A nice ride rudely interrupted. (Plus bonus interactive survey.)

I was doing a drop off at a French Quarter hotel just before midnight last week. A couple of soccer-mom types, one blonde and the other brunette, were standing in front of the hotel entrance.

"Hey, let's see your calves!" demanded the blonde as my passengers disembarked. I dutifully flexed my calf muscles for her.

"Do you go Uptown?" asked the brunette.

This is a common question and one that is almost never sincere. People seem to get a big kick out of asking me to take them to outlandish places: the airport, the West Bank, California... Technically Uptown doesn't fit in this category since it is located inside Orleans Parish and is therefore, in theory at least, a possible pedicab destination. (See here for a previous post on distance rides including the story of a trip Uptown.) But nine times out of ten, when someone asks to go Uptown the request is intended as a joke.

I gave my stock reply: "It's not a question of how far I can go; it's a question of how far you can afford."

"Hmmm... Well, how much would it be to --?" asked the lady, naming an Uptown address well beyond the Garden District.

So maybe this one was serious. Or more likely, she had been joking initially but on a sudden whim was giving the idea serious consideration.

I hesitated a moment. Did I really want to do this? It would be the furthest I had ever traveled on a single, one-way ride. There was almost zero chance of picking up a fare on the return. It was hard to estimate how long it might take, but I figured that it would be more than an hour round trip -- probably a good bit more.

On the other hand, it had been a slow night with slim tips so far. It was a warm summer evening, and the prospect of a long, leisurely ride Uptown with moonlight filtering through the leafy branches of the live oak trees overhead was very appealing.  In the interest of full disclosure, I should probably also mention that these ladies were very pretty. (It turned out that only one of them needed a ride, but I didn’t know that yet.) Not that I had any untoward intentions, but if you read my last post you may not be surprised to know that I’m a bit hungry for any kind of female companionship lately.

"Thirty dollars," I said.

This was a lot more than it would have cost to make the trip by taxi -- but dirt cheap for that distance on the pedicab. I really wanted to do the ride but not badly enough to do it for nothing.

"Oh, I see," the lady said, sounding a little disappointed. "I'm probably better off just taking a cab."

"Yes, I'm sure you can get a cab a lot cheaper if that's what you're looking for," I admitted.

She hesitated a moment before blurting out. "You know what? I'm going to do it!"

"Are you serious?" her friend said, suddenly realizing that the joke had gone farther than she had expected.

"Sure! Why not? It'll be fun," the brunette replied.

"You've got to be kidding!" the blonde protested. "I'm going to tell your husband."

The brunette ignored the threat and settled into the seat behind me.

"Take good care of her," the blonde ordered me as I began pedaling away. "She's got three kids and a husband at home."

"Yes, please be careful," echoed the brunette. "I've got three kids and a husband."

"Hey, do I look dangerous?" I asked.

"No," she admitted. "But the dangerous ones never look dangerous."

The ride started out well. She was friendly without being flirtatious. I don't think she told me her name; if so, I don't remember it. I did learn that she was a school administrator. I asked about her Katrina experience, which is a pretty reliable way to open up a conversation in New Orleans, and she told me a brief version of her story. Our conversation moved on, and we both talked about our kids a bit.

About five minutes into the ride she got a call on her cell phone. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help overhearing.

Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be home in a little bit.

…I’m on my way now. It’ll be a few minutes.

…Yes.

…Yes. I’m on my way.

…I uh…took a uh...pedicab.

…Did she really call you? I’m going to get her! She betrayed me!

…No! I could have gotten a taxi if that’s what I wanted.

…I’m going to pay him forty dollars.

…No!

…NO!

…NO! I’m fine. Really.

…NO! I don’t need you to come get me.

…No, really, I’m fine. I’m OK, hear? I’ll be home soon!

“Uh-oh,” I said when she hung up. “Sounds like you’re in trouble.”

“Oh yeah, a little,” she said dismissively. “It’s no big deal.”

We picked up the conversation where we had left off as we continued the ride. Another ten minutes passed pleasantly before a car came zooming up out of nowhere and screeched to a halt beside us. The driver shouted something that I didn’t quite catch through the open window, presumably my passenger’s name.

“Oh no!” she gasped.

“Your husband?”

“Yes, my husband. I can’t believe it! This is so embarrassing! I’m really sorry,” she said as she fumbled through her purse for the money to pay me.

“No need to apologize,” I reassured her. “No damage done to me.”

Of course there wasn’t any damage done to me. To the contrary, she paid me the price we had agreed upon plus a ten dollar tip, so I ended up getting a fairly decent fare for the distance, which would not have been the case had I carried her all the way to her destination. No damage at all. Just a twinge of disappointment.

______________________________

Here’s a chance for you, my readers, to weigh in on this story. I’m interested in knowing what you think about the husband’s behavior.

A. His action was reasonable and responsible. His wife had put herself in a potentially dangerous situation that demanded his intervention.

B. His action was romantic. He went above and beyond the call of duty out of a noble desire to protect his lady. Any girl should be grateful to be so well cared for.

C. He was acting like an overbearing jerk.

D. Other. (Explain.)

My fame spreads

I  predicted here that it was just a matter of time till I was being hounded by paparazzi. I wouldn't say that it's come to that quite yet (unless you count this one Amish woman), but my picture was published in a USA Today slideshow. Apparently being cycled around by the Crescent City Pedicabbie is one of the most romantic things to do in New Orleans. Here's the link. Flip through to picture number 9 to see me.

Coincidences: two stories

Coincidence is king of the world. Albanian proverb


Late Monday night (technically Tuesday morning since it was after midnight) I picked up a pair of lovely young ladies on Bourbon St. Before we proceed with the story, let me define "lovely" and "young". By "young" I mean "my age" -- 46 to be precise. By "lovely" I mean that when they forced me to guess their age, I undershot by 10 years. And it wasn't that I wanted to flatter them... OK, maybe a little, but definitely not ten years' worth. 


Anyway, I could tell before they ever got on board the bike that it was going to be a fun ride. "Hey, I have an idea!" one of them said, walking up to me with a big smile. "Why don't you give us a ride, and we give you money?" I thought that sounded like the best idea I had heard in quite a while. 


They were fraternal twins as it turned out, one blonde, the other redhead. When I introduced myself, they told me that they had a brother named Mark, and I said, that based on the name, he was probably a pretty cool guy, and they said, yes, he was. None of these details are really relevant to the point of the story, but these ladies were wanting to get mentioned in the blog, so I hope they read this and enjoy it.  


As we began the ride, I asked them the usual questions: Where are you from? Have you been to New Orleans before? Are you enjoying your visit? Then they started asking about me, and the conversation settled into a pattern that is repeated almost verbatim over and over again every time I'm out on the pedicab:

Them: "So, where are you from?"


Me: "Well, I grew up here in this area, moved away for 27 years, and just got back in August." 


Them: "So where did you move to for 27 years?" 


Me: "Different places, but for most of the last 16 years I was living and working in the Balkans. A couple of years in Albania, several years in Kosova, and most recently, a few years in the Republic of Macedonia."


It was at this point in this very routine dialogue that something outside of the routine occurred -- not anything earthshaking or urgent, but something just strange enough to be intriguing. We were waiting at a traffic light on Canal St., which was almost deserted at this time of night. Right as I mentioned Macedonia, some guy walked by us, a kind of rough-looking guy, probably not homeless but just a step up from that perhaps. Apparently overhearing me mention Macedonia,  he called out to me a greeting in Macedonian: "Kako si?" ("How are you?" It's actually the same in pretty much all the South Slavic languages: Serbian, Bulgarian, Croatian, etc.) If this were Detroit, for example, or some other city with a high concentration of South Slavic immigrants, this whole thing would have been a lot less surprising, but here in New Orleans, I don't think that very many people are even aware that there's a country called Macedonia. 


I responded in my best Macedonian (which is pretty poor to tell the truth), "Fine, thank you! How are you? And where did you learn that?" He just shrugged and walked on. Apparently he had exhausted his Macedonian vocabulary with those two words. 


"Well that was bizarre!" I commented to my passengers.


"Apparently the universe just wanted to verify that you were telling the truth about living in those places," one of them replied.

------------------------------------

That story reminded me of another one that happened a while back -- a bit similar perhaps but even more striking in my opinion.


I was riding around the Central Business District looking for fares. Spotting a young couple at a corner, I asked if they would like a ride. "No thank you," one them replied. "Actually we rode with your company earlier today. It was really nice. Our driver was Jenny." 


