Class Wars

Returning home from a trip is always tough, especially when jetlag is combined with crap weather, or more specifically “freezing cold it can’t possibly by April can it?” weather.

I decide to take the tube back to St Pancras from Heathrow airport – on the basis that I’ve paid for a first class train ticket home, which also means use of the first class lounge.

OK, it’s essentially comfy seats and free tea and biscuits, but after an overnight long haul flight it’s a welcome relief. And equally hilarious to wander in from the platform looking (and probably smelling) like a hobo. That’s hobo, right?

And yet it’s a good job I arrived in the morning, because East Midlands Trains have now started to charge “a small supplement” for using the lounge on advanced tickets during the afternoon rush hour. A quick tweet to the company suggests that it’s a question of capacity in the First Class lounge.

Well forgive me, but when was the last time you saw a full First Class carriage? What’s more, not one of the suits using the facilities this morning seem capable of closing the door to the freezing platform.

 

Bat City

Just before sunset,hundreds of people line the Congress Bridge over the Colorado River. On the water, several tour boats jostle for position, along with modern-day pedalos, powered by people sitting upright on what looks like an exercise bike. And they’ve all come to see one of Austin’s most unusual sights. Because when it gets dark, colonies of bats from below the bridge sweep up into the night sky.

As the sun sets, noisy flocks of birds take roost in the trees lining the River. It’s almost as if they’ve come to see the show as well – in the style of Roobarb and Custard.

My guidebook suggests that up to 1.5 million bats can be here at any one time, especially during early Spring. And although we see cameras flashing and hear people cheering on the south side of the bridge, people on the north side see nothing. Time, then for some more entertainment.

If Sixth Street is like Nashville on steroids, Red River Street is its older and wiser cousin. Who doesn’t care much for appearances. But who could resist a bar called Beerland?

Trust me, it’s as dingy looking on the inside as it is from the street. But the musicians in these bars are, for my money, the ones with the real talent. Karen Eubanks writes her own songs, and has a powerful, raw voice which the crowd love. And she’s one of several acts tonight at the Red Eyed Fly – another bar which, if you saw it back home, you’d probably avoid.

You may have noticed that these pictures were taken during the daytime. Austin is a safe city, on the whole. But it didn’t quite feel right carrying too many valuables around Red River Street. Its corners tell the story of the city’s homeless – at least the ones you can see. There’s not too much open begging here and the people who live out of shopping trolleys are probably too drunk or high to be able to inflict any real damage.

Many of the bars on Red River don’t even bother with such subtleties as branding, so when I see another shack with a sign simply reading “Irish Pub” I think it’s got to be worth a go.

Gerry, the co-owner from North Dublin, has been running the place since the mid nineties, long before Austin became a major music tourist attraction.

“It gets mad here with the festivals. South by Southwest. You couldn’t move in here. But there are quiet patches too. Still, it’s not a bad living.”

And that reputation only seems to be growing. On Second Street, a major new hotel is being built.

Texas isn’t quite what I expected it to be – but in a good way. Austin in particular has a hugely diverse community, a high tolerance level (two downtown gay bars and more on the outskirts) and, of course, the enormous music scene. Oh, and if you fancy a curry, try these guys…

 

A Whole Lotta History

The mighty Colarado River – known as the Red River – snakes its way through the middle of Austin. And thanks to some neat design, there’s a good view from the elevator mounted on the outside of the hotel.

The sun is beating down on the city today, a welcome relief from the chilly winds that seem to have followed me around on this tour. By night, Austin rocks. By day, it’s all about history with a visit to the State Capitol building, modelled closely on its Washington counterpart.

In terms of scale, it’s a bit smaller than the one on DC. But in typical Texas style, it’s seven feet taller. And amazingly, most of its buildings are open to the public with no supervision. A quick check through security gets me into the corridors of power

In odd-numbered years, the State Legislative bodies meet for the first part of the year. And the House of Representatives is in session, so I take a seat in the busy public gallery.

