Day Three: Beignets and Cow Country

Wanting to savor a little more time in the Big Easy before heading into the cultural smorgasbord that is the state of Texas, we decided to take another morning stroll down Royal Street. I had a few shops in mind that were closed the evening before. One of them was some kind of voodoo shop that sold spices and books and things.

A bespectacled British man greeted us from behind a desk as we entered and told us to let him know if we had any questions. Only one or two other tourists were in the shop, and you could hear a pin drop. Glass jars of herbs and spices sat on an old, weathered shelf on one wall, and the other wall housed a small library of books on spells and witchcraft. I looked at some of the jars, which were labeled things like “success,” “health,” and…“cumin.” I guess witches in New Orleans like their spells nice and smoky.

Across the room was a small fireplace; the shop was probably a home in years’ past. It had been transformed into a kind of shrine with pictures of small children and dolls and other small mementos, along with poems and prayers left presumably by customers and visitors. In an adjacent room was another shrine, but on this one hung prominently two laminated pieces of orange paper, on which was typed a bitter diatribe towards all those involved—as well as those notably not involved—in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

Yikes, Scoob.

On our way out, I noticed a glass case with two snakes. Reptiles are not usually my cup of tea, but I decided to take a peek and see what they were up to. Another woman who worked at the shop, upon seeing my interest in her scaly friends, immediately launched into her spiel. She told me what kind of snakes they were and what their names were (I cannot remember for the life of me), and that they were shedding their skin. “Right now they’re shedding, and they haaaaate the light but it’s good for them so I have to leave it on, but they are in suuuuuch an immense amount of pain that they just have to show the world what they’re going through. They’re real drama queens…they are in such PAIN that they have to put on a show and really drag it out…” and this continued for another few minutes while I nodded and furrowed my brow in feigned interest in the snakes’ pain and their dramatic personalities. Finally she took a breath, stepped back into the backroom, and we left quietly, as if leaving a church.

The next shop was one that I had heard about from numerous sources, a cute, old-timey perfume shop called Hove’. I bought a small drum of a perfume called “Plage d’Ete” that had a flowery, sweet scent with a touch of coconut.

Our last stop in New Orleans was one of my favorites of the trip. We waited in line at Café Beignet for about half an hour, but it was worth the wait. We ordered coffees, an “order” of beignets (which is really three medium beignets in one paper carton), and a bacon egg and cheese on a bagel.

Now, if you have never heard of a beignet, let me enlighten you. Other cultures have their own versions. The Italians have zeppoles, while us tasteless Americans have the deconstructed version usually associated with amusement parks, funnel cake. And the French have the beignet. No matter what you call it or with which accent you pronounce it, it’s basically fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar. And it is glorious.

Fat and happy, we were ready to leave this beautiful, drunken city and press further West into the Lone Star State.
Almost immediately after leaving Louisiana, we were suddenly surrounded by SUVs on all sides. And they all wanted to get in front of us. And once they did, they slowed down. Maybe it was our Jersey plates, or maybe our New York attitudes. Or maybe Texans are all this charming on the road.

To get to Austin, we had to exit the I-10 and take US 71 further north. After leaving Austin, we would eventually get back on the I-10. US 71 turned out to be a lovely country road dotted with pecan and peach stands. We passed charming little towns with small buildings that served as high schools—paling in comparison to the enormous lot that herded 3,000 students in my California public high school. It struck me that people actually live here. They LIVE. HERE.

We finally reached the hotel in Austin, and I was very excited to hear from the man at the front desk that our room would be on the top floor. Except, this is what we saw when we looked out the window:

Gorgeous.

Since it was still early, I wanted to see a little bit of the downtown. I had heard that 6th Street was the place to go for all the “hip and young people,” so I had planned out a few possible dinner places. The one I had picked out on the internet seems to be closed (that’s the gamble you take with that world wide web thing) so we strolled down 6th Street to see what we could find.
We passed a string of trendy looking bars with names like “Pure,” which was decorated to look like water, lighting effects and all, and “Treasure Island,” which was as kitschy and gimmicky as it sounds. They were all blasting techno music through open doors onto the street, and they were all completely empty. Not many people were out walking on the sidewalks—mostly bouncers, a handful of tourists, and homeless people panhandling.
We picked a TexMex restaurant (gee!) called Iron Cactus and sat down on the balcony on the upper level overlooking the street. A group of what looked like college students was settled at the table just over from ours, and it looked like they had been there for a while. Most of the girls were in bright sundresses and were draped over their significant others, laughing loudly. The guys wore cowboy hats but did not seem to have accents.

Sometime after we had ordered, I saw one of the waitresses quietly murmur something to one of the girls, who then announced to her friends, and, well, the rest of the balcony, “Five hundred dollars? Oh my God you guys, do you realize we’ve spent five hundred dollars on alcohol?!” Her friends glanced at her in a drunken stupor of disinterest. Naturally, I was staring by this point (that is what she wanted, right?), and as she caught my glance, she gave me one of those “I hate you” fake smiles. Cute.

From their extremely labored discussion over the division of the bill, I had assumed they were planning on leaving soon. But they didn’t. They talked, argued, dawdled and drank and didn’t end up leaving until five minutes before we were ready to leave. So much for a peaceful meal.

We strolled off dinner for a bit, walking the few blocks populated by the “nightlife” scene, where we were solicited by several homeless people trying to sell us flowers or just asking for change. This in itself didn’t bother me—living in New York had desensitized me. But there was something about this area that bothered me. I had heard so much about it being an “up and coming” place for young singles, and apparently, the reputation had gone to its head. But it seemed to have the poverty without the heritage and the wealth without the class. It tried to be so much trendier and unique that it could ever hope to be. It was just another makeshift, transient shantytown. Nothin’ to write home about.