by S. E. Akers
“I see you have everything… Your DS-11 form…photos…copy of your driver’s license… Everything except a birth certificate,” the female agent remarked as she eyed the papers I was clutching. “Oh, wait,” she announced and then plucked a page sticking out from the stack in my hands. “My mistake. Here it is.” The agent waved the copy in my face like a magician would a fluffy, white rabbit.
My mouth about hit my lap. I looked down at the stack in my hands. Where the heck did THAT come from?
I forced my gaped mouth into a smile. “Yes,” I answered. “Right there it is.”
“That will be one-hundred ninety five dollars,” the agent stated and nodded towards the card machine attached to her computer terminal.
After one speedy swipe, she began processing my application. I scanned the pictures that lined her desk while I waited — all eighteen of them in various mismatched frames. I glanced over at the woman’s ivory complexion, confused. It was a far cry from the oriental skin tone every person, in every single photo had. She wasn’t in any of the photos either. The name on her desk plate read, “Sui Le Yang”. That was even more peculiar.
Maybe she’s a temp? Or adopted?
“So where are you off to, Miss Wallace?” the agent asked as she stared at the screen and continued to type away.
“Mexico,” I answered.
The woman grinned. “Have you had a chance to explore New Orleans?”
My eyes widened. “A little.”
“You should take a tour or two while you’re here. Have you gotten a chance to see any of our cemeteries?” the woman asked and then punched the “ENTER” button on her keyboard like she had just launched a nuclear bomb. “They’re world renown.”
I pulled back in my chair, amused yet leery. “Yeah… They’re a sight to see,” I stressed over the sounds of pages shooting out of the printer. The woman grinned as she scooped up the print-offs and shuffled them into a neat stack.
The agent laid the DS-11 form in front of me. “Sign here,” she requested and pointed to the exact spot. I couldn’t help but notice her long, glitzy red nails as I took her pen. Now they stuck out. Not because they were poorly manicured, not in the least. They had been immaculately filed and painted like a set of hands in an OPI ad, but the brazenly-bright glittery color seemed out of place with the frumpy, decades-old beige suit and institutional-looking clogs she was wearing.
The agent caught me staring at them when I handed back her pen. She wiggled her fingers. “Like the color?” she asked as she rose from her chair.
“Yes,” I answered.
She took a hold of my hand and eyed my modest French manicure. “You should go out on a limb next time,” she remarked. “Sometimes its fun to play a little on the wild side,” she added with a sly wink. “You can pick up your passport at the front desk after 2 o’clock,” the agent called back as she clomped off through the maze of cubicles.
“Thank you,” I replied. My eyes drifted back to the birth certificate lying on her desk. I picked it up for a closer inspection. It had the official embossed stamp and everything.
Weird, I thought as I tucked it in my purse. I didn’t have it when I went through the pages on the plane (all nine times). I still didn’t know how the heck it had gotten here, but I was certain that a little birdie had a hand in its emergence. I shook my head.
You’ll have it when you need it, I reflected with a grin.
“Are you finished?” Katie asked.
“Yes.” I rose out of my chair and headed for the stairs. “Where to?”
“Everywhere!” Katie announced. I could literally feel the electricity from her excitement.
I smiled. After all…I did this for “her”. Right now, I would have swum naked in the Mississippi River if she’d asked. It just seemed like old times, even without her body accompanying me.
I found a ton of brochures downstairs in the lobby that featured all the city’s hotspots. After a quick debate about which places to hit, I headed out the door, hoping for a fresh start in regards to Katie’s vacation.
