New Orleans Trip
Suggested Soundtrack: “Galaxie” by Blind Melon
or:
"Paranoid Android" Jazz Cover of Radiohead by Brad Mehldau
New Orleans by the numbers:
# of hours spent in the city: 59
# of hours spent sleeping: maybe 14
# of alcoholic beverages consumed: who knows
# of cigarettes smoked: 60-something
# of karaoke songs sung to very crowded bar: 1
# of cute girls needed to provide backup for said song: 3
# of boobs seen: 18 (as in 9 pair)
# of German tourists befriended: 1
# of live music acts witnessed: 6
# of offers from perfect strangers to buy some coke: 7 (just avoid eye contact, and the scary man will go away)
# of requests from perfect strangers for me to sell them some coke: 3 (look at the requestor as if they have some sort of incurable-yet-voluntary mental illness)
# of actual meals sat down for: 2
# of street vendor hot dogs consumed: 2, unfortunately (see below)
# of blackouts: 2
# on a scale from 1-10 on the likelihood of another visit to New Orleans, with 1 being never, ever again and 10 being VERY FUCKING SOON: 10
What a cool town. Considering all the shit that this place has gone through, it’s a damn miracle that it still parties as hard as it does. New Orleans is such an anomaly, such a bizarre place to find myself in in the middle of America. Anyone who has been to New Orleans will understand…with the same standards of partying as Vegas, and a Euro vibe (narrow streets, lots of litter, public drunks), the French Quarter is heaven for a history-loving boozehound such as myself. Uptown and the Garden District, where you can find Autobahn Park, and Loyola and Pepperdine Universities, is a sight to behold with its humongous mansions, stout trees, old-time streetcars and clumps of stranded beads hanging from the power lines. But, as you know, it is not all happy here. Head out of town on interstate 10 and you will see on all sides an absolute mess. Abandoned homes, restaurants, and hotels. Weeds that grow high enough to obscure the first floors of most buildings. Whole large parcels of land that look like the aftermath of a zombie invasion. At night, there are no lights in these places, because the people that lived and worked there are as far, far away. The ones that aren’t far away can be found in the tent cities under the freeway just north of the French Quarter, in a permanent campground for those who had nowhere to go, or would rather be nowhere else. It has only been a few years since the storm, and every conversation that lasts longer than a few minutes eventually comes around to Katrina. I would imagine it was (and possibly still is) the same way in Manhattan regarding 9/11. The people that are left here (400,000 moved and didn’t come back) have come to cope, I suppose, and the stories they tell are sometimes funny but mostly just scary as hell: martial law, and the machinegun-toting soldiers that enforced it; the pain of having to evacuate and leave your pets behind; the shock of finding appliances and boats and downed trees in your front yard, but not finding your house there; signs everywhere that read “You loot, we shoot”; the sometimes tasty, sometimes nasty dining experience that is the MRE (Meal-Ready-to-Eat). After all that shit, some people stayed, not because they had to, but because, I think, they wanted the city to be the way is was before a gigantic storm came through and very nearly pulled the whole area into the sea.
But enough of that.
New Orleans is swinging hard, and this weekend in particular was special because it was the French Quarter Festival. Lots of stages set up on the streets, and (according to my guide) more street art vendors that usual. I flew in right after work on Friday, and hit the ground running. Elaine was my guide, and after dropping my stuff off at her place in the Quarter, we hit the town. Seeing as we never bothered to eat anything, and my last meal happened back at 2pm, I got good and drunk. I really have no idea what time we got in that next morning, but waking up at 11am took some serious effort.
To properly wake up and conquer the hangover, we headed to Café du Monde for coffee and beignets (French Donut Thingie covered in powdered sugar). Holy shit. Strong coffee, and some of the best sugarbombs I’ve ever had. I could see why the place had a huge line (which we skipped, somehow) and why everyone who knew I was headed to New Orleans told me to go there. Yum.