In the enormous room below, democracy is in action. Various members of the legal community are giving evidence in what sounds like a debate about the role of judges. Here, they’re elected by the public, and campaigning happens in the same way as it would for electing a politician. It’s hard to follow exactly what’s going on, but it’s a timely discussion. On the local news a District Attorney and his wife have been shot in their home right here in Texas – just a couple of weeks after his own deputy was murdered. ABC News carries the strapline “State of Alert” on it’s news. Although not everyone seems so concerned.

“Frat Girl – get over here!”

It could be a chat up line on Sixth Street – except Frat Girl happens to be an unruly dog being shouted at by her owner at the bus stop. The young guy with her is carrying a sizeable rucksack with a guitar strapped to the back. I hope Frat Girl is also the name of his band.

Back at the State Capitol, the grounds contain some impressive monuments charting the turbulent history of Texas. For the Mexicans who ruled this area for centuries, it was a case of taking the bull by the horns.

There’ve been battles aplenty, and each section of the State’s story is played out through a series of statues and memorials.

 

Austin Powers

On 98.1 KFAT, the emphasis is on country music. And adverts for tractors. And cosmetic dentistry. These guys know how to play to the Texas demographic. Welcome to Austin, which is blessed with clear skies as we approach

On the ground, an enormous man takes me to the shuttle van, and turns out to be the perfect host to introduce me to the kind of things that make Texas tick.

“Ah’m oh’n ma THIRD wife. Don’t know why – that’s just how it turned out. See those folks of the roadside? They’re sellin’ paper mâché eggs. Y’know, fer Easter. Ahh bought some for ma daughter filled with confetti. Bah the way, look out fer traffic. You don’t wanna be drivin’ in this town when it gets busy.”

Fortunately for me, downtown Austin is fairly compact, so there’s no need for a car. Although from the eleventh floor of my hotel, it seems typically Texan. Huge. Even NewsMutt is impressed.

As soon as I step out onto Congress Street, I can feel the heat. At 7pm it’s still about 20 degrees, and pretty humid. At first the city seems quiet – but it’s Easter Sunday, so many people will probably be at home. It’s a stark contrast to two weeks earlier, when Austin’s biggest music event – South by Southwest – was in town. Someone even left their guitar behind

For over fifty years, Nashville has had the unofficial title of Music City USA. The phrase was coined by DJs at radio stations in the 1950s, as the town grew into a major centre for discovering new artists and recording music. But as you turn onto Sixth Street in Austin, it’s not difficult to see how this place is quickly becoming the New Music Mecca.

For this picture, it would be easy to think that Omar Lopez and his buddy are all about country. But the guitar and fiddle make a mean and unusual combination of Latino and Gypsy Jazz. The small crowd are captivated by Omar’s skills. With just a small distraction behind them,

“Every night I get to give people a buck!” enthuses the Bronco operator. For five dollars you can endure a stomach churning experience of being in your very own star spangled rodeo. The area around the Bronco itself is well padded, though there’s also a lengthy legal disclaimer to sign before you get on. I give it a miss and head instead to the Chuggin Monkey.

This is proper Honky Tonk country. A strip of bars where there are rarely any cover charges, and some impressive musicianship. I have no idea what these guys were called, but their lead guitarist rips up rock solos in the same manner as he probably eats breakfast, lunch and dinner combined.

By 10pm, Sixth Street is starting to buzz a little bit more – though many of the bars are still empty. But it doesn’t stop Austin’s performers, including a great blues quartet.

With this amount of talent around in just three bars, I may just end up joining in with a song later. Look out…

 

Meet The Neighbours

Stay downtown, meet the tourists. It’s simple enough to work out that if you really want to see what a city has to offer, you should spend some time with the locals. And a chance encounter in the Inner Sunset neighbourhood gives me a real insight into how San Francisco rolls. For starters, there’s a great sense of community, and everyone’s invited.

I stumbled across this area using the Muni, San Francisco’s metro system. It spends more time above ground than it does beneath it, snaking down residential streets where people obediently park their cars on either side of the tracks. And at the junction of Irving and Ninth Street, lies the heart of this community.

In Howard’s Cafe, Zeke introduces himself to me as a writer. But he’s more than just that. Zeke is your official 100% Older Gay Man Who’s Seen More Than His Fair Share of Life’s Ups and Downs. His business card puts it in more compact terms : “Jehovah’s Queer Witness”. He has a thousand stories about gay life in San Francisco, which is largely centred around another neighbourhood, the Castro.