"Oh, yes, Jenny!" I replied. "She's awesome!" because Jenny is a really cool colleague. She works part time with us and the rest of the time as a concierge at a hotel, which means that when she's working her other job she's able to steer a  lot of dispatches our way. And besides that, she's just a fun, sweet person. 


Anyway,  just as I said that Jenny was awesome, who should go walking by but Jenny! Turns out she lives there in the Central Business District, and she just happened to be out walking her dogs just in time to overhear me singing her praises to her former passengers.


"Wow, Jenny!" I told her. "If I had known you were eavesdropping, I would have tried to come up with something a little stronger than awesome!" 


This is the kind of story that it's almost impossible not to end with, "And the moral of the story is..." On the other hand, the moral seems so obvious that I won't even bother to state it.

News flash: Idaho joins the Union!

I did it! I can now boast that I have transported passengers from all 50 states... Wait, that's not quite right, is it? I mean, I haven't actually transported anyone across any state lines. After all, hauling someone from Hawaii to New Orleans on a pedicab would be problematic, right? Anyway, I think that you get what I'm trying to say.

Yesterday, within a couple of hours of posting this entry, I picked up a pair of passengers from Idaho. I had been riding around looking for a fare, when I spotted a middle-aged couple poring over a map and looking a bit lost on the corner of Bourbon and Dumaine, so I stopped to ask them if they needed directions. (This is something that I make a practice of. It gets me rides sometimes, though not as often as you might think; but either way, I want my city's guests to have an impression of New Orleans as a friendly, helpful place. I know that sounds corny, but it's true.)

In this case the couple seemed happy for my help. They wanted to know if I could show them where they were on the map and where they might find a good seafood restaurant. This was right up my alley. "Sure!" I said. And just about that time I noticed that the man was wearing a Boise State baseball cap.

"Are you from Idaho?" I asked, barely able to contain my excitement.

"Yes, we are," they said.

"Then hop on," I ordered them, "because you're going to get a free ride anywhere you want to go!" Looking back, that was a bit rash. It's a good thing they didn't say, "OK then, take us back to Idaho!" As it turned out, I just took them a couple of blocks -- far enough for me to explain a bit breathlessly (Like I said, I was excited, not to mention the fact that they were as plump as a pair of Idaho potatoes, bless their hearts.) why I was so thrilled to have riders from Idaho.

When they got off, they asked how much, and I told them again that there was no charge. I didn't want them to think that the whole story was just a ploy to get them on board and get a fare. But they insisted on giving me a ten, which I finally (after a solid three or four seconds!) accepted.

And so -- barely four months into my pedicabbie career -- I have had the honor of transporting tourists who have come to the great city of New Orleans from every single state in the Union. I've also had riders from most of the provinces of Canada and from a number of other countries, including: Mexico, Argentina, the United Kingdom, Ireland, the Netherlands, Greece, India, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Syria, Taiwan, and Japan. What a wonderful job I have!

Another funny story featuring my freakish calves

Yesterday afternoon. I pull up and park beside a colleague for a minute to catch my breath and engage in the pedicabbie equivalent of water cooler conversation.

"Remember when I had that couple on my bike, and you rode past me over by the steamboat terminal?" he asks.

"Sure."

"Well they were admiring my muscular legs," says my colleague, an ex-Marine, who's pretty ripped all over by the way, "and right at that moment you go riding by. I told them, 'You think I've got strong legs, get a load of that guy!' Their reaction was like shock and awe. Honestly, Mark, I think they were so impressed that they actually gave me a better tip out of appreciation for pointing you out to them!"

Fast forward a couple of hours. The same colleague and I are back in the shop counting up our day's earnings. Turns out he made exactly three dollars more than me, which doesn't sound too bad -- till he reveals that he started the day two hours late. This just isn't fair! I worked till 3 a.m. the night before then slept in my car in the shop to get an early start on the day shift. And this guy shows up for work two hours late and finishes the day with three dollars more than me.

I haul off and whack him as hard as I can with a business card I happen to be holding at the moment. (In case you're wondering, I'm not resorting to literary license here; I actually did this. I actually hit the guy with an honest-to-goodness business card.) I would have used my fist, a bike wrench, or some other more formidable weapon were it not for two facts: 1) He's actually a really nice guy; and 2) as you may remember reading just a couple of paragraphs ago, he's a muscle-bound ex Marine. I figure he could probably snap my neck and the bike wrench with his bare hands. Simultaneously if necessary.

Anyway, the injustice of the whole thing really sunk in on the drive home: By his own admission that no-good scoundrel had gotten an extra tip by showing off my calves. By all rights those three dollars should have been mine! I have been exploited for profit. I'm thinking that I just might sue if I can find a lawyer who'll take the case for a dollar or less.

Mardi Gras stories

I've been out riding the rickshaw so much lately that I haven't had much time for keeping up the blog. The good news is that with all those long hours out on the street I've been accumulating that many more stories, all of which are just waiting for me to find the time to tell them.

Doing a double 

Speaking of long hours, I worked a couple of double shifts in the days leading up to Mardi Gras. The money was good of course, but my main motivation was something else: I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. Making it through more than 16 straight hours (almost 18 in one case) pedaling God-only-knows-how-many pounds of passengers for God-only-knows-how-many miles was as exhilarating as it was exhausting. To grasp why I found this so thrilling, you probably need to understand that I've never been the athletic type. When I was a kid and it came time to pick teams for kickball or dodgeball or whatever, there were generally girls who went higher in the draft than me. So at this point in my life, just a couple weeks shy of my 46th birthday (a milestone I crossed last Monday, by the way), meeting the physical challenge of "doing a double" on the pedicab felt like scaling a mountain or running a marathon.

Easy money

Like I said, the money was good too. Sometimes, it felt almost as though it were falling out of the sky. Here are some examples (not in chronological order):

__________

On Mardi Gras Day itself I was flagged down by a guy who runs two restaurants, both of which are located right along the main parade route. They had been serving so many hungry revelers that they were running out of supplies. The restaurateur wanted me to take a few cartons of cream from Restaurant A to Restaurant B and bring a couple of boxes of lime juice and big sacks of sugar back from Restaurant B to Restaurant A. When he asked how much, I hesitated a moment, a little unsure. "Is twenty dollars OK?" I proposed. "How about sixty"? he countered. Yes, I told him, sixty would be fine.

__________

The weekend before Mardi Gras day I had a couple of pretty girls on the back of the bike, and we were stuck in traffic. Some young guys in a nearby car started flirting with the girls, who seemed to be enjoying the attention. One of the guys began begging me to pop a wheelie. After he had made this request for about the fifth time, I got down off my seat and, with my feet planted on terra firma, gently lifted the front tire about three inches off the ground. The guy jumped out of the car, ran over to me, and handed me a twenty dollar bill.

__________

I was hired for a big chunk of Mardi Gras morning by a middle-aged man. A long-time resident of the Garden District, he and his wife belong to a small circle of friends who choose a theme every year, dress in elaborate handmade costumes based on that theme, and march together along Saint Charles Avenue (the main parade route) during the brief interlude between the two big parades, Zulu and Rex. This man has a handicap, which makes it difficult for him to walk, so he hired me to haul him and his wife in the pedicab while their friends walked alongside us. We moved at a snail's pace, pausing every few seconds to allow the people lined up along the route to take pictures of our procession.

When we saw the Krewe of Rex parade coming toward us, we pulled off onto a side street to watch for a couple of hours. During this time I was on standby, free to watch the parade or just wander around until the gentleman and his wife got ready for me to take them home.

Back at their house, they urged me to come in and eat lunch with them and their friends. I was eager to get back out and make more money, so I stopped in just long enough for some chitchat and a Coke. All in all, the whole job took a little more than three hours, of which less than one hour was spent actually pedaling -- and that at a very easy pace. For this, I was paid the full hourly rate for four hours plus a generous tip.

__________

Late one evening the weekend before Mardi Gras, a tall black guy collapsed onto the seat of the rickshaw. He mumbled the name of a hotel as though the mere act of speaking was depleting the very last of his energy. I couldn't tell whether he was drunk or just totally exhausted. Almost the instant we started rolling, he fell asleep. I tried to go slowly and to avoid sudden stops because I was worried that he might fall out of the pedicab.

When we reached his hotel, I had to grab his shoulder and gently shake him to wake him up. Once he had gathered his wits, he told me that he needed to go up to his room to get some money and that I would have to wait for him to come back down and pay me.

