Whenever
I catch a glimpse of Nita and Zita's dancing uniform , I am reminded
of New Orleans, Byzantia, the renaissance, and hot biscuits and grits.
I
met Seale in a tiny Irish bar buried in the French quarter . All bars
being suspect, why should this one seem different - festering pools
of lascivious males waiting for prey, crowds of women sizing up each
other's "toughmanship," and diluted conversation at best. After pacing
back and forth looking for some other place, I put a lid on my theories
and succumbed to the moment. Stuffed in a corner was a piano with young
man dressed in a loud tropical shirt and glasses that resembled swim
goggles. Swaying with the music under hand, Swim Goggles pounced hurriedly
through Waller's "Your Feet's Too big". But the guy could stride. Impressed,
tired, and hungry, I passed up the tables for a seat at the counter
next to Seale. Seale wore a grin so big, I wasn't sure it was there
due to joy or that mess of fright and obedience peculiar to those driven
crazy.
Swim
Goggles took a break. I asked the bartender about the gumbo. Seale asked
me about the fiddle on my back. She was perky and much more polite to
lascivae than I was. We talked about the Cuban and Irish neighborhood
in New Orleans and I learned about those pockets of a city that hold
its character and harbor, with luck , fantastic music and cuisine. I
asked Seale about Nita and Zita - wild and infamous Hungarian belly
dancers that lived in New Orleans during the 30s. She heard such stories
floating around but knew little more than I.
Nita
and Zita were traditional belly dancers who cashed in on America's romance
with orientalism in the 20s. How they came to bring the grace and pride
of near eastern dance to a town famous for dancing in stilts, no one
seemed to know. Of the old house that they inhabited, Nita and Zita
were said to have painted it and everything in it. Yes, even the kitchen
sink wore their own unmistakably brilliant Colors and swirling animated
patterns. Judy's Antiques near the Esplanade rescued some of this stuff
including rare photographs of the two in traditional contortion and
resplendent homemade finery. I would check out Judy's tomorrow afternoon.
The
guy behind the counter brought me a sample of the gumbo du jour and
passed it around for others to try. Seale told me about crayfish. I
told her of my innocent frustration extracting the meat from the shell
and she informed me of the Louisiana du riguer of sucking heads. I decided
to pass on this opportunity (as well as the alligator-on-a stick experience)
not due to any personal lack of agility, however. Seale told me about
the upstairs rooming house she runs but isn't supposed to. The city
had launched a strong campaign to regulate competition in the abundant
tourist trade. I learned that Omnule, Seale's feral feline companion
, and Seale were often in the bar before it opened. I was directed to
the local watering hole for next day's breakfast and invited to stop
by afterwards to meet Omnule.
In
America , the "breakfast joint" is often a single woman traveler's best
haven. The American breakfast joint ( sic , "local watering hole") fulfills
the same purpose as the Parisian neighborhood tabac except that watering
hole cuisine usually surpasses that of the tabac. Behind the French
market and around the corner through Fiorella's creaky back door was
the watering hole. Ambiance as well as cuisine met all the criteria.
I entered and plopped myself down on one of the old schoolroom chairs
at a big solid table. Produce dealers were sprawled over dark wooden
stools at small high tables meant for "fast bite" fare. A thin and weary
old black woman in a visored cap stood to take her last sip of coffee.
At the table next to me, a huge produce man talked about scheduling
problems with his partner who was still asleep. He asked me about my
fiddle and whereabouts. I asked him what was in season and resolved
to buy some peaches at the market later on. He got happy. I learned
about who was cheating whom on produce orders and what didn't come in
that should have. Not to let the morning run away with gossip and grits,
I said my good bys and headed out to Judy's.
"If
you don't know what you want, we've got it." Such a sign, such a window
- this had to be Judy's. I was greeted at the door by an
upside down pair of mannequin legs draped in poppy beads and phony pearls.
Hanging from the rafters were magnificent homemade costumes from the
30s clearly inspired by the near and far east - glass, beads, brilliant
jewels, fragments of mirror, silk , velvet, and ancient embroidery.
Against a wall stood Nita and Zita's trousseau bursting with exotic
patchwork sundresses and evening gowns. Jeweled hats and complex appendage
coverings sculpted rather than covered the mannequins that wore them
and I let myself slip away into someone else's imagination. These were
two artists whose lives were inextricably bound to their work-so often
the case with women in the arts. I mused at the art history buried in
antique and junque stores, not to mention someone's attic. Judy's daughter
showed me the book she had filled with photographs documenting Nita
and Zita's work. Then she took several costumes down from the ceiling
for me to try on. It was the one with the glass beads and odd swirling
sleeves that got me. Light flew off the walls as I turned and moved.
The thing was clearly made for dancing and drama. I had to have it .
I left the store with this small package of light wrapped in newspaper.
Back
at the rooming house that night , I unwrapped my treasure and imagined
the making of each precious hand-stitch. In my dreams, the French quarter
became Constantinople with New Orleans the hub of some kind of rainbow.
I
never met Omnule. Maybe it had been a real late night for creature and
cohabitant and they never made it to the bar the next morning . Oh well,
on to Fiorella's where I was comforted by the same crowd as before.
I ordered a big traveler's breakfast and decaffeinated coffee . a refill
of decaf is complicated at these kind of places and well it should be
- local watering hole criteria. My grits and biscuits came. The refill
took longer - foreigner's fare. "That's a hell of a big bowl of grits
for a foreigner," said the big produce man. "Nah , not so big . We do
plenty of grits in Oakland where I live." He leaned way back in his
chair. "Eh yeah, I guess maybe that's so. Yeah I guess Oakland's kinda
like New Orleans , ain't it ? Y'all got a lot black and white folks
livin' right up next to each other too, huh."
We smiled and I felt reminded by why in my life, the road feels like
home. |
