There Is A House In New Orleans

New Orleans just happened to us. We tried to control the situation, but nooo, it had other plans.  There is a reason why Pete and I are exhausted at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday, and it’s all because of Bourbon Street.

"Lock the doors..."

Just to get a sense of the culture shock we’ve experienced, picture a bunch of run down city homes, clearly an impoverished area in need of a deep cleaning, and then shove a cluster of bars, strip clubs, and neon lights right in the middle. That is New Orleans.  When Pete and I showed up, we knew it wasn’t safe to Carla camp, but we didn’t have a hotel in mind. We had called one hotel on our way to make a reservation, but they didn’t take them over the phone. We wanted to secure something at this one place because it was cheap and within walking distance of downtown. The hotel receptionist was very reassuring that there would “definitely be rooms available” upon our arrival. Now we know why. The place was in the middle of a rough-looking city block with a little gravel area for parking (and drug dealing) off to the side. One look at this dump and we were driving in the other direction. No wonder the hotel had openings; it included a room with a bed, bath, and probably a side of theft and assault. We were afraid that Carla would be a sitting duck in that parking lot and we can’t really afford to lose her now to the world of drugs and crime. Adapt! We told Siri we needed a hotel and picked the first recognizable place we could find. Best Western in the French Quarter had garage parking, doors that locked, health standards, and other wide-eyed tourists to make us feel a little more at ease. Not to be offensive, but we felt completely out of our element walking those streets and we just didn’t want to take any chances with our safety. After all, Pete is a strapping fella, but let’s not pretend that he could fight off a street gang. Honestly.

(Oh and on that note, my marvelous mechanic man left the gas cap on Carla's roof for 120 miles. It was still there when we reached New Orleans, despite the fact that we were at one point doing 80 mph on the highway. He owes Carla big time.)

This was a very truthful sign.

Once we settle in to our hotel and got over the fact that it was more than we’d wanted to spend, it began to sink in that we were in New Orleans. As if the smell wasn’t indication enough, we were surrounded by palm trees and those quaint southern balconies with vines twisting through the bricks.  All the houses were mismatched shades of vibrant colors, most of which you wouldn’t pick for a party dress, let alone a front porch. (Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.) With our peace of mind bought and paid for, we left the hotel to explore downtown.  By this time, it was already 9 p.m. on a Sunday and we weren’t expecting much out of the nightlife.  And that’s how the city kicked out butts to Guam and back. As we neared Bourbon Street, the noise and lighting levels began to rise dramatically. When we turned the corner, the place exploded with ruckus. People were everywhere, tumbling in and out of bars, dancing in the street, lying in the street, hanging off of balconies, throwing beads off those balconies, and most of all drinking up a storm. Bourbon Street is twelve electric blocks of live music, temptation and flat out sin, crowded with bars and gentleman’s clubs where no true gentleman would ever find himself. 

Liz meets the Hand Grenade

What alarmed us the most, aside from the nearly naked women beckoning us into the clubs, was the fact that public drinking was not only permitted, it was encouraged. Signs everywhere stated boldly, “Cocktails To Go!” and “Huge Ass Beers,” and they weren’t kidding. They actually invited us to bring our dangerously strong drinks into other establishments. This is how we acquired an impressive collection of signature drink containers, including cups shaped like a turtle, a grenade, and a light-up skull.  People were pushing stuff on us left and right, from shots, to steaks, to lap dances, to straight up prostitution. The one thing we couldn’t find on Bourbon Street was subtlety, as they minced no words in stating “Relax, it’s just sex.” No joke, it was displayed proudly on the ad signs held up by strippers and their pimps disguised as business managers. As we passed clubs such as “Big Daddy’s”  “Hustler,” and “Barely Legal,” I was never so happy to be earning a college degree. Stay in school, kids, otherwise you might end up bikini-clad on Bourbon Street, selling your dignity with a pole and hula-hoop. Whoever thought Pretty Woman was romantic hasn’t been to New Orleans.

Once we were able to wipe the shocked expressions off our faces, we actually really enjoyed our nights on the town.  We had to be careful and certainly took more precautions here than we have in any other city so far.  The place was anything but clean, and stepping into a street puddle made me want to amputate my leg. I may never feel sanitary again… Also, apparently people on Bourbon Street check their manners at the door, because I have never been so blatantly leered at in my life.  Evidently it is perfectly acceptable for men to ask for a peep show in exchange for Mardi Gras beads. I had some choice words for that request took comfort in the likelihood that each of them would catch some sort of VD or be robbed by a hooker. The place was a little rough, even compared to New York City. In fact, I think I feel a little safer in the Big Apple.