A vintage red streetcar bounced us leisurely down Canal Street and onto City Park for our first stop, the New Orleans Museum of Art. I felt a little guilty about missing some of the “education” I was supposed to be getting today. I figured I would get a little something out of it, or at the very least, curb my guilt. The museum’s extensive French and American art exhibits were impressive enough, but I found their collection of Mayan paintings and artifacts the most intriguing. Their stylized forms had a primal edginess to them. All the faces were mask-like and the grizzly animals looked more mythical than real (but who was I to say). The weapon-clad warriors on the relief sculptures were mostly depicted locked in a heated battle. Notably, they were all armed to the teeth and draped in layers of stone beads. I could relate to that. The thick, swirling lines they had used in their technique evoked a great deal of movement. I could just envision one of them popping out of the stone slab and hurling one of their sharp blades at me. I spotted a tarnished arrowhead with a turquoise inlay housed in a separate glass case. That sent me straight out to the museum’s adjacent sculpture garden in need of some air. It was the last thing I wanted to see. Too familiar. The serene surroundings helped stifle some of my anxiety, but I still felt shadowed by a leery feeling as I winded along the cobblestone path. So much that it made me glance down at my wrist, where I noticed that I hadn’t put my angelite watch back on yet. I plopped down on a bench and rectified that, real quick. Thankfully it wasn’t glowing. Good sign.
My stomach chose our next location, Ralph’s, an antebellum restaurant that hugged the edge of the park. I was ushered up the stairs and seated at a table on their balcony. The view was so delightfully southern. I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to see Scarlett O’Hara herself come strolling arm in arm with a top-hatted Rhett Butler down the street. I snapped a few photos, hoping one day I could physically share a part of this moment with Katie.
The menu intimidated me into ordering a modest lunch special, their house soup and beef tenderloin salad. The waiter placed one of the largest bowls I’d ever seen in front of me. I couldn’t eat it all, but the robust stew-like soup was delicious (though I couldn’t quite identify what kind of cubed meat was in it). I asked the waiter about it when he whisked away my bowl.
Big mistake!
“That’s our famous turtle soup,” the waiter boasted proudly as he placed my salad down in front of me.
I gulped. “Turtle?”
The waiter nodded as he refilled my glass of tea. I flashed an unsettling smile and held my breath. My salad almost got a little more than dressing. Katie got a kick out of that one.
“Just be glad he didn’t say gator,” she laughed.
My salad looked more like a blue-ribbon winning arrangement at a garden show. I almost didn’t want to muddle it up. A true foodie like Bea wouldn’t have even hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” Katie asked. “Isn’t it any good?”
“No. It’s not that. I’m just feeling a little guilty about tricking Bea.”
Katie grunted. “You’ve got to be kidding me!?!”
“Well…”
“Just buy her a really thoughtful souvenir,” Katie suggested.
“I guess that might help,” I replied. “But what? I had a hard enough time trying to figure out what to get her for Christmas.”
“You’ll come up with something,” Katie assured me. “Now enough about her. Don’t forget to order dessert.”
Apparently I was eating for two. I let her pick. Leave it to my BFF to select the richest dish on their dessert menu, a lemon mousse cheesecake. It was heavenly, but every bite I shoveled into my mouth recalled Bea’s “fat crack” to mind.
My wallet was the only thing lighter as I rose from the table. I’d never paid an $83 lunch tab in my life! It only heightened my desire to find Bea “the most perfect memento”, not only thank her for pushing me into coming, but making it possible.
It was
getting close to two o’clock, so we headed back to the passport office on Canal Street. Katie thought a cab would have been quicker, but I couldn’t resist the streetcar’s charm, from its worn wooden seats to its “dinging” brass bells. When we arrived this time, I snuck in invisibly. I wasn’t about to make that same mistake twice. Sure enough, my passport was waiting for me at the information desk. The guy really regretted handing it over to me too. I had to practically pry it out of his hand. I flipped through its pages quickly to make sure everything was correct because I REALLY didn’t want to have to come back.
“Thank you,” I beamed to the lanky man. “For all of your help.”
“Okay, tour guide…where to now?” I asked as I stepped into the elevator.
“Do you really have to ask?” Katie replied. “But no more streetcars. They take too long.”
“All right,” I conceded and pulled out the Vieux Carré map I’d picked up. “Since it’s only a few blocks.”