A couple of ladies who were standing outside the hotel smoking cigarettes overheard this conversation and offered me a twenty dollar bill. They said that they doubted very much that I would see my passenger again, and they hated to see me get stiffed. I argued that we should at least give him a couple of minutes to see if he kept his word; and at any rate, it wasn't their bill to pay. But they kept insisting that they wanted to pay for the man's ride, so finally I took the twenty.

Just about that time, the guy came back (seemingly a whole lot more coherent and energetic than a few short minutes before) and also offered me a twenty -- which, by the way, was a fairly generous amount for a single passenger on a brief ride.

"These two ladies already paid me for your ride, so why don't you just give it to them," I suggested.

Looking a bit bewildered, he turned toward the women and held out the money to them, but they refused to take it, so he turned back to me, trying to press it into my hand. I declined again. "Your ride has been taken care of," I said. "If they don't want the money, you can just keep it."

He just stood there stubbornly holding the money out and insisting that I take it until finally, I did. I made one more attempt to hand it over to the ladies, but they continued to refuse, so in the end I stuck his twenty in my wallet alongside theirs.

"You're an angel!" one of the ladies said to me as she planted a kiss on my cheek. I was grateful for the kiss and the compliment, but it still strikes me as strange. If anybody was angelic in that situation, it had to be the ladies. I, on the other hand, made out like a bandit.

_________________________________________________________

An angel with wheels instead of wings

Actually, these weren't the only women to tell me that I was an angel during the Mardi Gras season. It became something of a recurring theme. The typical scenario was that I would happen along at the right time to offer a ride to a lady who was desperately trying to get somewhere on foot while, either: A) drunk; B) wearing high heels; or C) drunk and wearing high heels. And she would say, "Oh God, yes, I would LOVE a ride!" And the whole way she would tell me over and over again that I was her angel (sometimes interspersing compliments on my calves). I lost track of how many times this happened, but I can tell you that I never got tired of it.

What does it take to make the blog?

On Mardi Gras and the days leading up to it, I ended up working more in the Garden District than in the French Quarter. I found working uptown (the Garden District) to be a much more pleasant experience all the way around than working downtown (the French Quarter). Navigating traffic was much easier, and the parade watchers were much better behaved. Truth be told, Mardi Gras parades are wild and raunchy affairs anywhere in the city, but far less so uptown where the crowd is made up largely of families with children as opposed to college kids and of locals as opposed to tourists.

That's not to say that all of my passengers were perfectly orderly, law-abiding and sober though. For example, there was this one seemingly sweet, young couple. We were having a pleasant chat along the way, and I mentioned to them that I write a blog about my experiences as a pedicabbie.

"That's cool," the man said, "So are we going to be in your blog?"

"Probably not," I told him. "You haven't really done anything outrageous enough to bear mentioning."

"Really?" said his female companion. "We just smoked a joint back here!"

So, sweet young couple, if you happen to read this, let me say to you, "Congratulations! You made the blog after all."

How to celebrate your 97th birthday in high style

I've been hanging out at the National World War II Museum on the day shift lately. The city is crawling with pedicabs these days, but nobody else works the museum. I bragged about my new sweet spot to my boss so much that he rode a bike over there last week just to see for himself, and he picked up a ride within 10 seconds. (If I pull up in front of the museum tomorrow and find a line of pedicabs waiting there, at least I'll know that my colleagues/competitors are reading my blog.)

The people I pick up there tend more toward the geriatric -- as opposed to the Bourbon St. set for instance, which, as everyone knows, is mostly drunken college kids. Actually, that distinction is easily overstated. Whenever a 60- or 70-year-old couple boards the bike at the museum they're as likely as not to ask me to take them to Bourbon St.

Speaking of geriatric, I took a 97-year-old lady for a birthday ride last Friday. I was about to do a drop off on Bourbon off when a waiter from Galatoire's flagged me down to say that they needed two bikes. This was good news since a pickup at Galatoires is pretty much bound to produce a good tip. I deposited my passenger at his destination a block up the road and circled back around to the restaurant as I radioed for a colleague to join me.

There were five ladies in all -- three sisters, around my age; their mother; and the birthday girl and guest of honor, their grandmother. The sisters called her Maw-maw, South-Louisiana style with the accent on the second syllable. (I called my maternal grandmother, who was from the northern part of the state, MAW-maw; here on the south side of Alexandria, maw-MAW is the preferred pronunciation. I assume it comes from the French influence.)

The sisters came out of the restaurant first. They were attractive and well-dressed (You don't get seated at Galatoire's if you're not well-dressed!), and they spoke with heavy Yat accents, which marked them immediately as New Orleans natives. We chatted for a few minutes while we waited on the two older ladies to finish up their meal.

I learned from the sisters that taking Maw-maw to lunch at Galatoire's for her birthday had been a treasured family tradition of theirs for many years. They were giddy with the excitement of the event. Every year the lunch is followed by some specially-planned surprise activity, and this year the pedicab ride was to be the special surprise. (Last year they took Maw-maw for a ride on a mule carriage, the sisters said. And the year before that -- Get this! -- they took her for a lap dance. Yes, for her 95th birthday. Only in New Orleans, right?)

Finally Maw-maw came out, silver-haired, slender and erect. She walked with a cane, but I got the impression she could have gotten by OK without it. (She had a lot less trouble getting in and out of the pedicab than a lot of people half her age.)

"Look what we've got for you Maw-maw!" they said.

"No mule carriage this year?" she asked.

"No Maw-maw, we got you a chariot this year!" one of them said.

"I hope you're not disappointed," I said to Maw-maw. "Just tell me this. Who's better looking: me or the mule?"

"I'd have to go with you," she said. (It was good to hear it, but then again, her eyesight probably isn't all that great, so I know shouldn't let it go to my head.)

"Have you ever had a 97-year-old rider before?" she asked me.

"No ma'am, you're the first. I'm really excited about taking you for your special birthday ride. In fact, I'm already hoping that I get to take you for a ride again in 3 years for your 100th!"

"Sounds great," she said. "I'll be here!"

We just cruised around the French Quarter for 20 or 30 minutes with no particular destination. Maw-maw and two of the granddaughters rode with me; her daughter and her other granddaughter followed behind in the other pedicab. The whole way the two granddaughters were summoning up memories as they pointed out the sights to one another and to Maw-maw.

Look, that's where Labiches used to be! Remember?


Maw-maw, remember that year we took you there for your birthday?


Maw-maw, I've got a picture of you and paw-paw standing on that corner when he was still alive.

Meanwhile, I was making a few memories of my own. I'm sure that this is one ride I'll never forget even if I live to be 97.  I can hardly wait to do it again in three years if Maw-maw and I are still around.

Not your typical tip

I picked up a petite girl with glasses this afternoon. She only wanted to go a few blocks. She said she had been walking a long way already and was grateful to get a lift for the last little stretch.

At the end of the ride she asked how much, and I asked if 5 bucks was Ok, and she said "sure" and handed me a 20 for me to make change. It had been a very slow day up to that point, and I didn't have change for a 20.

There were some shops nearby, but she balked at going inside to ask for change, muttering some explanation that I didn't quite catch. "Would you please do it for me?" she asked. "I'll stay here and watch the bike." This wasn't the way things usually work, but I didn't see any harm in it, so I agreed.

The shopkeepers weren't very helpful, but a customer in the second store I tried gave me four fives for the 20.
When I got back and handed her  three of the  fives, she exclaimed, "Oh no! I wanted to give you a tip!"
"Thanks, but it's Ok," I assured her. The five is fine."

"No, it's not Ok," she insisted. "I'm a stripper. I make my living off tips. I'm not comfortable not giving you any tip... Hold on just a second. I've got an idea."

She rummaged through her purse and pulled out three individually-wrapped, pre-moistened lens wipes, ("These are great for cleaning your glasses!") and two free passes to a Bourbon St. strip club ("This is where I work.").  The passes had her signature on the back: QT Pie.

"I'm sorry that this is the best I can do this time," she said. "Please give me your card so I can call you to pick me some other time. I promise to take better care of you next time."

By the way, you can ask any of my fellow pedicabbies, and they'll tell you that strippers are generally generous tippers. It makes sense really. I myself have become a much more extravagant tipper since I've been earning my living from tips.

Breaking news

I just hauled three LSU players who were in a hurry to get back to the hotel before curfew. They weighed 215, 235, and 325 pounds respectively for a combined total of 775. Now I know what to say the next time someone asks me, "Are you sure you can haul our fat asses?"

