"How about bringing Diana from work?" Jean had suggested. "I've never met her husband, but she's so nice that I'm sure we'll have fun." George and Diana happily accepted.
We gathered on Thursday after work and, following introductions, took off into clear skies. Lively conversation soon filled the cabin as everyone got to know each other. We'd known Jan and Bernie for years; they were interesting and great fun to be around. Diana was reserved but charming.
But based on his surprise at finding Cessna wings mounted on top of the airplane, George was not the aviation expert he'd claimed to be. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but he spoke monotonously and perhaps a little too much about himself. Upon enduring a lengthy demonstration of his new camera, we learned that George was also "a bit of an expert" on photography. "I'lI be the official trip photographer," he announced.
Dusk fell while we were over southern Indiana, and thunderstorms began to appear. Although massive, they were largely isolated, so instead of causing much worry, they entertained us with glowing internal pulses of yellow and orange against a velvet sky.
While the rest of the passengers sat silently engrossed, with noses pressed against the windows, George seemed unimpressed. He droned on about nothing in particular, disturbing everyone else's wonder at what lay outside. Throughout the incredible show his camera never left its case.
Reaching Kentucky in darkness, we learned that multiple cloud layers were forming ahead, alarmingly peppered with embedded thunderstorms. Memphis was shrouded by low ceilings but clear of storm cells, so I made that our destination and filed an instrument flight plan.
Soon a cloud deck materialized beneath us, bathed like a dance floor in flickering flashes from distant thunderstorms. We joined the instrument approach and descended into nothingness. No amount of encouragement from tiny instrument needles can keep your heart from thumping when descending through nighttime clouds. Even George was silent. Bursting out of blackness at 800 feet, we found the airport drifting tranquilly ahead in a sea of city lights.
We departed Memphis early the next morning, and by noon we were skimming Lake Pontchartrain on final approach to New Orleans Lakefront Airport. There we were welcomed in typical out-of-towner fashion - bilked on our brief cab ride downtown. "It's right there," said the driver, pointing to the exorbitant "airport fare" displayed on his dash. Only later did we deduce that the posted fare referred to Moisant International, the commercial airport some 15 miles away.
That small setback was quickly forgotten once we arrived at the French Quarter. Dixieland music filled the air, while everywhere signs and barkers trumpeted auditory, culinary, and carnal delights.
Being in the Crescent City at lunchtime, we got right down to business sampling seafood gumbo and crawfish etouff�e. Even George's unsolicited advice on selecting entrees couldn't dull the flavor. That evening we grooved to jazz at Preservation Hall and Pete Fountain's club, and the next day we toured the city.
For our grand finale, the six of us dined at a landmark New Orleans restaurant on Saturday night. Dressed in our finest formal attire, we sat among bougainvillea blossoms in a century-old courtyard filled with elegant diners.
A waiter in coat and tails promptly appeared with the wine list. "I'll take that," said George. "I'm a bit of an expert on wines." Then he explained how he'd read a book on the topic and had been to a wine-tasting. Next came lengthy dissertations on how to check the bouquet of a fine wine, proper etiquette for tasting samples, and how to return a bad bottle. Mercifully, the waiter soon returned.
Then, as the waiter stood by elegantly with the traditional cloth folded over his arm, George brandished the wine list and turned to order. Mustering his most sophisticated voice for everyone to hear, he loudly proclaimed, "We'll take the bo-jayz'-layz."
After a silent instant of disbelief, Jean burst hysterically into laughter, knocking her silverware clattering onto the tile. The rest of us snorted and clutched our sides in futile attempts to suppress our own mirth. One can only guess what nearby high-brow diners thought as the five of us laughed until tears rolled from our eyes.
The waiter was truly a pro; he never flinched at George's order, nor during our subsequent outburst. There was just the obligatory "Thank you, sir," following which a bottle of beaujolais indeed appeared at our table.
Throughout the uproar George never missed a beat on his wine lecture. Funny that such a character should deliver our most memorable moment in New Orleans.
Sunday we sailed home through clear skies, refueling at Paducah. We met George only once more, when he came with Diana to share his photos. Jan and Bernie joined us for the occasion, and Jean prepared a special dinner. George introduced a large, fancy photo portfolio, and as we gathered 'round to relive our trip, he opened it with great fanfare.
If only George had been smart enough to capture our faces at that moment, he would indeed be a famous photographer today. For among the prints inside there were no New Orleans photos - just 40 or so oversized portraits of himself.
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