My riders remind me what a sweet gig I have

I know, I haven't been writing much lately. Part of the problem is that I haven't been pedicabbing much -- once a week maybe, sometimes not even that, and only on weeknights when things are slow and the people on the street are mostly sober, which naturally makes for fewer stories. My main gig is the mule carriage, which, while paying the bills much better than the pedicab, tends to produce less blog-worthy material.

Sometimes I wonder though whether these are just excuses. In the early days it seems like every time I finished a shift I had a story to tell. I used to say, "If I don't end up writing a book about this, it won't be for lack of material!" Lately I've been wondering whether the stories have really stopped happening or if I have somehow lost my ability to see them. I have a hard time admitting it to myself, but my last few shifts on the pedicab had been -- dare I say it -- boring. Perhaps the real problem is that I've lost my my sense of wonder.

Last Wednesday was about what you might expect from a summer weeknight shift -- in a word, slow. I was grateful to pick up a family of three -- dad, mom and daughter -- who needed transport from a French Quarter restaurant to the St. Charles streetcar stop.

I'm guessing that the girl was six or eight years old. Secure in her father's lap, she commented, "This is good because it has three wheels so you can't fall over."

"You're right." I said. "Look at me! I'm 48 years old, and I'm still riding a tricycle."

"You know, if you can have fun at your job, consider yourself fortunate," the dad chimed in. "I have the worst job in the world! I work for the TSA as an airport security screener."

"Oh my!" I replied. "I imagine that would be a pretty tough job." I spent 16 years in a career that involved a lot of international travel, I thought back over the long hours I spent waiting in airport security lines. If those hours seemed long to me, what about the guy who has to be there all day long, day in and day out! 

But the worst job in the world? "What about being a repo man?"I countered."I think that it would be even worse to be the dude who has to show up and take away someone's truck or TV set."

"No!" he said emphatically. "Trust me. My job is way worse."

"Well, I don't know whether or not anyone has ever said this to you," I told him. "But let me just say thank you for keeping us safe and protecting us from terrorists!"

"What terrorists?" he scoffed. "It's a joke!"

"Hey man, I'm trying to be on your side," I protested. "Wanna work with me a little?!"

"I really appreciate the effort," he said. "But the truth is we're not doing anything but creating illusions! I might as well be working at Disney World. At least there I would be creating illusions for people to love me, whereas at my job I'm creating illusions and everyone hates me."

As the conversation moved on to other topics the guy got a lot less grumpy, and we ended up having a pleasant ride. They were carrying a big bag of to-go boxes from the restaurant, and as they got off at their destination, they asked whether I might pass a homeless person to whom I could pass on the food, and I assured them that I would be glad to do that.

Not five minutes after dropping them off I saw a guy sitting on the sidewalk with one of those cardboard signs, and I pulled up beside him and said, "Do you think you might know someone who could use this food?" And he smiled and said, "I sure do!", and accepted it eagerly and gratefully.

I couldn't help thinking that this guy would probably be happy to trade places with the TSA officer. But as for me: I'm 48 years old; and I ride a big yellow tricycle around the French Quarter; and for that moment at least, I don't think I would have traded places with anybody in the world!

In which the Crescent City Pedicabby is forced to question his life choices

Coop's Place is a cool little dive bar/restaurant on Decatur Street in the lower French Quarter. Their signature dish is a jambalaya with rabbit meat. Back in February comedian Hannibal Buress went on the tonight show and did this delightful little monologue about New Orleans. In the course of his performance Hannibal told a story about Coop's involving an encounter with a rat in the restroom.

Here's the crazy part: For a month or two after Hannibal Burress' tonight show appearance every time I rolled past Coop's there was a line halfway down the block! 

I have to say that this precipitated a bit of a personal crisis for me. I have a bachelor of arts degree in public relations for which my parents and I spent a considerable sum of money. All these years later I discover that public relations is much simpler than my professors tried to make it. Apparently, all you have to do is start a rumor about a rat in the restroom and the public will beat a path to your door!

On a more serious note, I really hope that you will click on the link to Hannibal's Tonight Show performance because it deserves to be heard in full. If you take the time to watch the clip you will hear Coop's defense -- which is essentially that given the age of the buildings and the proximity to the Mississippi River there isn't a five star restaurant in the Quarter that doesn't have rats. Fair enough. Personally, I eat at Coop's and don't hesitate to recommend it to others.

My policy

If I'm going to rent a place that comes with roommates, they better be helping pay the rent!

Wrong!

No, no, no! Most of the signs along the length of Frenchmen Street get it right, but this one at the intersection of Elysian Fields is all wrong. It's Frenchmen Street not Frenchman. There were SIX of them.

Here's how it all went down: In 1762 France gave Louisiana to Spain in a secret treaty -- so secret that the people who actually lived here didn't even find out about it till a couple of years after the fact. So when the Spanish governor finally showed up to take charge, apparently nobody was glad to see him. Turns out everybody pretty much wanted to be French even though France didn't want them. So they had this little rebellion, and the governor got scared and got right back on the boat. Then the next governor came and rounded up six ringleaders of the rebellion and had them shot right about the spot where Frenchmen Street now starts at Esplanade (in front of the old Mint). So Frenchmen Street was named in honor of those six -- count them, SIX! -- Frenchmen who died there because they wanted to be French men and not Spanish men.

If the guy who did this street sign had taken my carriage tour, he would have known better. He's probably one of those guys who walk by me every day, and I say, "Would you like to do a carriage tour?", and they say, "No, I'm a local."

Fun history-repeats-itself footnote: Ninety-three years after the death of the Frenchmen... Um, can we just round off to a hundred? Because it sounds better, and I'm a tour guide after all, not a history professor. So anyway, a hundred years later (more or less), the Union troops took New Orleans in the Civil War and raised the American flag from the Mint. And this local guy by the name of William Mumford climbed up on the Mint, tore down the flag, tore it into pieces, and passed them out to his friends. So there on the same spot (more or less) where the six Frenchmen had been executed one hundred years earlier (more or less), William Mumford was hanged for the same crime (more or less) -- refusing to recognize the new political reality!

Color clash in NOLA

A while back I was on this kick, riding my bike around town and photographing the street signs at some of the fascinating intersections here in NOLA: Magic & Johnson; Short & Zimple; Pleasure & Desire; and of course, this one: Jeff  Davis & Martin Luther King.

The day I took the picture I had a chiropractor's appointment, and I was telling my chiropractor about my new photography project. "In fact, as soon as I'm done here, I'm going to shoot Jeff Davis and Martin Luther King," I told him. "I'll bet they have a lot of wrecks at that one!" We both chuckled.

A couple of weeks later I heard that a carriage driver colleague had been in an accident. When I saw him back out at Jackson Square I asked him about it. He was fine, he said, but his truck was totaled. A lady had run through a stop sign and t-boned him.

"You know how everything here in New Orleans ends up being about race," my friend lamented. "Well the lady who hit me was black. She was polite and apologetic. But I think her family thinks I'm some rich, white guy who's just trying to take advantage of her."

"That's too bad!" I said. "Where did the wreck happen?"

"At Jeff Davis and Martin Luther King," my friend answered.

WHAT? YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING!

As soon as I got time I rode my bike back to the infamous intersection. I had burning questions that needed answering. I had to conduct my own investigation. Turns out that Martin Luther King is the street with the stop sign. So that's where the African-American lady would have been. Whereas my white colleague was driving down Jeff Davis. You really can't make this stuff up! And yes, Martin Luther King still has to yield to Jeff Davis in New Orleans. Not saying that's how it should be, but apparently, that's how it is.