The fly in the Sugar Bowl

In the interest of full disclosure let me start by saying that I did have a dog in the race -- albeit one very recently acquired. I picked up the mother of Hokies quarterback Logan Thomas on my pedicab last Friday. She seemed like a really nice lady, and I promised her that I would root for Virginia Tech for her sake.

I wasn't working the game, so I watched it on TV. Whenever they showed the view of the Superdome from the blimp cam I tried to catch a glimpse of my colleagues patrolling Poydras on their pedicabs, but they always cut away too quickly for me to get a good look.

Concerning the game itself, it was a hard-fought battle between two well matched adversaries, and I think that Mrs. Thomas had good reason to be proud of her son's performance.  He made some impressive plays both rushing and passing. In the end I was disappointed to see him denied a beautiful touchdown pass in OT by a questionable call from the review booth. I told some Hokies fans this morning that it looked to me like they got robbed and that last night's game should probably be included in the Crescent City's crime stats.

For those of you who would question my right to question the call of those who are highly trained and highly paid to make those kinds of calls, I'd like to pass on a story told to me by a friend from Kosova.

There was a terrible traffic accident and two victims were lying on the road. When the doctor arrived on the scene, he checked them out and pronounced them both dead.

"NO!" one protested vehemently. "We're not dead!"

"Would you shut up?" said his companion. "Where did you get the idea that you're smarter than the doctor?"

The winners of the Golden Rickie

Ladies and gentlemen, good evening and welcome to the presentation of the 2011 Golden Rickshaw Rider -- or the Rickie as it is more commonly known. I'm the Crescent City Pedicabbie, and I'm delighted to be your host for this evening's event. 


I must acknowledge at the outset the many wonderful passengers I've been privileged to transport on my pedicab over the past couple of months: Passengers who have tipped me generously. Passengers who have said all kinds of complimentary things about my calves. Passengers who have graciously forgiven me when I hit a pothole at full speed and made them spill their hurricanes all over themselves. There are dozens of riders who richly deserve special recognition and would have been a credit to this evening's prize. I regret that my time with each of these beautiful, captivating, and kind people has been so brief -- not to mention that my back was turned to them for almost all of that time. 


And now, ladies and gentlemen, a big round of applause for this year's runner-up: Mr. Justin Chambers. I must confess that as the sole member of the nominating committee and the jury, I was sure after meeting Mr. Chambers that he would take this year's prize. (Those of you who follow the adventures of the Crescent City Pedicabbie online will be familiar with the story of JC's historic ride.) If not for a truly extraordinary occurrence just two days later, Mr. Chambers would undoubtedly have walked away tonight as the richly deserving recipient of the 2011 Rickie. Congratulations, Mr. Chambers, and one more round of applause! 


And now the moment you've all been waiting for: The Golden Rickshaw Rider for the most amazing, wonderful, kind, and generous passengers of 2011. Once you hear the story, I think you'll agree that if there was a Nobel for niceness, this couple would win it hands down. 


And the winner is... Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I must confess that I don't know their names, nor even where they're from. They had that certain glow that makes me inclined to believe that they were newlyweds, but I can't say for certain. All those details must have come up in our conversation, but the memories were undoubtedly flushed from my mind by that afternoon's powerful surge of adrenaline. Nevertheless, their story must be told, even if they are to remain nameless.

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It was a quarter to 4 in the afternoon, and I was sitting at my daytime sweet spot on the corner of Decatur and Toulouse in the French Quarter when this lovely young couple approached me. The man showed me a slip of paper with the name and address of a rum distillery. Could I get them there in time for a 4 o' clock tour?

I glanced at the paper. Frenchmen Street. Yes, of course, I told them. For us New Orleans pedicabbies the path between the French Quarter and Frenchmen Street is our bread and butter. I've pedaled this route so many times that I could probably give my pedicab its head, and it would take me there without my having to steer.

Looking back, I was vaguely uneasy that as many times as I had traversed Frenchmen Street, I had never noticed any rum distillery; but I put my doubts aside and started pedaling. We caught a couple of red lights along the way, but even so, we made it to Frenchmen in five minutes flat. I asked to see the address again in order to pinpoint the location of the distillery.

2815 Frenchmen St.

2815?

Did Frenchmen really have 28 blocks?

I knew every club and cafe in the 400, 500, and 600 blocks. I knew the exact spot on the sidewalk where "the burrito man", an aging hippie whose rent is always due the next day, sets up every night at 11:30 to peddle his burritos for $5 each. (They're really good, by the way.). I knew every pothole in the road for those three blocks. Theoretically, I should have known that the street kept going past the point where I always turned off. But I had honestly never really thought about there being a 700 block of Frenchmen -- much less a 2800 block.

It was ten minutes till four. My passengers needed to be there at four. We were twenty-two blocks away.

It was at this point that I made a very poor decision. I should have helped them get a taxi. I mean the type of taxi with four wheels and an engine. That would have been the right thing to do in this situation. But I didn't do the right thing. Instead I announced: "I can get you there by four," and I started pedaling again.

The next few blocks were nice. I was pushing too hard to truly appreciate the scenery, but I overheard my riders remarking at the beauty of the leafy streets and old homes and congratulating themselves on having chosen the most pleasant mode of transport. Basking in their pleasure, I found the strength to pick up the pace just a little.

I believe it was at St. Claude Avenue that the change occurred. I don't remember showing anyone my passport, but we must have crossed into another country. Jared Allen recently remarked that New Orleans looked like some bombed-out, third world country. Considering Katrina, the comment was certainly insensitive; considering neighborhoods like this one, it wasn't in the least inaccurate.

People sitting on the steps of ramshackle houses hooted at us as we passed by.  Apparently, we were quite the spectacle. I mentioned the sense of having crossed into a foreign country; all of the words that were shouted at us as we flew down the street were totally incomprehensible to me. Once I even asked my riders, "What did that guy just say?", but they hadn't understood either. There was no mistaking the mood though. It was a strange mix of amusement and hostility, equal in their intensity. My passengers weren't singing the praise of the pedicab as a means of transport any more; but I no longer needed their encouragement to keep up the blistering pace.

I was drenched in sweat by now. I glanced down at my watch and up at the addresses of the houses we were passing.

"Seventeen blocks to go!" There was an audible gasp from the passenger seat. "Don't worry! We're going to make it on time," I promised them.

More sweat. More catcalls. Block after block of graffiti-scarred, Katrina-devastated urban wasteland. "Don't worry. I'll get you there!" I called out from time to time -- as much to reassure myself as my riders.

At precisely 3:59 PM we reached the end of the 2700 block and realized with deep dismay that Frenchmen street came to an abrupt end here at Florida Avenue. There were railroad tracks in front of us and just beyond the tracks we could see our destination:  The Old New Orleans Rum Distillery, 2815 Frenchmen St. There it was, tantalizingly close and totally inaccessible. Apparently, Frenchmen Street resumed on the other side of the tracks.

"No problem," my riders said recovering their cheerfulness after the momentary shock. "We'll just hop off here and cross the tracks on foot. Thank you so much! You actually got us here right on time. You did it!"

I wasn't really comfortable with this arrangement, but I didn't see that we had much choice if they were going to make it in time for the tour. "Are you sure you're OK with that?" I asked, still panting from the wild ride.

"Yes, we're sure. Look, it's just right there! All we have to do is cross the tracks."

As I pulled up to the edge of the road to let them off, we got another nasty shock. Running alongside the railroad tracks was a canal, which we hadn't seen heretofore. It was deep and wide and had steep concrete sides; without a bridge or a boat there was no way across it.

Not knowing what else to do, I pedaled up Florida to the next intersection looking for a way across the canal. No luck. We sat there in the middle of the deserted street for a minute trying to decide on our next move. By now four o' clock had come and gone. Darkness would be closing in soon.

A car approached, slammed to a stop next to us, and the window went down. "What are you doing here?" the driver demanded. She was a middle-aged African-American lady, probably from that neighborhood. "This is no place for you to be sitting in the middle of the street!" she said. "Please, get out of here. Now!" I looked at her face and saw raw fear. Up to that point I had been a bit anxious, but suddenly I was shaken. Seeing how frightened this complete stranger was for us, I realized that we had reason to be really scared.

There wasn't any more question about what to do. We had to get back where we had come from -- but not by the way we had come. Even apart from the safety issue, Frenchmen is a one-way street, so there was literally no going back that way.

