other big cities I’d been to, were the homeless and down and out types. The beggars in New Orleans did not seem very ambitious to me because they didn’t ask passer-bys for money.
Vagrants simply sat on the curb, looking deprived, pathetic or as if they spent the night sleeping in a dumpster with their tattered hats placed on the ground in front of them. People in turn just tossed their spare change into the caps or cups.
Maybe their demeanor was caused by the oppressive heat or opportunism of the areas they frequented. They also could have been taking advantage of loopholes in City ordinances against aggressive panhandling by not asking for handouts directly.
It was a strange sight for me because in other places bums usually harassed or entertained for money, but not here.
After sitting and watching the riverboats and cargo ships for a while by the Mississippi waterfront we started working our way back towards the hostel on the other side of the city.
We began talking about music. Armand asked, “Do you listin tzu Yazz?”
I responded, “I’m not very familiar with Jazz beyond what I learned from my High School Sweetheart. She played the Euphonium and was in the school Jazz band. What I know is probably dated and very limited. I’ve heard of Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman but beyond that I’m lost.”
He smiled and said, “Itz ein shaime thatz you var never ectspozed tzu more. You shuld listzen tzu Louis Armstrong, Billie Holiday and Stan Getz atlzo. I beleaf tat Yazz ist ein form von poetry tat efolks itz majics tru listzening and tat veeling zounds can bee az eemoshunnally poverful atz earing anz tincting aboutz da meening von spoken verds.”
As we wound our way out of the French Quarter back towards the hostel I noticed something unusual in front of us. Someone with long, flowing, dirty blond locks, wearing tight designer jeans, a frilly pink peasant shirt and wooden platform sandals, came out of a souvenir shop drinking a Mr. Pibb about twenty yards or so ahead of us. My gut told me something was not right and I became suspicious. The person’s walk, hair and the lingering fragrance of Chanel No 5 in the air gave their identity away, to me at least.
I recalled seeing a club that showcased transvestite acts somewhere near Bourbon Street. The person in front of us looked familiar. I thought I remembered the individual from the pictures posted around the theatre we passed when wandering around.
I asked Armand, “Does that person in front of us look familiar to you?”
He gave me a look of confusion and said, “I do knot remember tzaulking tzu any vimens backs in da Quarter.”
I retorted, “Are you sure that the person is a woman? I used to be a regular at an American movie called The Rocky Horror Picture Show where men often dressed as women and think that the ‘woman’ walking in front of us was actually a ‘man’.”
Armand continued to insist that the person in front of us had to be a woman, “Nein das ist ein Vooman!. I vill buy youz a beerz if da ist ein man! “
I won the wager. A couple blocks up the guy turned into the same club I saw the picture of his ‘female’ alter ego posted outside of. I believe that he overheard Armand’s and my conversation. Before going inside the transvestite paused, smiled and blew us a kiss. I smirked at Armand.
He was speechless and still did not understand so I showed him the poster of the act and told him, “Er ist warm.” (He is gay in German).
He quickly figured out what was going on and let out a big laugh of embarrassment, stating that he was lost in the translation between the language and culture, noting that that the homosexual men he knew in Germany didn’t dress or act like women so he was misled by their appearance.
Afterward we went into a nearby Dixieland Jazz bar and he bought us both a beer to go.
We were back back the Hostel by 7PM. Armand went off with some of other Germans he made plans with earlier. They wanted to go out for dinner at a place I didn't have proper clothes for and couldn't afford. I walked to the nearby corner store again instead got more food to eat from the deli.