After that, we wandered the streets of the Quarter for some time, checking out the jazz bands that sat at random intervals along the way. We popped into Tricou, a bar that Elaine used to work at, and started the heavy drinking. Two rum punches and I was working a respectable buzz. Elaine was feeling sick so I walked her home, and after a brief nap, I headed back out to Bourbon Street on my own. This must’ve been 4 or 5 in the afternoon. First stop: Tricou, where the bartender recognized me from earlier and proceeded to pour me more of those heavy-handed-hangovers-waiting-to-happen. Four down, and I hit the road, some primal instinct telling me that I should eat something, anything, if I was gonna drink like I had planned. So I headed to the Lucky Dog hot dog stand, which reminded me of one of my favorite literary characters, Ignatius J. Reilly of the fantastic novel A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole (if you haven’t read it, do so as soon as possible, if you need a copy I’ll mail you one of mine). Locals call it “Pigeon in a Bun,” and bearing that in mind, I ordered the smoked pigeon hot dog. I could tell you what it was like, but I’d rather quote Confederacy, as Ignatius tries one of the hot dogs for the first time:
or:
"Paranoid Android" Jazz Cover of Radiohead by Brad Mehldau
New Orleans by the numbers:
# of hours spent in the city: 59
# of hours spent sleeping: maybe 14
# of alcoholic beverages consumed: who knows
# of cigarettes smoked: 60-something
# of karaoke songs sung to very crowded bar: 1
# of cute girls needed to provide backup for said song: 3
# of boobs seen: 18 (as in 9 pair)
# of German tourists befriended: 1
# of live music acts witnessed: 6
# of offers from perfect strangers to buy some coke: 7 (just avoid eye contact, and the scary man will go away)
# of requests from perfect strangers for me to sell them some coke: 3 (look at the requestor as if they have some sort of incurable-yet-voluntary mental illness)
# of actual meals sat down for: 2
# of street vendor hot dogs consumed: 2, unfortunately (see below)
# of blackouts: 2
# on a scale from 1-10 on the likelihood of another visit to New Orleans, with 1 being never, ever again and 10 being VERY FUCKING SOON: 10
What a cool town. Considering all the shit that this place has gone through, it’s a damn miracle that it still parties as hard as it does. New Orleans is such an anomaly, such a bizarre place to find myself in in the middle of America. Anyone who has been to New Orleans will understand…with the same standards of partying as Vegas, and a Euro vibe (narrow streets, lots of litter, public drunks), the French Quarter is heaven for a history-loving boozehound such as myself. Uptown and the Garden District, where you can find Autobahn Park, and Loyola and Pepperdine Universities, is a sight to behold with its humongous mansions, stout trees, old-time streetcars and clumps of stranded beads hanging from the power lines. But, as you know, it is not all happy here. Head out of town on interstate 10 and you will see on all sides an absolute mess. Abandoned homes, restaurants, and hotels. Weeds that grow high enough to obscure the first floors of most buildings. Whole large parcels of land that look like the aftermath of a zombie invasion. At night, there are no lights in these places, because the people that lived and worked there are as far, far away. The ones that aren’t far away can be found in the tent cities under the freeway just north of the French Quarter, in a permanent campground for those who had nowhere to go, or would rather be nowhere else. It has only been a few years since the storm, and every conversation that lasts longer than a few minutes eventually comes around to Katrina. I would imagine it was (and possibly still is) the same way in Manhattan regarding 9/11. The people that are left here (400,000 moved and didn’t come back) have come to cope, I suppose, and the stories they tell are sometimes funny but mostly just scary as hell: martial law, and the machinegun-toting soldiers that enforced it; the pain of having to evacuate and leave your pets behind; the shock of finding appliances and boats and downed trees in your front yard, but not finding your house there; signs everywhere that read “You loot, we shoot”; the sometimes tasty, sometimes nasty dining experience that is the MRE (Meal-Ready-to-Eat). After all that shit, some people stayed, not because they had to, but because, I think, they wanted the city to be the way is was before a gigantic storm came through and very nearly pulled the whole area into the sea.
But enough of that.
