Charm of New Orleans links to sweet memories

In 1969, my family traveled to New Orleans. I was 10 years old, and, although we had already taken our fair share of driving vacations from our home base in the Chicago suburbs, I had never seen a place like this. From the majestic antebellum homes, to the intricate wrought-iron railings and cobblestone streets of the French Quarter, its charm captured my imagination.

At the time, my father was general manager for a broadcast company headquartered in New Orleans and run by two brilliant brothers. Originally from the East Coast, the Starrs were close friends with many journalists of the time, such as William F. Buckley. My parents were always voracious readers, enthusiastic and curious, and took me on trips that fed my intellectual hunger. But in a place like New Orleans, the history, romance and unique sense of excess required no explanation, even for a 10-year-old girl.

One of our first excursions was a drive over the Lake Ponchatrain Causeway, the longest bridge in the world. Later that day, we would be sailing that same sparkling lake, in a boat owned by one of the charismatic brothers.

On display in the shops of the French Quarter were remarkable and completely foreign things: canisters full of bright shells, "Aunt Jemima" dolls, and genuine cotton balls from the fields, which came with a story explaining the history of Eli Whitney and his famous cotton gin. There, I had my first taste of pralines, impossible to ignore, and almost sickeningly sweet. As a birthday gift, my mother bought me my first bottle of perfume, the name of which I can no longer recall. But I vividly remember the thrill of dabbing it on my wrist, on which I wore my other precious birthday present, a silver charm bracelet.

Although I was too young to accompany my parents to the renowned Antoine's Restaurant, open since 1840, they regaled me with stories of Maître'd Roy Alciatore, grandson of the founder, who saw the restaurant through turbulent times such as Prohibition and World War II, and had served nearly every U.S. president in office during his 40 years in charge. He always ushered my father's entourage in through the side door, seating them immediately. When they had business guests to impress, he poured brandy the length of the table and set the tablecloth on fire. I couldn't entirely imagine these scenes, but I was old enough to have some idea of what I was missing out on.

In 1988, now in my 20s, I visited New Orleans for a getaway weekend. George H.W. Bush was in the final months of his presidential campaign, and I was in a relationship with an advance man on his staff. Although I was able to meet the future president at a cocktail party, the trip had lost its luster for me because of the strain of a long-distance relationship in its last throes. Much of my time was spent alone, and to be in New Orleans alone seemed pointless and terribly sad.

On my last afternoon there, I rode the hotel elevator down from the fifth floor to the lobby, lost in thought. From the corner of my eye, I saw something glittering on the dark elevator carpet. It was a stunning diamond bracelet, a sparkling treasure in the most unlikeliest of places. I imagined its owner, frantically searching for it. As I turned it in at the front desk, I could see the look of disbelief on the clerk's face. I was assured that, should it go unclaimed, they would contact me. I never heard from that hotel again, but I left town knowing that another woman's visit would be salvaged.

Twenty-four shining mementos now adorn my silver bracelet, many from trips much farther away, but I especially like the one depicting a paddleboat making its lazy journey down the river, halting time in its wake.

Cindy Vandersluis lives in Seattle.

The Travel Essay, written by readers about an adventure or insight, runs each Sunday in The Seattle Times and also online at seattletimes.com. Essays, which are unpaid, must be no longer than 600 words and will be edited for content and length. E-mail to travel@seattletimes.com or send to Travel, The Essay, The Seattle Times, P.O. Box 70, Seattle, WA 98111. Because of the volume of submissions, individual replies are not always possible.