It took a while to determine what my favourite things about New Orleans were, but then we arrived home to Canada at 1:00am to a rainy 8 degrees it became clearer.
Any hot and sunny place in which the temperature goes up to 90; in which I forget what clouds look like; in which I can wear a tank top at night... is MY KINDA PLACE. When PALM TREES are one of the first things I see coming out of my hotel to cross Canal Street toward the French Quarter? That's when you know you've got me. I'm totally hooked.
When you add a shit-ton of people, music, and restaurants? Well, my glee flies to a whole new level.
|Deep fried & heavily cheesed|
Let me tell you, Hubby and I are not vegans or anything, but frig, how can anyone survive eating food like this day after day?! Holy hell. And on a full stomach of beer and gumbo? You guys. That's tough, y'all.
However, when the drinks were forgotten, and the food was the worst possible shit I've ever put in my mouth, and then the waitress tells us "sorry..." half of Hubby's meal has been "lost in the ether of the kitchen" and she "looked twice, but it just wasn't there" and she doesn't seem to have any intention of replacing it... I start to get testy.
So, in my most successful New Orleans moment, I told that absent minded dufus of a waitress - not rudely, but frankly - that in almost 30 years of eating out, a mysteriously missing side dish has never, ever, not been replaced. Especially when it was shitty food worth less than McDonald's but costing 10 times more.
|Hubby's bead hunt.|
Like on beers and beads. Although the beads are "free" so to speak.
|Polly want a beignet?|
N'awlins is a tip-driven town.
Everyone here wants my money and they will do near anything to get it. They may get naked and stand outside a strip club to lure me in. They may play me a Canadian tune on the guitar. They may dress like the Swamp Monster and charge me for a photo. They may even walk around talking to a parrot. Maybe.
The second thing I learned in New Orleans? When you allow me WANDER THE STREETS WITH BEER IN MY HAND, I'm most likely gonna be up for sharing my money.
Sure! Want a dollar for your mule? Here you go! Want 30 bucks for 3 minutes of pure casino exhilaration? Sure! I've got it right here! You can have it! No, I don't mind. Who needs 30 bucks? Not me!
|This is what you call ladylike.|
Unless it's for beers. I need money for my beers.
Yes, I need one for each hand.
And yes I need a paper bag for the beer bottle, because without concealing it, it would be WAY too obvious that I've been drinking. I don't like to be too obvious.
Because I'm a lady.
|You heard me... LADY.|
Man, our swamp tour was wicked cool. Captain Lewis just drove us out into the muddy waters and riled us up some giant gators. I think jacqui would be jealous. As she should be! That was one awesome trip.
On top of how cool gator hunting was, this is where I achieved my next greatest New Orleans success.
On the way back through the swamp, I spied - yes, little old me - out of the corner of my eye, a GIANT GATOR sunning himself on the shore. I waved at Cap'n Lewis and he slowed the boat, turned us around, and we got one last peak at the Louisiana swamp king before he took off into the water. Crazy mofo.
The giant gator, and Hubby too of course.
|Also a crazy mofo|
|Super hot mom|
Speaking of crazy mofos, if you have not seen Bourbon Street you have not seen crazy. Crazy goes to a entire new world on Bourbon. So much crazy that not even I can keep up.
But don't think I didn't try.
Bourbon Street was my ultimate favourite thing about New Orleans. "Loser lapping" up and down Bourbon with beers in both hands, beads around my neck, live music pumping out of every bar, and the sweet smell of piss, garbage, and vomit on every corner is my idea of FUN.
|And who's that on the right?|
These people were such crazy mofos that they'd never resist a high five, right? Right.
I managed 50+ high fives in 15 minutes and I have never
Even if we did die from high intake of to-go beers, fried foods, and live bands, it would've been a very worthy death.
I wouldn't really mind dying in any smelly city if the streets were even half as charming with old plaster and black balconies; if the souvenirs were even half as tempting; or if the if the locals were even half as sweet and grateful to tourists.
It really was something special. You should go.