New Orleans is swinging hard, and this weekend in particular was special because it was the French Quarter Festival. Lots of stages set up on the streets, and (according to my guide) more street art vendors that usual. I flew in right after work on Friday, and hit the ground running. Elaine was my guide, and after dropping my stuff off at her place in the Quarter, we hit the town. Seeing as we never bothered to eat anything, and my last meal happened back at 2pm, I got good and drunk. I really have no idea what time we got in that next morning, but waking up at 11am took some serious effort.
To properly wake up and conquer the hangover, we headed to Café du Monde for coffee and beignets (French Donut Thingie covered in powdered sugar). Holy shit. Strong coffee, and some of the best sugarbombs I’ve ever had. I could see why the place had a huge line (which we skipped, somehow) and why everyone who knew I was headed to New Orleans told me to go there. Yum.
After that, we wandered the streets of the Quarter for some time, checking out the jazz bands that sat at random intervals along the way. We popped into Tricou, a bar that Elaine used to work at, and started the heavy drinking. Two rum punches and I was working a respectable buzz. Elaine was feeling sick so I walked her home, and after a brief nap, I headed back out to Bourbon Street on my own. This must’ve been 4 or 5 in the afternoon. First stop: Tricou, where the bartender recognized me from earlier and proceeded to pour me more of those heavy-handed-hangovers-waiting-to-happen. Four down, and I hit the road, some primal instinct telling me that I should eat something, anything, if I was gonna drink like I had planned. So I headed to the Lucky Dog hot dog stand, which reminded me of one of my favorite literary characters, Ignatius J. Reilly of the fantastic novel A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole (if you haven’t read it, do so as soon as possible, if you need a copy I’ll mail you one of mine). Locals call it “Pigeon in a Bun,” and bearing that in mind, I ordered the smoked pigeon hot dog. I could tell you what it was like, but I’d rather quote Confederacy, as Ignatius tries one of the hot dogs for the first time:
“My,” Ignatius said to the old man after taking his first bite. “These are rather strong. What are the ingredients in these?”
“Rubber, cereal, tripe. Who knows? I wouldn’t touch one of them myself.”
That being said, it was delicious.
Having fortified myself, I headed to The Cat’s Meow where 3-for-1 beers were being offered. In I went.
There I met a couple of girls from up Baton Rouge way: Amanda, who had just turned 21, and her friend Shannon. We became fast friends, and after a short time it was decided that we should sing karaoke. Since “Don’t Stop Believin” was mysteriously “not working,” we decided to do a rendition of Madonna’s “Like A Prayer.” It was awesome. It was easily the most people I’d ever sang in front of, and the girls kicked ass and took names (if we’d been able to sing Journey, man, that place would’ve come apart). We danced:
Took pictures:
The girls hit the stage:
It was a riot.
At some point, the girls took off, but not before exchanging numbers, which was cool. Hopefully our paths cross again.
Alone again, drunk and at large in a strange new city, I did the only respectable thing and went out for another hot dog.
…and then it was back to aimless wandering with a plastic bucket full of booze as my only companion.
The only strangers to talk to me were either a) offering to sell me coke, or b) wanting to buy some coke off of me. So I was a bit wary of the tiny, grinning man in the red shirt that was all of a sudden hanging out with me. Turns out this guy is from Germany (so’s my Papa) and he had gotten to New Orleans earlier that day. He was flabbergasted. He was amazed at the drunken revelry going on all around him, and was really stoked about “zee titties.” Empowered by my full 24-hours-worth of experience, I elected myself ambassador to my German friend. We got ahold of some beads, went back to the Cat’s Meow, climbed the stairs to the second floor balcony, and proceeded to get the guy all the pictures of “zee titties” that his camera could hold. We met a large group of ladies from Dallas, danced around for good long time, and when they departed for some bar with an automatic bull thing, German boy went with them. At this point the sun was on its way up, so I stumbled back to Elaine’s and crashed out.
Sunday, funday. Waking up, it tasted like a beer ate a cigarette and then took a dump in my mouth. Took a quick shower, and Elaine was all better, so the two of us and Elaine’s friend Sadie headed uptown for a picnic.