This is the centre of one of the world’s biggest and most recognised gay quarters. Bars and shops line the streets, together with an enormous sense of history. Harvey Milk, the famous activist, opened his camera store here in the 1970s. Today his name and cause live on with a Plaza named after him. And, of course, people like Zeke – who’s currently in the process of trying to get his online book published.

Now I realise that some regular visitors to the blog would have been expecting some stereotypes and less than subtle euphemisms. So allow me to give you a couple.

Oh, it’s so San Fran. As is the weather. Conditions here can vary within just a couple of miles, and a sunny lunchtime turns into a chilly afternoon at the end of the Muni N Line on Oceam Beach.

The Pacific Ocean, though, is a magnificent sight. This is full stuff, and on a windy afternoon few are venturing into the sea. In fact, most seem to end up at another cosy local hangout, the Java Beach cafe. The free coffee refills and home made cookies are worth the trip alone, and customers of all ages and backgrounds know it.

If you had to use one word to describe San Francisco, it would probably be independent. Sure, you can spend many hours and dollars at the Westfield Mall, complete with its curved escalators…

Or you could head to the Ferry Building and see the Farmers Market – where you can even order your own poem.

It’s my final evening in San Francisco. A city that first seemed a little overwhelming after the laid back nature of the South. But one that’s ultimately been full of enough surprises to tempt me back one day.

 

From Irish Bar to Streetcar

Before I leave the Big Easy, there’s one last chance to pay homage to arguably it’s biggest local hero. Louis Armstrong Park is a huge tribute of statues, walkways and water features, although the modern art theme doesn’t quite match the traditions of Armstrong itself.

The park also houses Congo Square, a place where the slave workers of the late nineteenth century would gather for their recreation. Even today, it’s a meeting place for local black families – or more specifically mums and their kids, who while away a bright and cold morning with loud conversation.

And so it’s north and west to San Francisco, and I’ve finally got a window seat. Which is just as well, because the clear skies mean we get fantastic views of the Mississippi.

After four days in the south, the first thing you notice about San Francisco is how busy everything is. It reminds me of my last trip to the States, when I went straight from Nashville to New York City. The Chancellor Hotel is right on Union Square in the middle of downtown. It’s a great location, and from my eleventh floor window I can hear the clatter of the famous streetcars, coupled with the sound of live performers in the Square itself. On arrival, it’s a solo trumpet player, with a sound so melancholy I could by back in New Orleans.

With my Irish roots, there’s nothing I dislike more than an Irish theme pub. But I’ve already read up about Johnny Foleys, and when the hotel receptionist recommends it, it seems only right to check it out – especially as it’s just a couple of blocks away.

Upstairs, the bar is busy with diners – but downstairs is where the entertainment is about to get started. And it seems to be an American tradition that Irish pubs here have a regular act of Duelling Pianos. It’s something I first saw in Memphis, and basically it’s a pub singalong, but with two performers and two pianos. It’s a simple enough formula, and one to keep the diverse crowd happy. On either side of me sit a Canadian graduate who’s interning for a credit card firm, and an Irish guy who’s most recently been living in Chicago. They’re joined by a group of Australians and party of gaming geeks from Wisconsin. Oh, and there’s a Bachelorette Party too. Its good introduction to town.

Thursday morning, and a couple of buses take me to San Fran’s most famous landmark, the Golden Gate Bridge.

Whichever way you look at it, it’s an impressive structure. But don’t expect peace and quiet here. That view was only made possible by a lot of cropping – and avoiding the hundreds of Japanese tourists who seem to spend an age taking their own shots.

A much better idea is to head underneath the bridge to the Bay Trail – three and a half miles of great views looking back at the Golden Gate and taking in the sights of the yacht club too.

The scenic walk takes you to Fisherman’s Wharf. I’ve heard a lot about this place before I came, and even considered staying in a hotel here. As it turns out, I’m pleased I didn’t, as they’re currently digging up half the road.