We found our way to Elysian Fields Avenue and began the trek toward familiar territory. Elysian Fields is a bigger, busier street, so it felt a little bit safer, but not much. Exhausted from the race to the end of the road and weighed down by fear and failure, it was all I could do to keep the pedals turning. Somehow I also found the spare breath to apologize to my passengers. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I can't believe I wasted your time. And made you miss your tour. And risked your lives. I'm so sorry."

They would have none of it. "No way," they said. "It wasn't a waste of time. It was an adventure. And anyway, if it's anybody's fault, it's ours. We should have known how to get there before we set out."

This was pure nonsense. When a tourist gets in a taxi, the taxi driver is the one with the obligation to know how to get there, not the tourist. But nonsense or not, it sure was nice! I've been called names to foul to print in the dictionary for offenses of a much lesser magnitude. If they had chosen to give me a good cussing out, what could I have done but say, "Guilty as charged, your honor"?

These guys were going out of their way to show me grace when we all knew how badly I had blown it. And they just kept piling on more and more niceness. Sensing my exhaustion, they actually offered to take a turn pedaling for me! (It was a beautiful gesture, but as long as I was conscious I wasn't going to surrender the handlebars.)

At some point along the way I began to wonder whether I had gotten myself turned around somehow during the traumatic return trip. I've always had a poor sense of direction. Why was it taking so much longer to get back than it had taken to get there? Was it possible that with every turn of the pedals, I was actually taking us further away from the French Quarter? I voiced my concern, and the young man behind me spoke reassuringly: "No, I'm sure that this is the right way." Still, I wasn't fully convinced until I finally caught sight of the skyline of the Central Business District ahead of us in the distance.

Knowing that at least we were going the right way was a relief, but it was nothing compared to that sweet feeling that flooded over me when we finally crossed St. Claude Avenue. We still had some distance to cover, but the dangerous part was behind us. Oddly enough it was this moment of relief rather than the terror preceding it that triggered a vivid flashback to one of the scariest situations that my family and I had faced during our years in the Balkans.

It was early autumn 1999, about three months after the end of the Kosovo War. On an outing in western Kosovo we had unwittingly wandered across the Montenegrin border and deep into a dangerous situation, the details of which I will not take the time to recount here. Fleeing back toward home in a battered Land Rover, we slid around a switchback on the dusty road and came upon an Italian military checkpoint -- the  symbol of safety that we had been desperately hoping for.

As we crossed St. Claude Avenue on the rickshaw I instantly recognized the same emotions that I had experienced twelve years earlier crossing that remote checkpoint in Kosovo's Accursed Mountains. But even the relief,  intense as it was, did nothing to relieve my shame at having let my riders down. I offered another round of apologies, and once again this couple responded with their sweet assurances that it really wasn't my fault and that everything was fine now anyway.

When we came to the end of the ride, I had no intention of taking money from them. I really didn't. I tried to tell them that. Oh, I deserved payment alright, but not that kind. They could have reported me to the Taxicab Bureau, and they would have been well within their rights. Causing them to miss their tour, exposing them to mortal danger and all-around ruining their vacation might even have been grounds for a lawsuit. If any money was going to change hands, it should have been from my hand to theirs.

But when it came down to it, they got off the bike, and they thanked me; (They actually thanked me!) and the young man held out his hand to me with some bills in it; and I said, "No way!"; and he, still smiling, pressed the money into my hand; and they walked away holding hands; and I looked down at the money in my hand and realized that they had just given me the biggest tip of my career.

During the course of the ride, I mentioned to them that I had a blog, and they acted interested. So I'm hopeful that they will read this and know how much I appreciated their kindness. I actually hope that I get to see them again some day. Not that I could ever make it up to them, but I would really love another chance to give them a nice, relaxing, romantic -- and uneventful ride. This one for free, of course. But if they would prefer never to get on another pedicab, I wouldn't blame them at all.

Gambling, fishing and pedicabbing

Back in our dating days Mary (now my wife) came back from her psych 101 class eager to share with me a new insight into my character. She had learned that gambling and fishing are similar in that their addictive power comes from something called intermittent reinforcement. Take fishing for instance. You make a lot of casts that don't produce anything. Then, on that 500th cast: BAM! The fish and the fisherman are both hooked -- the fish for obvious reasons and the fisherman because there's just no telling when it might happen again. Apparently, fishermen are especially vulnerable to gambling addiction.

You should know that I LOVE to fish; and when I'm fishing, I have a real hard time stopping. Whenever it comes time to quit, there are two possible scenarios. Either I'm catching fish -- in which case I can't quit because I'm catching them; or I'm not catching fish -- in which case I've got to keep going till I catch something. Make sense?

In light of all this, Mary made me promise never to set foot in a casino -- a promise which I have faithfully kept because I'm pretty sure she's right. I'm pretty sure that if I ever started gambling, I'd never be able to stop. I haul passengers to Harrah's all the time, but I'm terrified at the very thought of setting foot inside that door.

(By the way, this also helps to explain an aspect of my character that puzzles some people. How does someone like me who has terminal ADD muster the patience for fishing? The honest answer is that it has nothing to do with patience. No one would describe the guy who sits at the slot machine for 10 hours straight as patient. Clearly there's a far more powerful force at work here.)

Speaking of patience, if you're wondering what any of this has to do with being a pedicabbie, stay with me. I'm working around to that by way of the following story:

Yesterday when 6 PM rolled around, I'd been on the street for 8 hours. Both of my colleagues who shared my shift had already announced over the radio that they were calling it quits for the day. It was time for me to be headed to the house too, but I hadn't had a ride in the last hour and a half. Worse still, I was a bit short of what I had hoped to make for the day.


Just one more fare, I told myself. Just one more.


My persistence paid off a few minutes after 6:00 when I picked up an older couple from Oregon. They didn't have anywhere particular they wanted to go; they just wanted to ride around a bit, and I was happy to oblige. (I'm always careful to explain to people that I can't give tours because I'm not licensed to do that, but if they want me to just to take them for a spin, why not?) I told them that they were going to be my last fare of the day.

They were still aboard when a dispatch came over the radio for someone to pick up another couple at a certain hotel. I ignored it at first since I already had riders and was intending to head in as soon as I dropped them off. However, it turned out that there were no other pedicabs available, so my boss got on the radio again to ask if I could do it. My passengers, understanding the situation, graciously dismounted, and I headed for the pickup, thrilled to have gotten two more fares at the end of the day.

I took the second couple where they needed to go and turned my bike toward the shop. When I ride in at the end of my shift, I usually keep doing my 3-second sales pitch just in case I come across someone who happens to be going my way. I don't recall that it had ever worked before, but this was my lucky evening.

"Would you like a ride?" I called out to a pretty girl who was walking the same direction I was pedaling.

"I would love a ride! I'm just going a couple of blocks up to Canal..." She hesitated a moment, and her face fell. "You know what? Never mind. I'm really sorry. I've only got three dollars on me."

"That's not a problem," I said. "I'm just about done for the day, and I'm going that way anyway. I would be happy to take you that far for three dollars." Then I hesitated, wondering if I had misunderstood her reluctance. "Of course if you don't want to part with your last three dollars, I totally understand..."

"Oh, it's not that," she assured me. "I just feel bad for you."

"Well there's no need to feel bad for me. One way or the other, I'm going home. And as far as I'm concerned, I might as well go home three dollars richer."

"OK then!" she said as she jumped into the passenger seat. "This is my first time to ride a pedicab. I've been wanting to take one of these things for a long time."

"Well I'm honored to be your first pedicabbie!" I said. And I was.

At the corner of Canal St., she hopped off, handed me the three bucks, and went on her way. I continued on my way too, rejoicing at having picked up three rides in quick succession after an hour and a half drought.

A block and a half up Canal, a colleague flagged me down in front of a hotel. He was there for a pickup, waiting for his passengers to come out when a pair of ladies (not the ones who had called) approached him wanting a ride. Would I be willing to take them?

I was more than willing. I got them where they were going, then turned toward the shop once again, headed home at last, four fares richer, and so happy that it seemed to me that my pedicab had wings.

All that to say that my susceptibility to intermittent reinforcement sometimes works in my favor. But I'm still not planning to get any closer to the casino than is absolutely necessary in order to drop off riders who want to go there.

Southeast Asia - Southeast Louisiana fusion

In recent discussions about immigration and assimilation, the salad bowl and the melting pot are often set out as opposing metaphors. (Try Googling "melting pot, salad bowl". I got over 250,000 results.) In the case of New Orleans I believe that a third metaphor is more apt: gumbo.


