This American week has been marked by natural oddities both remarkable and catastrophic.
I was in Savannah, Georgia for the solar eclipse. Sadly, Savannah was largely outside of the “path of totality” meaning that all we got to see was the clouds look like they were angry at us for about ten minutes, turn a deeper shade of grey, then return to normality.
I saw one pair of men walk up to a statue of John Wesley, the founder of the Calvinist church, and take turns blowing a horn, but that was pretty much as dramatic as the eclipse got in Savannah.
Savannah is a small, but cool, city — not entirely unlike Gatlinburg, Tennessee, but a lot less flash. There are horse-drawn carriages and an abundance of art dealerships. Downtown’s main drag is mixed elements of the old west with bohemian record stores. A prohibition museum sits next to a chicken wing bar.
Just off the main thoroughfare, willow trees hang over the Savannah city streets and monuments to all sorts of people punctuate crossroads. Much like in Columbia, there are signs everywhere bearing the historical significance of each site, and it’s hard not to feel like Ireland doesn’t have a thing or two to learn in terms of decorating its cities similarly.
Thanks to Greyhound bus delays I ended up missing a connecting bus and spent a day in Orlando accidentally. Being in Orlando for less time than is needed to go to Disneyworld will go down as one of the most frustrating events of my life — though not quite as frustrating as the 14 hour bus journey that followed it.
The last leg of my journey, the seven hours between Jacksonville, Florida and New Orleans, was spent on an otherwise empty Greyhound Bus. For seven full hours the bus driver and I sat there in silence. When we arrive he yelled “Good morning!” and I yelled “Good morning!” back but it turned out he was talking to a Greyhound coworker who had appeared at the door.
New Orleans is a simply spectacular city. Musical, colourful, unique. Bursting with life. The cultural gumbo that has existed here for centuries has produced wonders of food, and art, and alcohol and it is impossible to walk down a single street without being ensnared by some kind of sensory pleasure.
Gardens hang from ornate balconies on brick buildings, jazz music fills the air, signs advertise sazeracs and beignets and all sorts of dishes and drinks unique to this singular city. There is sophistication, there is debauchery, there is fried chicken, there is elaborate seafood. There is everything.
Bourbon Street is something like Magaluf all year round. One dollar shots, no open container laws so people can walk the streets drinking, dancers, drag queens, cocktails… Bourbon Street represents the ultimate marathon for any seasoned pub crawler (enjoy alcohol responsibly). Sadly there are roadworks happening there at the moment, which certainly reduces its allure.
I have to reserve special praise for Willie Mae’s Scotch House. This unassuming restaurant boasts “the best fried chicken in America” — I’m convinced. While in New Orleans, I visited three times over six days, and I already miss it.
The reputation is well-earned, and you make a mistake if you take a trip to New Orleans without stopping by Willie Mae’s.
Obviously, I had to spend my Saturday night watching Conor McGregor in an authentic American atmosphere — full of punters cheering for one of their nation’s finest active athletes against one of country’s own.
Having only ever watched McGregor from the comfort of Irish pubs and living rooms, nothing would have prepared me for the anti-Conor sentiment on show in Louisiana. His walkout was met with boos, and the punches he landed in the first three rounds drew only winces, no applause. Every time he wrapped his arms around Floyd, the entire bars’ arms went up in a “For fuck’s sake, ref!” motion. Of course, McGregor’s ascendancy didn’t last long and Floyd soon began to dominate the fight.
It was then that it became clear just why the crowd was so desperate for McGregor to get beaten. By the ninth round, a man beside me was jumping up and down with both hands on the bar. Referencing one of McGregor’s remarks about Floyd’s training team as “dancing monkeys,” he said “Beat his ass, Floyd. Show him how a monkey do, show him how a monkey be.”
He was disappointed when the ref called the fight — “He disrespected me, my race and daughter? He should have beat his ass for two more rounds,” he said to the woman beside him.
It was a stark reminder that McGregor’s slurs which many fans dismiss as no more than trash talk have a very real impact in the communities they’re directed at. The people stung by McGregor’s comments got to enjoy seeing the Irish fighter get his ass kicked by Floyd Mayweather on Saturday night, and when listening to just how bad they wanted it, it was impossible to begrudge them that satisfaction.
My next stop is unclear now. I had originally planned to travel to Houston after New Orleans — but Houston is now enduring one of the most catastrophic natural disasters in American history. For the time being I’ll be stationed in New Orleans, not least because the Greyhound buses have stopped running from the station while the streets decide whether or not to flood…
Devastating images from #Houston today – the fourth most populated city in the U.S. And still the rain continues… #Harvey pic.twitter.com/SqF7p18wBx
— Dan Holley (@danholley_) August 27, 2017
LISTEN: You Must Be Jokin’ with Aideen McQueen – Faith healers, Coolock craic and Gigging as Gaeilge
