Other Springs

Water isn't always welcome. With an inoperative rear windshield wiper, traveling along the Interstate is challenging. We're headed for the coast, dripping our way there. Other drivers seem nonplussed by the deluge, ignoring the covert danger when wet pavement and speeding vehicles interact. Phone calls chart our progress and we'll arrive in time for a very late lunch.

Just weeks ago, a storm came calling. Definitely no gentleman, Isaac left devastation in his wake. For people who flinch when someone mentions "Katrina," every fall season is fraught with anxious weather reports. Vacant lots, deserted foundations and rearranged signs are tangible reminders of the infamous hurricane. Memories etched permanently within the very marrow of the residents.

Our hotel, the venerable Beau Rivage, closed for a few days as Isaac blustered past. Copious water accumulated on Highway 90, abutting the property. Swaths of sand mingled with debris, making ugly the usually pristine Gulf coast.

We're visiting a distant relative who, in reality, is very close. Discovered the new-fashioned way via an Internet genealogical message board site, Dottie's expanded her family to include us. Despite our fifth cousin status, we're incredibly synched, sharing life's travails as well as its jubilation. Erasing the years when we existed without knowledge of each other, we routinely trade tales of childhood, child rearing, and careers.

Some years ago, pre-Dottie, Henry and I wandered the streets of what is 'her' town. Even the vintage trees lining the main thoroughfare have a certain aesthetic. Stores proudly promote art in its many forms. Shearwater Pottery attracts devoted enthusiasts. (I have my own cherished mini-collection of bowls, glasses and pitchers.) Perfectly stocked gift shops beckon eager customers. At the charming Poppy's, a retired teacher friend of Dottie's presides. Salmagundi, celebrating its 50th year, entices me with terrific potential presents.

During our coastal sojourn, we linger at Dottie and Kenny's comfortable home, lulled by their gracious hospitality. One afternoon, we're busy cake making, using a decades old recipe of mine. By substituting lime juice for the usual lemon in the glaze, we tweak the ingredients just slightly and are more than pleased with the results.

Two year old grandson Wes infuses the family gathering with unrestrained energy and an insatiable curiosity. He also brings the 'cuteness' quotient to an phenomenal level.

Proud parents watch admiringly as their little boy explores his Nana and PawPa's familiar home. In the backyard, Wes demonstrates nascent athletic skills as he hits kid-sized golf balls with alacrity.

He's equally comfortable cuddled up on a bunk bed with his 'Aunt' (my honorary designation) reading book after book. Reading is routine with Wes's beloved Nana.

At the Beau Rivage, we combine a bit of gambling with gelato intervals. It's not difficult to discern which activity appeals to each of us. From our hotel window, we see water flowing lazily through the back bay with no impending weather alerts disturbing the peaceful scene. The Gulf itself is almost silent, quite serene.

Heading west for ninety minutes, we approach New Orleans, a city constantly at the mercy of surrounding water. Monitoring our GPS along the way, I'm surprised to note a message which reads, 'landside two miles ahead.' What? How can that be? We proceed slowly, not sure what we may encounter. It turns out that the 'landslide' is actually a truck that lost its cargo on the Interstate. I suppose the GPS does not contain such a descriptor and 'landslide' is substituted instead.

With a favorite hotel across Canal Street from the French Quarter, we're familiar with the surrounding area. Happily, the weather is conducive to walking with heat and humidity reduced to a comfortable combination. However, extensive sidewalk repairs impede our journey and we turn to alternate streets in order to continue. Stopping at the Historic New Orleans Collection Museum, I feel my brother's presence although he was an employee long ago in the early 1970's.

A river walk provides a last chance to scan the incredibly low water Mississippi. The paucity of huge ships speaks volumes.

In the early evening, we select a busy restaurant with an extensive menu. Henry enjoys raviolis while I'm quite pleased with Brewer's Chicken, sauteed in a Marzen Bavarian lager sauce.

Suitcases are stuffed and I fret that we may exceed the weight limit on our flight to Dallas the next day. There's time for a late night snack. Across the street from the hotel is Lucy's Surfer Bar. Yes it is frequented by a different demographic but we've eaten there in the past and really like the food. Henry suggests that we can tell people we're looking for our adult children. Obviously that's not necessary at all.

As is my habit, I learn the hostess' story. She's a graduate student, seeking a MSW degree. Perky, compassionate about her chosen discipline, she'll flourish as a professional. Our delightful server is also a college student. Her major is International Business. I am hopelessly (and sincerely) enthusiastic as I encourage both these young women to pursue their dreams.

Lucy's burgers are legendary and Henry's totally satisfied with his choice. I steal a few fries but primarily devote myself to a new and scrumptious dessert. Served creatively in a martini glass, the Key Lime Tini is swirled with pistachios, simply divine. A flawless conclusion to our Ocean Springs/New Orleans journey.