With gumbo, you've got the base, the roux. Gotta have a good roux! Then you can add your vegetables: bell pepper, celery, and onions are standard. And okra of course. (I've heard that gumbo is actually some kind of African word for okra.) You can even put tomatoes if you want, though a lot of locals might take you for a Yankee poser. Don't forget the Tony Chachere's. And the filé powder, which can be added as part of the cooking process or set out on the table as a condiment. Then you add the chicken and sausage, or seafood, or some combination thereof. The possibilities are almost limitless. My mother-in-law, whose Cajun credentials no one should dare question, likes to boil eggs, peel them, then let them stew in the gumbo where they take on the roux's rich brown hue as they soak up the flavor.


In the case of  the city of New Orleans, the roux would be French-Creole culture. Each successive wave of immigrants -- German, English, West African, Croatian, Sicilian, Honduran, and others -- has enriched the stew without compromising its essential character. The Vietnamese community is a particularly interesting example. They came over in the 1970s. They have managed to maintain their identity while integrating so thoroughly into the city's institutions that it would be hard to imagine New Orleans without them. If you go to Cafe du Monde, which will soon celebrate its 150th anniversary, the person serving your beignets and cafe au lait will almost certainly be Vietnamese.


If you really think about it, it isn't all that strange that the Vietnamese have acclimated so well to warm, wet New Orleans. After all, Southeast Asia and Southeast Louisiana both bear the legacy of French colonial history. Many Vietnamese immigrants were Roman Catholic. Many were also fishermen by trade, so New Orleans' seafood industry must have offered a familiar element. Then there's rice as a dietary staple. (I'm open to correction, but I can't think of any other American city where rice is so central to the cuisine.)


I worked my first wedding as a pedicabbie last week. The bride was a New Yorker, of European stock as far as I know. The groom, however, was a New Orleans native of Vietnamese ancestry. The wedding was held at the Saint Louis Cathedral, America's oldest cathedral and the French Quarter's most iconic landmark. After the vows, the newlyweds and guests poured out of the church and formed a second line, twirling colorful parasols as they danced and paraded through the streets of the French Quarter behind a brass band. My fellow pedicabbies and I -- there were five of us I believe -- brought up the rear, bearing the groom's elderly relatives. I felt a touch of amusement, a bit of pride, and plenty of pure pleasure to be a part of this. 


The next day I was working the Saints game, and I stopped to ask a couple of traffic cops for permission to make a left turn at a place where the street was blocked. One of the policemen turned out to be Vietnamese-American, and we struck up a brief conversation.


"I'm so glad to see this here!" he said referring to the pedicab. "It reminds me of home. We have these in Vietnam, you know? We call them rickshaw."


The fact that they have rickshaws in Vietnam was not news to me, but somehow I had failed to make the connection. Had my previous day's passengers ridden rickshaws in their childhood days? Was it possible that I had taken them on their first rickshaw ride in 40 years or more? Was the sweet irony of the situation lost on them?  (Not so long ago many Americans would have viewed the rickshaw as a symbol of Asia's poverty and backwardness; these days pedicabs are commonplace on the streets of almost all of our major cities.) I don't know what my passengers were feeling, but I like to think that they felt more or less the same mixture of pride, amusement and pleasure at seeing us embrace their tradition as I felt at seeing them embrace ours. 


It is only now in retrospect that the beauty of that whole scene is beginning to really register. Elderly Vietnamese-New Orleanians riding in rickshaws at the tail end of a second line parade. Something old something new indeed! How strange! How apt!

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Bonus trivia question: Which Rolling Stones song (more recently covered by Old Crow Medicine Show) pays tribute to New Orleans' second line tradition?


Answer: Down Home Girl, which contains the following lyric:
I'm gonna take you back to New Orleans 
Down in Dixieland
I'm gonna watch you do the second line 
With an umbrella in your hand 

Perfecting the 3-second sales pitch

Night and day

Today was better than yesterday but still painfully slow. I mentioned in yesterday's post that it's much easier to make good money at night. There are certainly more tourists out and about in the Quarter after dark; but I'm starting to wonder whether there isn't another factor at work beyond sheer numbers. I've noticed that the people that I approach act differently in the daytime than they do at night.

Day or night, the vast majority of them decline my offer of a ride, of course. But they don't decline it in the same way. After sundown, if I say to someone, "Would you like a ride?", he's likely to look at me with a big smile and say, "No thanks. We're good!"; whereas, in the daytime, he'll probably look away, scowl, and shake his head no. What's up with that?

At least a smile

Challenging days like these give me more opportunity to perfect my 3-second sales pitch. I'm constantly experimenting with endless variations on a basic theme:

"Need a ride?"
"Would you care for a ride?"
"Wanna ride?"
"Would you like a lift?"
"Care for a lift?"
"Who's ready to ride?"

Getting people on the bike is the goal of course, but failing that I hope to at least get them to smile. Sometimes the border between being funny and obnoxious is pretty thin. Here are some the things I might say:

"Take a trip on my magic chariot!"

To the male half of a couple: "What kind of a gentleman are you making a lovely lady like that walk?"

To someone who looks overweight and tired: "Ready to get off your feet for a bit?"

To a parent with a child: "I'll bet the little fellow there would like a ride!" (Kids always want to ride. Sometimes I'll address the kid directly, and the kid will say, "Yes!" In these cases I don't get very many smiles from the parents. They look at me with spitting cobra eyes and say, "No thank you!" in such a way that you know the "thank you" wasn't at all sincere before turning their attention to comforting the bitterly disappointed tot.)

To girls in stilettos: "Aren't you ready to get off those heels?" (All joking aside, alcohol, high heels, and the broken pavement of the French Quarter streets are a dangerous combination. I see girls stumbling and falling  all the time. I played ambulance driver last week to a girl who had twisted her ankle badly. She was celebrating her 24th birthday, poor thing.)

To someone sitting on a bench: "Hey, you could be resting and moving at the same time!"

To people emerging from the convention center when I know that there's a teachers conference going on: "We've got discounts for teachers today!" (We generally let people pay whatever they want for anything under 20 minutes, so the discount is whatever they want it to be.)

One of my biggest challenges is that I can only take two passengers or three at the most. Packs of four or more tourists seem a lot more common than couples. Here's a common scenario:

Me to a group of six tourists: "Anybody ready for a ride?"
One of the six (laughing): "Can you take all of us?"
Me: "I can take the two tiredest!"

This rarely fails to get a smile.

My first night on the job a prostitute called out to me as I rode by: "Hey baby, where you going?" I guess she was working on her 3-second sales pitch too.

Conversation between two drunk Cajuns riders from Lafourche Parish

Drunk Cajun A: Man, look at those calves!

Drunk Cajun B: Those aren't calves, no. Those are full grown cows!

In which I ride to the rescue of a young movie star

I found six-year-old Hunter and his mother shivering on a street corner in the Central Business District at 9:10 a.m. yesterday. The previous day had been as hot and muggy as... well,... as New Orleans; but a cold front had blown through during the night and a blustery wind was whipping down the city streets. When I'm riding, I pretty much generate my own heat, but even I was feeling it a bit. Apparently, Hunter's mom hadn't anticipated this kind of weather, and neither she nor her son had the proper apparel.

Hunter was in town because he had a part in a movie called Dog Fight. In order to be on time for shooting he was going to have to be back at that same corner by 9:30. That gave us just 20 minutes. None of the nearby clothing stores opened till 10.

"Hop aboard!" I told them. "We'll find something." I was carrying my sweatshirt, which I had just washed the night before, in the storage compartment under the passenger seat, so I pulled it out, wrapped Hunter up in it, and set out into the cold headwind pumping the pedals at double speed.

I headed toward the French Quarter figuring that our best chance was to find a sweatshirt in a souvenir shop. Along the way I learned that my six-year-old passenger was no stranger to the silver screen. He had already had parts in a couple of movies -- not to mention TV commercials and whatnot. "Wow, this is really cool," I told him. "I've never hauled a movie star before!"

I pulled up to the first souvenir shop we came to and waited while Hunter and his mom rushed in. They came back after just a couple of minutes, empty-handed. The clock was ticking. Desperate, I asked a female taxi driver nearby if she had any suggestions. "I'd try over on Bourbon," she said. "You're bound to find something over there."

Of course! Bourbon St. is better known for it's strip clubs, but I'd venture to bet that there are at least ten t-shirt shops for every strip club. Among those dozens of t-shirt shops lining the street, surely one of them would be open early. (You, dear reader, may already be recognizing the problem with this plan. Of course I should have seen it as well. All I can say in my own defense is that I was in a big hurry to help out a cold kid.)

