New Orleans Is Sinking [part I]
When the phone rang in my room at the Imperial Palace in Biloxi just after midnight on Tuesday night, I knew it was Jack. I had just turned off David Letterman and the bedside lamp, and had given up on him — for the night, I mean. Jack seems to have a sixth sense about this; for knowing the exact moment at which I give up. Because that's when he calls.
He knew my schedule and I knew he wouldn't call on Monday night, because I was to land in New Orleans after 11:00 and it's at least an hour's drive to Biloxi. It was 1:30 by the time I checked in and made my way down to the casino.
Time means nothing in a casino, which is why I like to hang out in them. Sometimes. Not too frequently, and not for too long. But it's been a year and a half since I was last here. On that trip I had flown into Mobile, stayed in Biloxi, driven up to Meridian, then over to D'Iberville, then to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. The thing about Mississippi is, you can't fly there on Air Canada, and you have to drive anyway, once you're there, so you might as well fly into someplace interesting like New Orleans or Memphis.
It took me longer than I'd expected to drive here from the New Orleans airport. It had been thundering at the car rental office, and not long after I got out on the I-10 it opened up and poured rain of such biblical proportions I feared I'd be swept into the Tchoutacabouffa River. I had to slow down to 70 mph, the speed limit in Louisiana, which no one drives when the weather is clear. See, the roads are smooth as glass in the deep south, because there's no snow or ice to crack them up. The lanes on the highways are lined with tiny reflectors. It's mesmerizing. Easy to drive 85 and not feel like you're going too fast.
But back to Monday night: I'm sitting at a bar called Kanpai, in the casino at the Imperial Palace. Of the seven or eight bars in the casino I chose this one, bypassing the Geisha bar, the Mai Tai Lounge, and the Saki bar, because I was curious about the name. I asked Darnell, the bartender, what it means.
"It's Japanese," he says, then adds, "Or Chinese."
"I figured it was Japanese," I reply with a smile, keeping every drop of sarcasm out of my voice, because he meant well. "But what does it mean, do you know?"
"It's like a theme, the Imperial Palace. You know, it's all Japanese or Chinese or something. Asian."
Or something. I despaired of dwelling on this descant with Darnell.
I hadn't, in fact, yet made the connection between the name of the hotel and the names of the bars. The hotel itself is in no way reminiscent of Japan. Not outside, where the building is trimmed with pale blue neon piping, nor inside, where it is nondescript in every way. This is Biloxi, not Las Vegas. They don't seem to try very hard on their theme hotels. Not even the waitresses' outfits are Japanese in style.
It's a small bar. There are no draught taps, only oxymoronic Miller Genuine Draft in a bottle. I inquire of Darnell whether he has any German beer.
"Just Heineken," he says.
Though for many years I followed Tim's advice, to always drink the beer that's brewed closest to where you're sitting, there are places in the world, and Mississippi is one of them, where that's not going to be the best beer to drink and it just might be the worst. Besides, I had decided a few years ago that life is too short to drink American beer.
"Then that's what I'll have," I tell Darnell.
It had been a long flight — two, actually, through O'Hare — and a very bumpy landing. The pilot announced we were descending, gave the usual speech to the flight attendants about preparing the cabin for landing, which they began, lethargically, to do. Then, less than a minute later, the captain's voice clicked on again and barked, "Flight attendants, take your seats!"
Boy, did they. We headed in on what I like to think was a 45° angle.
After the landing the purcer — that's what she called herself — thanked us "on behalf of the San Francisco-based crew." I supressed the urge to ask her whether she'd ever encountered the chocolate guy.
A long flight, a bumpy landing, a rainy drive, and, finally, a lonely hotel. You can see why I needed a beer after that.
I'm the only person at the bar not playing the built-in video poker games. You know, Gentle Reader, what I'm doing instead, but what you don't know is that I'm doing it with Darnell's pen. Poor man, I'm sure he senses no tip from me, but he'll be wrong about that.
I have nothing against gambling, it's just that I'm not any good at it. Neither with slot machines, nor with stock options. I might risk $50 at roulette when I'm in Las Vegas, but not here, not this trip. Despite its name, there is no glamour in the Imperial Palace casino. There are no tourists, and I'm certain I'm the only business traveller.
At the check-in counter I had encountered a woman of about 45, dragging a very small girl by the hand. "Do you have any rooms for tonight?" she inquired, not politely, of the desk clerk, never letting go of the girl's hand.
As the woman leaned over the counter to fill out the registration form, the little girl leaned over and vomitted on the sparkling marble floor.
"You'll have to call someone to clean that up," the woman said to the desk clerk, as he handed her her room key.
There are few things sadder than a Mississippi casino at 2:00 in the morning.
* * *
I had just dozed off when the phone rang.
"Hey, you," Jack said.
"Hi," I replied, sleepily.
"Oh, I've woken you up! Go back to sleep, I'll call you tomorrow night."
"No, I'm glad you called."
"I thought you might be lonely," said Jack.
"I'm always lonely."
"More so than usual, then, without your kitties."
"Yes."
Then I told Jack about the drive up to Meridian, my presentation at MSU, and the girl at the gas station convenience store in De Soto, who taught me how to open a beer.
And I'll tell you, Gentle Reader, about them too, very soon.
* * *
After reading this Udge post I considered turning on comments today, then decided against it again, for the same reasons I explained here. I always enjoy hearing from my readers, but I prefer to receive and respond to your comments via email. I don't buy the argument that clicking on an email link is more difficult than filling out a comments form — in fact, it's simpler, but email is a private conversation where the commenter is identified to the commentee, which perhaps is why some readers shy away from it. It's also exactly the reason I prefer it.
