LIMO LINES - Tours and Boors

21 January 2015

Houston

Back in the 80's I used to do city tours. I had the gift of gab and had done extensive study on the history of the City of New Orleans.

People would pay good money to see the city, and I did my best to give they their money's worth. Instead of the normal Turista fare, my customers could go as deep into almost any subject as they cared, and I would tailor the tours to the customers' interests. 

Usually I would give tours to two to four people, but there was the occasional minibus full of folks, but either way, the spiel was very informal and interactive. 

One day I had a minibus full of travel agents, and as I passed the Catholic Seminary, I told them that Walmsley Street might just as well be called the "Catholic Street" because of all the Catholic institutions located on it. 

There was the seminary, the Archdioses for the city of New Orleans, a Catholic Home for Unwed Mothers, and across the street is the home for unwed fathers. In fact, there was everything Catholic on that street but a Catholic Church!

Someone asked me to repeat what I just said about the unwed mothers and fathers, and I happily did. 

Frowns crossed a few faces, and grins decorated others, but there was silence for a few moments, until one gentleman brought to my attention that the thought of a home for unwed fathers was preposterous, and that there was either some mistake in my information, or I was joking. 

"Oh, rest assured, my information is quite correct," I said, "and it is right there, as part of the seminary."

A lady laughed and said:"Sir, I'm sure you're joking. Whoever heard of a home for unwed FATHERS??!"

"Ma"am," I explained, "I'm sure you know that Catholic priests do not marry. They certainly must live SOMEWHERE," I continued, "and that is where they live!"

AUDUBON PARK

There was this friggin' HUGE pothole on the way back from the levee at Audubon Park. 

I used to tell folks that this big pothole was the MUTHAH of all potholes, and that we actually did good business sending them all over the country! I almost believe that one myself. 

On the way to the levee, I'd have to cross several active railroad tracks. I'd stop and look both ways before crossing. 

I'd tell the folks that I almost never get hit by a train.

It would get quiet, then someone would pipe up:"ALMOST?!"

Sometimes, there was a long jaunt upriver to the lovely antebellum plantation homes that at one time graced the 

Southland in great numbers.

When I did those trips, there was a long, boring drive up to where the mansions were located. So I would fill in the silence by talking about the city and state's illustrious history, and occasionally I'd throw in some comical or unexpected commentary. 

As we passed a marshland just east of laPlace, I pointed out the thriving nesting area for the state's egrets. Akin to  San Juan de Capestrano and it's famous swallows, I told them that egrets return to this area to nest. 

I explained that these birds were every bit as famous as the swallows of Capistrano were - perhaps even more so. On-cue, one lady interjects:"well, I've never heard of egrets before!" 

 

I explained that it was none other than Ol' Blue-Eyes, Frank Sinatra, who made the birds famous with his song:" EGRETS? I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention."

One evening I was driving a few people who, as I put it, "enjoyed renting opulence by the hour." Unlike tours, these people used to rent a flashy, stretch Lincoln limousine by the hour to go clubbing. 

Although I saw it as a perfect way to avoid DWI, since a Chauffeur is the designated driver, many of these characters enjoyed playing "Big Shot." This attitude sometimes spilled over onto how they treated their Chauffeur. 

Although I never heard "HOME, James," there was definitely a time or two that the treatment was there. My party wanted to go to 4141, back then a very trendy club in Uptown New Orleans. We were heading down fashionable St. Charles Avenue, and I had just pasased up the atrever the club was on, heading another two blocks to the nearest place where a left turn was legal.   

This passenger yells from the back:"Do you know where you're going?"

(I really wanted to say - "Lady, be happy I can drive this jalopy! I just got out of REHAB last week!!")

I did, however, reply, biting my tongue:"Yes, Ma'am, I do know where I'm going, and I can also read the 'No Left Turn' signs that are posted on every corner. 

There's First Class... then there's Low Class.