At Spirits, drinking The Resurrection

Overall though, the intention of Bourbon Street goers was to party, not plunder, and we realized that everybody there is just seeking a good time. The business owners, however, are out for your wallets. We learned that just because we don’t really want to take a shot doesn’t mean that it won’t happen and that we won’t have to pay out the nose for it.  Yeah, lesson learned there. But, we managed to keep our heads above water and see some really cool dives.  We even went to Spirits, a bar we’d seen featured on Bar Rescue! We giggled in excitement over the idea that John Taffer himself had sat on those very same bar stools and yelled at the same people we spoke to.  The guy may be a jerk, but he certainly turned that place around because it was hopping.

Our favorite place was Pat O’Brien’s, a suggestion from Pete’s dad who had been there 30 years prior. The place was kind of hidden and if we hadn’t been seeking it out we may have missed it entirely. Pat O’Brien’s had a gorgeous patio area with twinkle lights and a flaming fountain. Yes, flaming, it was on fire. It was like Waterfire, it set fire to the rain. This bar was definitely filled with a more sophisticated crowd and the doorman informed us that O’Brien’s is the home of the original Hurricane drink. He also called us “Sir” and “Miss.” I liked that.

Out on Bourbon Street with a Hurricane

We also favored Turtle Bay and chatted with a few locals about our trip. Not only did they do a major double take when they heard we were from Rhode Island, but they were impressed by our um…cajones in attempting this trip at all. I guess we don’t look like the daring type? We’ve actually had several conversations with people along the way who are intrigued by our endeavor. Most people have either never been to Rhode Island or never even met anybody from there. They all think we’re crazy in a good way and many have mentioned how they envy us. People on the highways are slowing down to photograph Carla and wave at us as we pass. We’ve been getting a lot of thumbs up and friendly beeps. We feel a little like celebrities, though Carla is the one with the great runway strut.

Speaking of highways, there are some here that are in the water. Low-lying stretches of road are placed right in the middle of what seem to be rather large bodies of water. Oh, and the trees grow out of the water too. What is up with that?

We loved it here!

We spent our New Orleans days walking around the lovely French Quarter. There was so much to see! Lots of gorgeous street art, jazz performers, and little relic shops packed with treasures and junk, depending on the beholder. The whole voodoo think confused us. We don’t really partake in any of that superstitious stuff, (aside from the Pete-shaped pin cushion I keep in my backpack) but it still added to the atmosphere. We really loved Café du Monde, another suggestion by Pete’s dad. He said it was a must see, and it was certainly a highlight of our visit. Beignets are now an official food group in our diets and the frozen coffees had us coming back for seconds.  

Pete and his Tabasco smothered gumbo

Of course, Pete had to hit up the Tabasco shop. I swear, his blood runs red and spicy because I’ve seen him consume more Tabasco than water during our time together. It often gets the better of him, but it’s the first thing he asks for when we go out to eat. He puts it on EVERYTHING, it’s kind of disgusting, but he swears it keeps him regular. (Didn’t sign up for that little tidbit of info when you started reading this, did ya? Yeah, enjoy that.)  I’m sure he’d put Tabasco in his coffee if that wouldn’t’ cause some sort of fatal internal combustion. It did, however, taste great in the gumbo we had for lunch and dinner. Pete also wolfed a shrimp Po’boy and I had the heavenly jambalaya. New Orleans food agrees with us, though I was a frozen Hand Grenade deep, so everything seemed especially fabulous. Those things should come with a warning, I swear, and perhaps a release form.

The New Orleans unofficial motto may be YOLO (You Only Live Once), but it’s seems their goal is to make that life a whole lot shorter. Too much time there is a real health hazard and we’re slightly relieved to be on our way to Texas. It was a wild ride and a great time, but it’s definitely to be kept at arm’s length. People who plant roots there seem to end up either dancing on a bar or lying under one.  We’d rather not live out the plot of Coyote Ugly, so to our next destination we go.

At our truck stop picnic dinner. 

After a stroll around the French Quarter and a final frozen coffee at Cafe du Monde, we spent the rest of today driving straight on I-10 West towards San Antonio. We had a picnic dinner of sandwiches at a truck stop somewhere. I can't lie, we sat around congratulating each other on our awesomeness and getting the passing trucks to beep. With nowhere to go, nobody to see, and nothing to do but enjoy the drive, it's been the perfect simple day. 

I typed this up in the car on our way through Louisiana and Texas, and now am posting it from the back of Carla. We're parked in a remote lot in front of a library, stealing their WiFi at midnight. Freshly showered from our favorite national gym chain, we have never felt quite so content to be temporarily homeless. Tomorrow, San Antonio and visiting with Auto Adam. 

Lots of crazy lighting in the sky! Guess it's time to find a Wally World and settle in for the night. 

This is just too cool...

Video of New Orleans to come! Too much to upload from a parking lot, apparently. Is it too much to ask that we be able to do everything out of Carla? Sheesh. 

Goonight!

~Liz and Pete, but mostly Carla