We zipped over to Bourbon St., and right away, we found an Asian guy just opening up his shop for the day. (Kudos to all the hardworking Asians who get to work 45 minutes before everybody else. This early bird was definitely going to be rewarded with the worm!)

"We're looking for a child's sweater or sweatshirt, something nice and warm for this little guy. Y'all have anything like that?" I asked.

"Yes, we have, we have!" he said.

Once again Hunter and his mother disappeared into the store. As I sat outside watching the shopkeeper set up his wares for display, I suddenly realized that thing that probably made you, the reader, groan out loud a couple of paragraphs ago -- that is, assuming you have any kind of notion of the kind of merchandise that dominates the market on Bourbon St. If you don't know and can't guess, let me just say that if I were to reproduce here the messages printed on some of those shirts, my blog would immediately be placed in the "adult content" category. There were even shirts with stick figures engaged in various kinds of sex acts. "Oh my!" I thought to myself. "What have I done now?"

My riders came back out after a few minutes both wearing brand new sweatshirts with "New Orleans" emblazoned across the front -- likely the only garments in the entire shop that weren't obscene, sacrilegious, or both.

"I'm really glad you found something," I said. "I... uh... hope Hunter doesn't read too well." Which under normal circumstances would have been a terrible thing to say to the parent of a six-year-old.

"Oh, Hunter reads very well!" his mother assured me.

"I'm really sorry," I said.

"It's OK," she said. "At least we're warm now. And we're going to be on time."

By the way, the film industry is really taking off in New Orleans lately. They tell me that there are 7 movies currently being filmed in the city. Hollywood at the mouth of the Mississippi!

Amish gone wild

You know that thing about not taking pictures of Amish people? I've always heard that they consider photography a violation of the commandment against graven images and that an Amish dude will get really angry if you take his picture. (Which raises the question, what might an Amish man do to you if he gets really angry? Perhaps he might forcibly shave your beard, like this guy. But what if you're clean-shaven like me?)

Anyway, we all know that the French Quarter is a place where people release their inhibitions and do outrageous, scandalous stuff, right? So I suppose I shouldn't be shocked. Anyway, I'm sitting on a corner by the French Market waiting for a couple of clients -- an elderly man and his even more elderly aunt -- to finish their shopping and climb back on my bike when this group of Amish women walks by. One of them -- I'm guessing she was about 40 or 50 years old -- hangs back just a bit to let the group get ahead of her, glances furtively around, quickly pulls a camera from her purse, and takes a picture of me. She snaps the picture at waist level without taking the time to aim and focus and quickly slides the camera back into her bag.

In a recent post I speculated that I might be on my way to becoming a major New Orleans tourist attraction. But I never imagined that it would get to the point that Amish people would be taking pictures of me!

(By the way, if I seem to be making fun of the Amish, you should understand that I consider myself a dedicated Anabaptist, which makes me a close ideological cousin to the Amish. So I look at it as gently poking fun at family members.)

5,000 bean counters

OK, here I am coming to you live via the miracle of modern technology atop the seat of my big yellow trike here at the c...

I had the brilliant idea of blogging live from my bike last night, but that's as far as I got. (In case you're wondering, the last part of that sentence was supposed to be "corner of Royal and Toulouse".) The blogspot interface on my Android phone turned out to be virtually impossible to work with, and I finally got frustrated and gave up. I was making good money, -- more on that later -- so I didn't want to waste a lot of time sitting on a street corner trying to type invisible text onto a microscopic keyboard.

There are 5,000 H&R Block people in town for their annual convention, so transporting accountants was the bulk of my business by far last night. This produced a kind of good news/bad news situation.

Bad news first: They were every bit as boring as you would expect accountants to be. Nobody was drunk. (Though it was Monday night and the first day of their convention. so they may start to cut loose later in the week.) Nobody said anything outrageous. Nobody even said anything at all to me about my calves (though I did overhear them remarking to one another a couple of times). I finished the evening without any compelling stories for you, my readers.

The good news is that I made a ton of money! Thanks to the generosity of H&R convention-goers, I exceeded my financial target (set by the company) for the first time last night.

If you were to say to me, "Bean counters are boring," I wouldn't have any reason to disagree. But if you were to say, "Bean counters are stingy," I would be obligated to stand up to you and defend them against a vicious and baseless prejudice!

Regarding fat derrieres and massive calves

The mules and me

I picked up a lady and her little girl the other day. The mother informed me that her daughter had wanted to ride in a mule-drawn carriage, but that she (the mother) had been dead set against it.

"Well I'm glad you chose me, but I'm curious as to why you weren't comfortable getting in a carriage," I asked.

"I guess I just feel sorry for the mules hauling all that weight," she explained.

I stifled a snort of laughter lest the lady think me ungrateful for her business. Actually, I can kind of see her point if I squint just right. I mean the mules didn't really choose the job, right?

Every street name is a shibboleth.

Unlike this particular lady (who was actually quite trim), many female passengers express their self-consciousness about their weight in the form of pity for me. "Oh, I feel so sorry for you. I know I must be really heavy for you to haul," they say.

Last night I picked up three such ladies, girlfriends from out of town having a good time in the city. (We're allowed to carry up to three, but the passenger seat only fits two adults, so in cases like this somebody has to sit on somebody's lap.) They were a real hoot -- the kind of folks who make my job so much fun.

They did seem genuinely concerned that their weight would be too much for me, and I reassured them that it wasn't going to be a problem.

That's not to say that there wasn't any problem. The real problem was going to be finding the place they wanted to go. They asked to be taken to a bed and breakfast in the Marigny, out on the edge of the territory we generally cover. In my first week's work I've grown a lot more confident about navigating New Orleans' narrow streets, but I've still got a lot of learning to do. I told the ladies upfront, "We may not get there by the most the efficient route, but I promise we'll find it."

As it turned out I took a couple of wrong turns and had to stop and ask directions a couple of times. I kept apologizing to my riders, but they were very encouraging. "Oh no, don't worry about it. We're having fun! We just feel sorry for you having to haul our three fat asses around."

I need to interject a little explanation at this point. Going into the job, my mom's greatest fear was that I would be stabbed by a junkie for the cash to buy his next fix. My greatest fear, on the other hand, was butchering a street name in front of a local.

Having grown up across the lake from New Orleans, I don't stumble at all over words like Tchoupitoulas, which totally intimidate tourists. For me the really scary ones are those that appear simple and straightforward. Like Conti for example, which New Orleans natives pronounce "Kon-tie" with a long "i" at the end. Or "Burgundy" with the accent not on "Bur" but on "gun". (Given New Orleans' notorious murder rate, maybe there's some Freudian thing going on with this one.)

The names of the city's streets are a mixture of Spanish, French, native American, and heaven-only-knows what else; but there is no discernible pattern to the pronunciation. I say "discernible", because I suspect that there really is a pattern known only to insiders. I'm convinced that it's all a carefully thought out conspiracy designed to easily identify who's local and who's not. There's probably some kind of code, for instance, that dictates that French names will be pronounced according to the rules of native American pronunciation; native American words will be pronounced according to Croatian rules; and so forth.

I really thought I was figuring it out and that I was going to be spared any major shame. The previous night I had actually laughed at some poor tourist (Not one of my riders. I would NEVER laugh at a rider.) who pronounced "Marigny" (the "g" is supposed to be silent) "margin-y".

So here I found myself -- a man transporting three female passengers, upon whom I hoped to make a reasonably good impression if for no other reason than to get a generous tip -- being forced to stop and ask directions. Everyone knows that this in itself is agonizingly embarrassing for us men. But it was about to get a lot worse.

"Excuse me, sir," I said to a fellow on a street corner who looked suitably local. "Can you tell me how to get to Royal and St. Roch?" And I pronounced "Roch" -- Oh the shame! -- like "roach". Which is pretty hilarious if you think about it. St. Roach, of all things!

"Do you mean St. Roch?" he clarified, pronouncing it like "rock". (Which as it turns out is the proper French pronunciation. I'll have to find a way to accommodate this fact to my conspiracy theory.)

I don't think that the ladies noticed all that much. They were from out of town, and it wasn't as if they had known the proper pronunciation after all. Like I said, they were pretty gracious for the most part,.

Did you get your license in a box of Cracker Jacks? 

One of them couldn't resist a deep dig though. They asked me about the job, and I mentioned that there was a fairly rigorous process for obtaining a permit to be a pedicabbie. There was a pause, and one of them said, "Really?" (Since you, dear reader, weren't present to hear the inflection, an explanation is necessary. One can say "Really?" merely as a friendly way of showing interest and keeping the conversation moving; or one can say "Really" as a way of expressing genuine incredulity. This was definitely the latter.) Ouch!