Picked up Po’boys...
...sat in the park across from Tulane and Loyola...
...fed some squirrels, and headed to the nearby town of Slidell where my Aunt Charmaine lives. Hadn’t seen my Aunt in 14 years, turns out she’s as cool as I remember. Beers, cigarettes, steaks, French fries, and good conversation. It was a vacation inside a vacation. We talked the evening away, and after tearful goodbyes, headed back to the quarter. Drank a lot more, until the sun was on its way up again, and I knew my time in New Orleans was coming to a close.
After showering at Elaine’s, hopped in a cab, and sped off to the airport to catch my 8am flight. Upon arrival in Dallas, hopped in the car and went right to work. Felt kinda like:
All in all, a great trip. It was great to see Elaine. It was good to meet new friends. It was a treat to explore a new place, with and without a tour guide.
Hear me now, New Orleans: I shall return. And when I come back, if “Don’t Stop Believin’” is still “broken,” there will be hell to pay. Consider yourself warned, city. And thanks for the good times.
Until next time…
Having fortified myself, I headed to The Cat’s Meow where 3-for-1 beers were being offered. In I went.
There I met a couple of girls from up Baton Rouge way: Amanda, who had just turned 21, and her friend Shannon. We became fast friends, and after a short time it was decided that we should sing karaoke. Since “Don’t Stop Believin” was mysteriously “not working,” we decided to do a rendition of Madonna’s “Like A Prayer.” It was awesome. It was easily the most people I’d ever sang in front of, and the girls kicked ass and took names (if we’d been able to sing Journey, man, that place would’ve come apart). We danced:
Took pictures:
The girls hit the stage:
It was a riot.
At some point, the girls took off, but not before exchanging numbers, which was cool. Hopefully our paths cross again.
Alone again, drunk and at large in a strange new city, I did the only respectable thing and went out for another hot dog.
…and then it was back to aimless wandering with a plastic bucket full of booze as my only companion.
The only strangers to talk to me were either a) offering to sell me coke, or b) wanting to buy some coke off of me. So I was a bit wary of the tiny, grinning man in the red shirt that was all of a sudden hanging out with me. Turns out this guy is from Germany (so’s my Papa) and he had gotten to New Orleans earlier that day. He was flabbergasted. He was amazed at the drunken revelry going on all around him, and was really stoked about “zee titties.” Empowered by my full 24-hours-worth of experience, I elected myself ambassador to my German friend. We got ahold of some beads, went back to the Cat’s Meow, climbed the stairs to the second floor balcony, and proceeded to get the guy all the pictures of “zee titties” that his camera could hold. We met a large group of ladies from Dallas, danced around for good long time, and when they departed for some bar with an automatic bull thing, German boy went with them. At this point the sun was on its way up, so I stumbled back to Elaine’s and crashed out.
Sunday, funday. Waking up, it tasted like a beer ate a cigarette and then took a dump in my mouth. Took a quick shower, and Elaine was all better, so the two of us and Elaine’s friend Sadie headed uptown for a picnic.
Picked up Po’boys...
...sat in the park across from Tulane and Loyola...
...fed some squirrels, and headed to the nearby town of Slidell where my Aunt Charmaine lives. Hadn’t seen my Aunt in 14 years, turns out she’s as cool as I remember. Beers, cigarettes, steaks, French fries, and good conversation. It was a vacation inside a vacation. We talked the evening away, and after tearful goodbyes, headed back to the quarter. Drank a lot more, until the sun was on its way up again, and I knew my time in New Orleans was coming to a close.
After showering at Elaine’s, hopped in a cab, and sped off to the airport to catch my 8am flight. Upon arrival in Dallas, hopped in the car and went right to work. Felt kinda like:
All in all, a great trip. It was great to see Elaine. It was good to meet new friends. It was a treat to explore a new place, with and without a tour guide.
Hear me now, New Orleans: I shall return. And when I come back, if “Don’t Stop Believin’” is still “broken,” there will be hell to pay. Consider yourself warned, city. And thanks for the good times.
Until next time…
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