After careful consideration, it seems I have left out some crucial details from our night of Nola debauchery. I apologize for the oversight. It will probably happen again.
I’ll pick up where we left off – which, if you recall, is drunk and wandering the French Quarter.
7. Who needs an upcoming Lenten season for Mardi Gras?! Apparently not our friends in Nola. As we trundled along in search of gay bars with less rigorous standards, we encountered a troupe of drunk men throwing beads from a balcony to passersby in the street. I believe my thought process was “Well, when in Rome…” (Or, more likely, “Ooh shiny!! I want!”) A millisecond of boobies was rewarded with showers of green, purple and gold plastic, which I happy gathered up and donned. My gaiety was shattered, however, by this asshole who started snatching some of my beads! Clearly an explanation of the Mardi-Gras-bead-winning order of events was warranted. And it went something like this: “HEY! Those are MY beads, you fuck!” I’m happy to report that I was victorious in that altercation. (Though victory was probably due more to the embarrassment I rained upon that pudgy, balding-at-35 thief than my eloquent argument.)
8. Another “when in Rome” opportunity occurred in the midst of the aforementioned rag-tag parade. While we gawked at fanny-packs and beer-can hair curlers, a pair of scruffy dudes approached us. No more than 15 seconds of small talk had passed before one of them produced a pipe and offered us a toke. Umm… Not only is that hella sketchy (and probably would have resulted in rape, which I had expressly promised Mimi that I would avoid) but I have no interest in exchanging even the most incidental molecules of saliva with wasted strangers. Eww. And we were in the middle of the street! I thought stoners were supposed to be super paranoid, not happily brandishing their pot and paraphernalia for all to see.
9. Once the adventuring spirit had worn off, we headed back to the hotel. Or, tried to head back to the hotel. Somehow, over the course of the evening, our hotel had completely disappeared. Literally. Stacey repeatedly tried to type “Old French Quarter Hotel” into her Maps app, only to be told that Google “cannot calculate directions to this location.” However, what Stacey read was, “Try again, bitch! Find your own way!” … Which began an anti-AT&T rampage that endured for nearly 30 minutes. “I have full bars! And 3G! I’m calling those assholes at AT&T, this is bullshit.” – brief pause to unsuccessfully find contact information on the AT&T website – “Those bastards!! They don’t even have a number!” (AT&T Customer Service Reps on duty at 3am on August 14 should thank their lucky stars that Stacey was too inebriated to navigate to the website’s “Contact Us” tab. There would have been a great many tears in Bangladesh if she’d actually gotten ahold of someone.)
I believe that rounds out Saturday night.
New Orleans – Day Two (Sunday)
Sunday morning found us mysteriously dehydrated and nauseous. After lounging around and feeling sorry for ourselves for an hour or so, we finally ventured out to The Old Coffee Pot for breakfast. This eatery had come highly recommended and – surprise! – had a line down the sidewalk for Sunday brunch. Um, eff that. So we walked down a few blocks and stopped at Devines Café. Little did we know the food-gasm that awaited us. Picture this: a perfectly fried egg and generous slab of fresh mozzarella, nestled between two thick slices of ciabatta, both of which have been lovingly brushed with melted butter and Panini-grilled. AND served with a side of prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe. Life-changing.
After brunch, we window-shopped around the Quarter, took a swamp boat ride, held a baby gator named Elvis... You know, the ush. Unfortunately, after the awesomeness of Saturday, Sunday really couldn’t compare. I do want to give a shout-out to Cajun Pride swamp tours. If you're ever in LaPlace, LA, you should take a cruise with Captain Coyote. He's been bitten by a gator, so he's pretty legit.
 |
| Heyyy, Big Papa! |
 |
| Baby Elvis. Don't squeeze his belly, or he'll pee on you! |
 |
| Post-tour @ Cajun Pride |
No comments:
Post a Comment