I finally found the hotel and dropped them off safe and sound. Ten minutes later, I picked up a pair of ladies who also seemed self-conscious about their weight and expressed it in precisely the same way. "Are you sure that you're really up to hauling our fat asses?" they asked. "We don't want to kill you or break the bike!"

Again, I promised them that it wasn't a problem. "You should see the ladies I just hauled," I said. "There were three of them, and they were way fatter than y'all!"

(For the record, I have to admit that I really don't know which group was fatter. I was just trying in my own clumsy way to be nice. Looking back, I can see that I went about this in the altogether the wrong way; telling a woman who's worried about her weight, "I've seen worse," isn't very helpful, is it? I've always been awkward when it comes to this kind of thing.)

"So where are you headed?" I asked.  "Balcony Bed and Breakfast," they answered. "It's on the corner of Royal and St. Roch."

"You're kidding!" I blurted out. "What a coincidence. I just finished taking three ladies there to that very same place."

My passengers burst into laughter. "The ones who were way fatter than us?" one of them asked when she could get her breath.

I must have gone pale. "So you know them then?" I asked weakly.

"We're not old friends or anything, but we met them there at the guest house. Hey, don't worry about it. We wouldn't dream of telling them that you said their asses were way fatter than ours!"

 A freak show on three wheels

I've mentioned a couple of times the attention that my calves have been attracting. Well it just keeps getting crazier. As I noted before, it makes sense that the backs of my lower legs would be the most noticeable part of my anatomy from the passenger seat of the cab. But lately people have been calling out to me from the street as I ride by. Drunk women. Gay men. All kinds of people.

To tell the truth, I was enjoying the admiration at first, but now I'm starting to feel a bit like a freak show on wheels. Maybe my calves are destined to be one of New Orleans' major tourist attractions. I guess that's OK as long as it helps me get more riders and bigger tips.

First day, continued

Fishing for riders 

After my fellow pedicabbies and I had dropped off our first passengers, we were on our own. I spent the rest of the night zig-zagging in and around the French Quarter, trying to catch the eye of every pedestrian I passed and calling out to them: "Hey, need a lift?" Most smiled and said, "No thank you," which was really nice because it didn't feel at all like rejection.

Occasionally someone said yes and this invariably gave me a jolt of joy -- like the feeling you get from an unexpected compliment or a surprise gift. I'm guessing that as I get better at the job, I'll start actually expecting people to want to ride, and that this expectation will make me more effective. I figure it's a bit like fishing. When you really expect to catch something on every cast -- an expectation which every fisherman knows is utterly unreasonable -- you somehow end up with a lot more fish. Maybe there's something about confidence that makes you work that lure a little more convincingly. Or maybe it sharpens your reaction time so you set the hook a split second sooner.  Then again, maybe it's just my imagination...

Complimentary and kind passengers

Ok, this blog isn't about fishing. Where was I? Oh yeah, speaking of unexpected compliments... I got a lot of admiration of my calf muscles. (Presumably this would be the part of me most readily apparent from the rear of the rickshaw). While living in Skopje for the last couple of years, I got around almost exclusively by bicycle. Our house there was situated at the top of a daunting hill, which had to be conquered every time I came home. I guess that well-defined calves on an otherwise flabby, forty-five year-old body are the trophies of that daily struggle.

I had imagined that my passengers might be irritated to find themselves in the care of a pedicabbie who knew next to nothing about the layout of the city. I decided that my best policy was to appeal to my passengers for mercy. I explained at the beginning of every ride that it was my first night. "If you know how to get where you want to go, feel free to navigate us. Otherwise, I can look it up on my smart phone or radio the dispatcher for directions." As it turned out, every one of them was gracious, and there was never so much as a hint of annoyance.

Childhood delight

I think that my favorite passengers of the evening (though not my most profitable by a long shot!) were a mother and her 11-year-old son. "How much does it cost?" she asked a bit anxiously when I approached them.

"As much as you want to pay!" I said. (Municipal law allows us to charge up to a certain amount based on a fairly complex fare structure, but our company encourages us to allow our passengers to decide for themselves the value of our service.)

"My son has really been dying to ride one of these, but I've only got three dollars," the lady said.

"That's fine," I said. "Hop on!"

Let me interject here that I have an 11-year old son at home, so if I speak about "kids these days", I presume to speak with some authority. One of the things I thought I knew is that in the era of the internet and Xbox, kids are a lot harder to entertain and impress than they used to be. But for this one boy at least, sitting on the back of a giant tricycle with a grown man pedaling him around town was almost as good as riding with Aladdin on his carpet or Santa on his sleigh.

 "How old do you have to be to drive one of these?" he asked me.

"I dunno. I guess 18," I replied.

"Well I want to do this when I grow up!"

Of course you do, I thought. Who wouldn't? What a lucky guy I am!

We didn't go very far, probably because the mother didn't want to take advantage of me. But with the joy that was flowing between that 11-year-old boy and me, I think that I would've been willing to take them all the way to Texas!

Who says there's no free ride?

I mentioned that these weren't my most profitable customers, but they weren't my least profitable either. I actually hauled one guy for free. He was a New Yorker, not much more than a kid really -- maybe late teens or early 20s. I got the impression that he might have hitchhiked down here. He told me straight up that he didn't have any money, and I said, "Hey, that's cool! It's my first night. I need the practice."

At the end of the ride, he said, "Thanks man. Hey, I've got some cookies I found. They're really good! Take them. I feel bad that I can't pay you."

"No thanks, man, it's OK. Really."

"Well how about this cigarette lighter? Can I give you my cigarette lighter?"

"Thanks, but I don't need it. It was my pleasure. Really, it's OK."

I know that the job's primary purpose is to provide for my family and that providing free transport to down and out ramblers won't necessarily help me accomplish that. But I'm thinking that one of these days when Jesus is sorting things out, he might say to me, "Mark, remember that time I was in New Orleans, and you gave me a free ride?" (See Matthew 25:32-46.)

And I'll say, "Yeah, I remember that! But I've got one burning question for you... If it's OK. What was up with the cigarette lighter!"

An intoxicated Welsh nationalist

Given the French Quarter's reputation, I began the evening expecting to be the designated driver for a lot of drunks. As it turned out there was only one. She and her husband were returning to their hotel room just before midnight. They were probably in their 50s. He barely said a word the whole time and seemed pretty steady getting in and out of the rickshaw, so I'm assuming he was sober more or less. She, on the other hand, was a bit wobbly on her feet; and her speech was slurred and very LOUD.  I recognized from her accent that she was from the U.K., but there was none of the renowned British reserve here.

"I gather that you're from the U.K.," I said to strike up conversation.

"Yes!" she said. "We're from Wales. We're Welsh. We're not English." I've had enough exposure to the U.K.'s various nationalisms (Welsh, Cornish, Scottish, Irish, etc.) to  guess what was coming.

"Have you ever been to the U.K.?" she asked.

"Yes, but only to London and only very briefly."

"Well, you should go to Wales! Wales is wonderful. England is shit."

A few minutes later, apropos of nothing, she called out again from behind me: "England is shit!" Apparently she wanted to be sure I got it.

Then as we pulled up in front of the hotel she shared her assessment of England one more time just in case I had missed it on the previous two occasions: "England is shit!" she shouted.

A high price for a ride.

One more story, this one pretty sad. I approached a young lady (again late teens/early 20s) to ask if she needed a ride, and she said, "Uh... Actually, yeah... But to the Westbank..."

"Oh sorry. I can't take you there," I said, stating the obvious. (For those of you not from around here, the Westbank is the area across the Mississippi River from New Orleans.)

"Yeah, I know," she agreed. "But, um, here's the deal. See, I work at this strip club, right? And I didn't make any money at all tonight. And I don't know how I'm going to get home. Is there any way you could just give me some money to get a cab?"

The cost of a taxi to the Westbank would probably have taken everything I had earned that evening up till that point. "Sorry. I can't help you there," I said as I began pedaling on down the street. I heard her behind me calling out, "I would do anything! I would..." The last part of the sentence was indistinguishable in the general Bourbon Street hubbub as I pulled away. But I have a pretty good idea what she might have been offering. Later on, I felt really bad. I think that if I had it to do over again, I would give her the money. I hope she found someone else to help her get home -- someone decent enough not to charge her the price she was willing to pay.