I think I expected the area to be more polished than it actually is. The reality is a harbour area that essentially caters for tourists. Seafood shacks and more upmarket restaurants vie for business. It’s almost as if Whitby and the West End of London went out on a date together and ended up snorting a few lines of cocaine. Basically, it’s a bit screwed up, and doesn’t seem to know what it wants to be.

Right. That’s the touristy stuff done with. Time for something more interesting…

 

Go West

It’s Wednesday, and almost time to bid farewell to New Orleans. But first, what did I get up to last night?

“It’s all so frickin crazy round here! I’m Glenda. How you doin’? You swinging with both fists?”

This isn’t an expression I’m familiar with, and I quickly start to wonder where this is going. Then I realise she’s referring to the two beer bottles in my hands. This is Bourbon Street, where seven dollars seems steep for a drink until they give you two.

It’s impossible to work out which offers are on or off at any one time. Some of the bars here have happy hours from 4pm til 8pm, whilst others don’t start theirs until after 10pm. Yup, it’s incredibly easy to get drunk here, and Glenda knows it.

“So, my man dissed me and I’m on a training conference so I thought – what the hell?” In between as much of Glenda’s life story that I can hear, there’s some fine music on stage from a band playing blues, country and rock. Don’t like it? Go to the next bar. And the next.

But the competition around here is tough. Tip jars are the only money the bands make. There’s no entry fee to most of these places, but you’re expected to contribute before you leave.

“Did I just see you singing a Johnny Cash song in the karaoke bar?”

“No – though I do sing. Have a drink.”

Paxton is six feet two and gym fit. I can tell that just looking at his arms filling his top. And he’s a better bet than Michael, a sixty-something who seems obsessed by my hair. No laughing now. But it’s good to meet the locals. Paxton is home until May, and then returns to Germany for his job. At last, a Southerner who’s actually left the United States. Plus, he knows his music, even if he doesn’t sing Johnny Cash.

Oh – It Had To Be You by Harry Connick Junior. A debut performance for me. Thanks for asking. And some of what goes on tour stays on tour.

Look out San Francisco…

 

Heavens to Betsy!

Monday night ends with a bar hop across the city. First, the Circle Bar in the shadow of the Robert E Lee statue. Among the modern buildings and plush hotels, the Circle is a ramshackle Victorian style building which would look more in place in a Scooby Doo episode than in downtown New Orleans. It’s website promises live music, but tonight’s act has cancelled.


“His agent said, like, there’d been a mistake with the booking,” explains the girl behind the bar.”But knowing Eric, he probably couldn’t be bothered to show.”

Another couple of performers turn up, but spend an age trying to get their keyboards to work. “Dude! It’s like awesome to see you. I’m so pleased you could make it.” It seems the half dozen people who’ve showed up are mates with the band. And the sum total of the Circle’s custom for the evening. When they start tuning up, it sounds like an electronica durge, so I head back to the French Quarter.

I hate cliches, especially when they come in the form of theme bars. So at first I’m a little reluctant to delve into Fahy’s Irish Pub. But it’s just across the corner from my hotel, and a million times more appealing than some of the dives I’ve seen this evening.

Fahy’s excels itself on a friendly welcome and good service. And it should too. A lot of the chefs from the Quarter head here after their shifts – always the sign of a good bar. I meet two couples from England, brought together by the fact that the men married two sisters. Originally from Bristol, one of the couples now live in New Zealand. It’s their first time in New Orleans and, like many visitors, they’re finding it a little overwhelming. Things get more exciting, and equally relaxed, when one of the men challenges a local to a game of pool. It’s winner stays on – and he wins!

I think it’s Tuesday. Probably. I’m in proper holiday mode now and letting one day melt into another. Although the current weather isn’t likely to let anything melt anytime soon. In a continuing cold wind, I head on the streetcar to Mid City – a district I’ve not visited before. But it comes highly recommended thanks to Betsy’s Pancake House.

“Sit wherever y’all like,” says Brandi the waitress. “What you decided on, then?”

I thought I’d seen authentic at this week’s other diners. But this is on a different level. A great choice, friendly service and a true taste of local.

