Phase III : New Orleans

I have never been to New Orleans.  I've earnestly watched travel shows that show the history, mystery, and wildness of the city, but I had never been.

I have sufficiently scratched that itch.

After being the only human life form in yelling distance during most of our drives and camps, driving Vincent into the big city was... daunting.  Almost terrifying.  Parking was a challenge, because Vincent is tall and long, and the streets were already crowded at 11.30 in the morning.  Thankfully, we found a lot just at the edge of the French Quarter, and hiked it into the city.

Our first stop was Cafe DuMonde.  Ryan was chatting non-stop about how good the cafe au lait is while we waited in line for a bistro table.  Honestly, I was looking forward to my first beignet.  Neither disappointed.

Thus fueled, we did what we do best:  we wandered.  We looped through several parks, popping into shops when it seemed necessary (*cough* voodoo shops, especially *cough*), and taking in the energy. 

Soon, it became abundantly clear that we needed sustenance, so Ryan looked up a brewery (surprise!).  We dutifully orbited it for a few blocks, because Ryan is not very good at navigation sometimes, but sat down at Crescent City and ordered cold, delicious house-made drinks.  I ordered the Cajun Michelada, made with Red Stallion ale, and an Oyster Club sandwich.

After lunch, we vibed around a bit more, and then we decided to get a roadie, since drinking on the streets is legal in New Orleans.  

We just HAD to go to Pat O'Brien's for Hurricanes.  Then we just HAD to go to Tropical Isle for Shark Attacks.  I got a sticker that says "I Survived the Shark Attack," to which Ryan replied "No, you did not" this morning when I woke up.

This was about where I realized Bourbon Street is just a farce put on by the tourists, and I got really deep while trying to explain this to Ryan, so I finished my drink and suggested we move on to another location.  

We had more Hurricanes at Fat Catz, and danced and danced and danced to the very talented live band.  

We had Zombies at Spirits on Bourbon, and shoved some Boudin Balls in our faces as an apology to our livers.  There's one amazing thing about Bourbon Street- there is music EVERYWHERE.  There are tub drummers on the streets.  Jazz ensembles.  Singers.  Dancers.  The spirit is moving in every nook and cranny.  At Spirits on Bourbon, there were two pianists who encouraged the crowd to sing along.  The vibe is right.

Now, when I say "we" were having these drinks, I mean I saturated my liver while Ryan sipped in moderation, since he was the one that had to drive.  We were pretty much ready to go, until I rounded a corner and found a familiar sight.

This is where we did most of our people-meeting.  I met some lovely chaps from Australia, and we chatted and danced and had a lovely time.  You may have been drunk before, but have you ever been "dancing with a lady sailor on shore leave" drunk?  I kept buying drinks for the sailors, and we made plenty of friends without names that night.

We made one last stop for beignets for the road, then wandered through a now dark-and-empty French Market on the way back to Vincent.

I passed the ride to the campsite in glorious repose, eating Triscuits in bed like a real lady.

In the morning, Ryan cajoled me with tales of how drunk I was while we drove back into the city to check out St. Louis II Cemetery.  We were mostly alone in the cemetery, and it was quite serene.  We strolled briefly and respectfully, paying our dues to the deceased.

At this point, it was after noon, and I was hungry, hung over, and needing a shower, so we hit the road to our next camp spot, so I'll leave New Orleans here!  

Happy travels!!