The lively sights and sounds of the French Quarter hit me as soon as I took a right onto Bourbon Street. It didn’t disappoint. Colorful three and four story Creole buildings, all dripping with ornate wrought iron balconies that were inundated with leafy green ferns and hanging baskets overflowing with flowers, served as the perfect backdrop to the excitement happening all around. There was so much to look at it was hard to focus on one thing. Street performers belted out a medley of jazz tunes on their shiny brass horns while crowds of people danced in the street and clapped along. All the other passersby were either lazily strolling down the street, popping in and out of shops, or they were too busy carousing — guzzling down whatever drink was in their hand. Everyone around me seemed to not have a care in the world. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like here on Fat Tuesday with the streets overflowing with an even rowdier, upbeat crowd. This was exactly where I needed to be. I just wished that Katie could see it.
I strolled along at a leisurely pace, eyeing all the landmarks and snapping pictures left and right. I had to search pretty hard for an actual store to go into amidst the plethora of bars and restaurants. I finally found one called, Hemline — a cutting-edge, fashionista’s paradise. Katie would have maxed out her mom’s credit card in here. I tried not to brag about it too much. She was in such a great mood, and there was no way I was going to bump her off her cloud.
Somehow Katie conned me into trying on wigs at boutique called, Fifi Mahoney’s. I now know where Lady Gaga’s hair goes to die. My badgering bosom friend made me take pictures of my new “dos”. They weren’t all bad. I actually liked a few the salesgirl had picked out. The craziest had to have been the “Marie Antoinette”. I ended up looking like the bride of Frankenstein. I flagged that one for the trashcan. Too hideous.
After several more shops, I strolled into La Boucheire Coffee House for a quick cup of Joe. I ended up being seduced by one of their tantalizing Napoleon pastries too. I would’ve loved to actually “sit down”, so I could properly enjoy it, but every-freaking-chair was wrought iron! Even passing by the endless chain of railings and posts all afternoon had drained some of my energy (and that was with me wearing my moonstone). There was just sooo much of it…everywhere. The longer I walked the streets, the more I realized that despite all the fun we were having, the French Quarter was not the ideal place for me.
I leisurely headed along Chartres Street until I arrived at Jackson Square. The immaculately landscaped, grassy courtyard was buzzing with tourists, vendors, and even a couple of wedding parties. Even though I’d just had a snack, that didn’t stop me from trying one of their sugary beignets (okay, two). I followed the crowd over to the Moon Walk. After all, I was in New Orleans. I had to get a good view of the mighty Mississippi. I counted five different riverboats ferrying people up and down the waterway with their quintessential paddlewheels turning and steam trailing out of their stacks. It was like I had traveled back to another era. I wished I had some extra time to squeeze in a ride. I’d always wanted to go on a cruise, even if it was for just a couple of hours, chugging down a muddy old stretch of river.
I headed back through the lush green courtyard and commenced with a self-guided tour of the Presbytère, an impressive stone building inundated with Roman arches that swept across its façade. The entire museum was fascinating, especially their Mardi Gras exhibit. As exciting as what their interactive parade experience was, the “Crown Jewels Vault” turned out to be my favorite. I wondered if any of those dated stones were special? I would have seen for myself, but after my run in with security earlier today, I wasn’t up for anymore trouble with the law.
I exited the building before long and found myself standing in front of the St. Louis Cathedral. It was an impressive, castle-like white structure with towering majestic steeples — definitely Jackson Square’s show-stopping centerpiece. Since I’d had my feel of church-like buildings for the day, I opted to marvel at its beauty from well outside the confines of its interior.
“So what’s next?” Katie asked.
I checked my watch. “I think I should find the hotel. They’re probably on their way back, if they’re not there already.”
“Not yet,” Katie whined.
“Hey — I promised Bea that I wouldn’t venture out on my own. I broke that one right out of the starting gate.”
“You’re right. I think the only thing that will clear your conscience is to stay until you find her the perfect souvenir. Even if it takes all night.”
“You’re really grasping at straws,” I laughed.