I order a Short Stack. It seems appropriate given my build. What arrives is something the size of a cottage loaf – three enormous pancakes with a large helping of butter. The side order of toast was a bad idea.

All of the reviews I’d read about Betsy’s were positive. Even given the nature of these sites, none of them were wrong. But some of the references to the diner’s owner, Betsy McDaniel, are sadly out of date, as she was murdered in 2008. A man was convicted of being involved yet the killer has never been found.

“Streetcars? They’re the worst thing this city got!”

The man in the queue for the St Charles service was clearly a local, so I asked him why he disliked them so much.

“They slow, they got no air con, they hot in summer and cold in winter. But they all we got!”

His frustration was being tested some more by the fact there were three streetcars waiting to leave, but all of the tourists insisted on getting on the first one,cramming the aisles when they could have had a seat. I wait for the next one and take a trip through the Garden District. It’s by far the prettiest suburb of New Orleans, with old wooden houses kept in pristine condition, just like their gardens.

Thanks to some track maintenance, our journey is cut short. But it allows me to take a walking detour across Audubon Park and catch a bus back along Magazine Street. It’s six miles long and contains some of the most diverse shops in town. A great way to spend a relaxing afternoon.

 

Happy Mondays

It’s springtime in the States, and boy, do the starlings know it. At around 6am they flock to the courtyard of the hotel for a morning chorus. The low set trees and high walls create a noisy amphitheatre and an early wake up call for the residents.

That said, it wasn’t a late night. An afternoon in the Apple Barrel saw to that. I blame Bill from Chicago.

“Yeah – I’m Irish alright. I LOVE Guinness. But only in Ireland. Get this guy a beer.” With his wife in tow, one drink turned into a long session, accompanied by live music and a young group of people from Tennessee. It was one of the girls’ birthdays, which unleashed the new tradition of Pinning A Dollar On The Girl. I’ve never seen it before, but apparently it’s a ritual that’s sweeping the States.

“Hell, I’ll have some of THAT,” says Bill, with the kind of dirty look that meant he thought it was good value for a quick grope. Particularly where he ended up pinning the dollar. The afternoon melted into the evening, but I was so tired I barely had a energy for one song at the infamous Cats Karaoke bar on Bourbon Street. Nothing had changed from my previous visit. This Love by Maroon 5, thanks for asking….

So to Monday morning, and thanks to the starlings I’m up early. Another day means another huge American breakfast, and it’s another return visit to the Streetcar Cafe. Just off Canal Street, this diner is as basic as they come. And the more basic, the prouder the staff are of their home made food. Today, it’s bacon stacked on two enormous pancakes.

Springtime or not, the temperature plummeted overnight to near freezing point. This isn’t uncommon for the South, but this morning requires a sweater and a jacket. Even the air conditioning on the Canal Street streetcar is vigorously blowing warm air. It’s more like New York than New Orleans.

The streetcar takes me to City Park, a surprisingly large open space. It’s actually bigger than Central Park in New York, yet is neither as famous or busy. The entrance driveway takes me to the Museum of Modern Art, a good stop off for me – at least that’s what I thought.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I can authorise that. You see – I don’t work here.”

“But it’s just behind the shop. Really, I’ll only be two minutes.”

“I see. But I’m not sure where we would stand one public liability,” explained possibly the least helpful woman I’ve met in the States. After all, I only wanted to use the toilet. But with the museum being closed for a change of exhibition – and despite there being plenty of other people in the building – I was denied the convenience of a convenience. Had I just ignored her and walked past, she wouldn’t have noticed.

City Park is just a couple of miles away from the French Quarter, yet it seems a world away from the rest of New Orleans. And its size means that it’s a quiet oasis. If it weren’t for the artists changing the exhibition, I could be the only person here.

Apart from the strange sculptures.

With the Mississippi River at its heart, New Orleans used to be famous for its paddle steam boats. Today, a couple of tourist steamers still offer cruises, although the prices are pretty high and the views, frankly, are less than romantic – though not without interest. So instead of paying for the privilege, a good way of getting out onto the water is the Algiers ferry.

Algiers itself resembles a hurricane hit ghost town. Although there are pretty buildings – and cars parked outside – most of the houses seem deserted on a quiet Monday lunchtime.