He knew my schedule and I knew he wouldn't call on Monday night, because I was to land in New Orleans after 11:00 and it's at least an hour's drive to Biloxi. It was 1:30 by the time I checked in and made my way down to the casino.
Time means nothing in a casino, which is why I like to hang out in them. Sometimes. Not too frequently, and not for too long. But it's been a year and a half since I was last here. On that trip I had flown into Mobile, stayed in Biloxi, driven up to Meridian, then over to D'Iberville, then to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. The thing about Mississippi is, you can't fly there on Air Canada, and you have to drive anyway, once you're there, so you might as well fly into someplace interesting like New Orleans or Memphis.
It took me longer than I'd expected to drive here from the New Orleans airport. It had been thundering at the car rental office, and not long after I got out on the I-10 it opened up and poured rain of such biblical proportions I feared I'd be swept into the Tchoutacabouffa River. I had to slow down to 70 mph, the speed limit in Louisiana, which no one drives when the weather is clear. See, the roads are smooth as glass in the deep south, because there's no snow or ice to crack them up. The lanes on the highways are lined with tiny reflectors. It's mesmerizing. Easy to drive 85 and not feel like you're going too fast.
But back to Monday night: I'm sitting at a bar called Kanpai, in the casino at the Imperial Palace. Of the seven or eight bars in the casino I chose this one, bypassing the Geisha bar, the Mai Tai Lounge, and the Saki bar, because I was curious about the name. I asked Darnell, the bartender, what it means.
"It's Japanese," he says, then adds, "Or Chinese."
"I figured it was Japanese," I reply with a smile, keeping every drop of sarcasm out of my voice, because he meant well. "But what does it mean, do you know?"
"It's like a theme, the Imperial Palace. You know, it's all Japanese or Chinese or something. Asian."
Or something. I despaired of dwelling on this descant with Darnell.
I hadn't, in fact, yet made the connection between the name of the hotel and the names of the bars. The hotel itself is in no way reminiscent of Japan. Not outside, where the building is trimmed with pale blue neon piping, nor inside, where it is nondescript in every way. This is Biloxi, not Las Vegas. They don't seem to try very hard on their theme hotels. Not even the waitresses' outfits are Japanese in style.
It's a small bar. There are no draught taps, only oxymoronic Miller Genuine Draft in a bottle. I inquire of Darnell whether he has any German beer.
"Just Heineken," he says.
Though for many years I followed Tim's advice, to always drink the beer that's brewed closest to where you're sitting, there are places in the world, and Mississippi is one of them, where that's not going to be the best beer to drink and it just might be the worst. Besides, I had decided a few years ago that life is too short to drink American beer.
"Then that's what I'll have," I tell Darnell.
It had been a long flight — two, actually, through O'Hare — and a very bumpy landing. The pilot announced we were descending, gave the usual speech to the flight attendants about preparing the cabin for landing, which they began, lethargically, to do. Then, less than a minute later, the captain's voice clicked on again and barked, "Flight attendants, take your seats!"
Boy, did they. We headed in on what I like to think was a 45° angle.
After the landing the purcer — that's what she called herself — thanked us "on behalf of the San Francisco-based crew." I supressed the urge to ask her whether she'd ever encountered the chocolate guy.
A long flight, a bumpy landing, a rainy drive, and, finally, a lonely hotel. You can see why I needed a beer after that.
I'm the only person at the bar not playing the built-in video poker games. You know, Gentle Reader, what I'm doing instead, but what you don't know is that I'm doing it with Darnell's pen. Poor man, I'm sure he senses no tip from me, but he'll be wrong about that.
I have nothing against gambling, it's just that I'm not any good at it. Neither with slot machines, nor with stock options. I might risk $50 at roulette when I'm in Las Vegas, but not here, not this trip. Despite its name, there is no glamour in the Imperial Palace casino. There are no tourists, and I'm certain I'm the only business traveller.
At the check-in counter I had encountered a woman of about 45, dragging a very small girl by the hand. "Do you have any rooms for tonight?" she inquired, not politely, of the desk clerk, never letting go of the girl's hand.
As the woman leaned over the counter to fill out the registration form, the little girl leaned over and vomitted on the sparkling marble floor.
"You'll have to call someone to clean that up," the woman said to the desk clerk, as he handed her her room key.
There are few things sadder than a Mississippi casino at 2:00 in the morning.
I had just dozed off when the phone rang.
"Hey, you," Jack said.
"Hi," I replied, sleepily.
"Oh, I've woken you up! Go back to sleep, I'll call you tomorrow night."
"No, I'm glad you called."
"I thought you might be lonely," said Jack.
"I'm always lonely."
"More so than usual, then, without your kitties."
"Yes."
Then I told Jack about the drive up to Meridian, my presentation at MSU, and the girl at the gas station convenience store in De Soto, who taught me how to open a beer.
And I'll tell you, Gentle Reader, about them too, very soon.
After reading this Udge post I considered turning on comments today, then decided against it again, for the same reasons I explained here. I always enjoy hearing from my readers, but I prefer to receive and respond to your comments via email. I don't buy the argument that clicking on an email link is more difficult than filling out a comments form — in fact, it's simpler, but email is a private conversation where the commenter is identified to the commentee, which perhaps is why some readers shy away from it. It's also exactly the reason I prefer it.
Labels: hanging in bars, Jack, travel
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