“Just a little more shopping? Please?” Katie begged. “I haven’t had this much fun in—”
“Months?” I questioned, before she could say it.
“Yeah,” Katie muttered.
“Okay,” I caved. “Just for a little bit.”
I worked my way down a path that was swarming with various vendors. I searched and searched, but nothing seemed fitting enough for Bea. She had plenty of scarves and a lot of the costume jewelry looked too gaudy for her taste (she wouldn’t wear fakes anyway). I combed through stacks of books that highlighted the city’s history, eyed a countless number of hats and t-shirts, read coffee mug after coffee mug, and even held a few decorative masquerade masks up to my face.
I whirled around, frustrated. “I can’t find anything.”
“You don’t have to get her something today. You might find something in Mexico,” Katie contended.
“True,” I agreed. It was getting late anyway, and I had to get to the hotel. Just as I’d abandoned my search and was headed towards Decatur Street, I spotted Heath and Tammy on a wooden bench making-out. They were actually sizzling hotter than the pavement.
“Well, I don’t have to head to the hotel…They’re here,” I announced.
“Turn invisible,” Katie replied swiftly.
My eyes flared when I spied a curious-looking vendor two tents down.
Voodoo knick-knacks… Now that’s right up Bea’s alley. I made my way through the crowd and strolled over to a collection of colorful and cutesy play voodoo dolls. There were all kinds and each claimed a specific intent — making someone fall in love with you, paying back a cheating partner, getting even with your boss — anything you could think of. My eyes lit up when I spotted the perfect one.
Wards off bad people, I noted with a grin. A perfect choice for the old bitch-magnet. As I stepped into the long line to pay for it, someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“I thought that was you,” Ms. Fitz announced, seeming relieved. “I’m glad to see you got the message I left. I didn’t want you to miss out on all the fun.”
“Yes,” I fibbed. I felt bad enough about ditching my class. I didn’t want to tell her about the broken cell phone. I pulled the passport from my purse. “I got my passport.”
“Good. I just hate that it took you all day,” Ms. Fitz added with a sympathetic smile. “We’re heading back to the hotel to freshen up before dinner. Come along,” she instructed.
My heart sank as I eyed the long li
ne. Disappointed, I tossed the kitschy doll back onto the display table.
Oh, well… It wasn’t like it was real anyway.
I climbed aboard the coach to find everyone already waiting inside. The only available spot was beside Kara. She let out a grunt as she snatched her shopping bag out of the seat and swiftly threw her nose up towards the window. I made it a point to plop down extra-cozy like when my rear hit the cushion.
“I’ve got almost a whole week of this,” I grumbled to Katie.
“Better you than me,” Katie giggled.
I started praying my bags were actually in my room as we pulled under the portico of the hotel. My mouth fell open when I stepped off the bus. A massive, three-tiered marble fountain with four horses galloping out of the water caught my eye first. It sat centered in front of an ornately carved pediment (about the size of my car) that stretched over a grandiose golden entrance. Two colossal white fluted columns hoisted the architectural beauty up like brawny shoulders. I almost got run over staring at it, what with all the limousines and flashy sports cars that were whipping in and out of the brick-paved drive.
Le Château Marseille, I called in my head as I pushed through the revolving glass doors. It was even more impressive inside. While the others walked ahead, I absorbed every intricate inch of the palatial hotel. The black & white checkerboard marble floor carried me through the French-antique laden lobby and past a grand mahogany front desk. The gold leaf embellishments that outlined its edges practically “pinged” they shined so bright. It was buzzing with countless attendants who were all impeccably dressed in white suits and eager to be of assistance. The ritzy path continued on through an enchanting reception area. Hand-painted murals, which featured 18th Century French faire, smothered the walls. The period-posh wall art had been boxed in methodically with heavy layers of crown moldings that made them look like they’d been encased in gigantic picture frames. I eventually found myself standing underneath an enormous chandelier, mesmerized by its thousands and thousands of glistening clear crystals. Surely that thing could have taken down the Titanic, I marveled.