And business could perhaps be better.

If they bothered opening, that is

Yet the tranquility of this place hides a sad tale. A numbers of homes have placards outside saying “Save Our Ferries”. The authorities have plans to ditch the Algiers ferry due to cost. The service used to be subsidised by tolls on the adjoining bridge – but they were scrapped. If officials get their way, a free ride could be a thing of the past.

A walk around Algiers point takes about half an hour, and a collection of bored tourists wait for the return ferry. In the meantime, the wind has really picked up, and don’t the locals know it.

“Hell, that COLD!” shouts a woman at the Riverfront streetcar stop. “Sweet Lord – ah’m gonna need another layer oh’n this!” She’s not wrong. On my last visit here two years ago, New Orleans was enjoying a heatwave. Today the windchill has people diving for cover indoors. In my case, the Rivers Edge restaurant at the corner of Jackson Square. This is James, one of the many helpful staff.

Along with a substantial burger and fries, today’s lunchtime includes a game Tip Roulette. Tipping in the States isn’t really an option – everyone knows that. But they could at least have the courtesy to offer some change from a $20 bill, which can then be divided according to how good the service was and how generous your feeling. No change comes from the $13 check. But it was good food, and fast service.

 

Full On French Market

Sundays in New Orleans are all about chilling out, although the Big Easy doesn’t do relaxing by halves. In and around the French Market, it’s all about souvenirs, brunch and of course, live music.

The French Quarter, where I’m staying, is pretty quiet. That’s Bourbon Street for you on most mornings though. At 10am it’s already around 16c, and there’s an air of fine mist rising from the street as bar owners shower the road with water and disinfectant. But at 900 Bourbon Street is the place that never closes – the Clover Diner. Located at what might be described as the heart of the gay quarter within the French Quarter, the Clover is 24/7 full on carbs, with extra attitude.

The menu is as nonplussed as the staff. “Your order may take more than five minutes. This is New Orleans, not New York City” reads one item. Then “You’ve eaten, you’ve paid, but you’re not sleeping here. Look how much you’ve gained.” The service, though slow and a little inefficient, still results in a good American breakfast. It’s cheap too.

“I’ve done loads of telly,” says Scarlet. “In the eighties I was on shows with Jonathan Ross – and I did the Balderton Working Men’s Club with Jim Bowen. Channel Four, everything.” Scarlett Ray Watt claims to have been Britain’s foremost black ventriloquist, and moved to the States when the work dried up back home. He cuts a neat act in the middle of the French Market, using his dummy to chat up the ladies in a Yorkshire accent, and scare the hell out of the children. Kids today – if you tried to tell them about Nooky Bear they’d report you as a paedophile.

Further down the Esplanade the New Orleans Food Fest is in full flow. And yet more live music. The Deja Vu Jazz Band rub shoulders with the smell of fried chicken, gumbo, seafood and fries. Further into the French Market the live music continues. “How bout some music from the Seventies,” enthuses a man with a mandolin. “The SEVENTEEN seventies, that is,” before launching into a chorus of Greensleeves. It’s a heady mix, but nothing compared to what’s coming.

“We entered this contest last year and we beat them hands down” says the guy from the Jefferson Parish Fire Department.. Yet this isn’t a feat of physical strength or rescue skills. It’s a Beignet eating contests. These local delicacies are like doughnuts. – sugar covered and full of calories. It turns out that the contest used to be between the New Orleans Fire and Police Departments. But in 2012 the cops didn’t show up. Maybe they only do doughnuts.

Half an hour late, the New Orleans team turn up. They look under prepared. And they are. There was a communication problem and these guys volunteered at the last minute. There follows a frantic three minutes of intense eating, until Brian Schindler from Jefferson Parish is declared the winner, having stuffed ten Beignets down first. At least two local TV crews are here. This is big news.

Bourbon Street is where the tourists go. But Frenchman Street is said to be the place where you get a taste of the real New Orleans. Even on the street corner, you get a feeling that the music is getting a little more random. Bluegrass to be precise

And then, at the Apple Barrel – a tiny bar – a bit more country

I have no idea what these guys are called. The beer took over.