WARNING! This post is long and rambling. I decided to keep a journal for mystelf of my trips so when I get old, well I am old, I can remember where I went and what I did. I'm going to file this away so don't feel like you have to read it and respond.
Day One
It was a packing frenzy as I got ready for the trip at the last possible moment. Who really likes to pack anyways. Items were literally flying across the room into my bag with my undergarments being almost doubled in relation to what I actually needed. Women over packed underwear. This much I knew. Did men under pack underwear and somehow there was this underwear balance in the universe? I made a note to ask one of my guy friends about this later. At the last second I remembered the real reason why I was going to New Orleans – a wedding. Quickly I added the dress I always wore to weddings, the matching slip on shoes, and, with a brief eye flooding memory, my Grandmother’s pearl necklace. Still in the box. It was the only thing I packed with care. Luckily I hadn’t unpacked my quart sized plastic container of all my liquids from my last trip so I quickly added that to the bag. Ha, my laziness had paid off again!
I drove two hours from Atlanta to Birmingham, AL because I got a great deal on a flight from Birmingham to New Orleans. I’ll have to remember to check those flights more often. I stopped in at a Cracker Barrel somewhere over the AL border to eat. At some point, although I’m not sure where, I crossed over the accent line as everyone was speaking in a hard southern dialect. I waited patiently to see if I would be receiving the Old Timer’s Breakfast or Grandpa’s Southern Fried Breakfast, knowing all along that there was a gulf of differences between the two. I would have to pay better attention at the AL airport because I knew that there were many other places that began with New besides New Orleans. New Delhi, India, and New Jersey came to mind.
Caren and I enjoyed the ease of parking at the actual airport as opposed to parking in the next county like we do when using the Atlanta airport. Everything was a breeze until Caren had to go through the extra security line because she was wearing too many silver bangles up her arm. I stood next to her and waited while the security guard went over the procedures. She was told that she could stop the frisk at any time if she felt uncomfortable and then was asked if she understood. Caren’s response of “Sure, knock yourself out” sent me into giggle spins. It become one of those moments where the act of stopping myself from laughing only made it worse. I thought of taxes, watching bowling on TV, but none of these boring thoughts kept me from my outbursts. By the time it was over I was still howling all the way to the gate.
The flight was uneventful, as was the 20 min. cab ride to the hotel Pere Marquette. I remembered there was a park near my mother’s place in St. Louis called Pere Marquette. I made a note to Google that later to see who this guy was and why he kept getting things named after himself. After a quick fresh up at the hotel we hit the streets of the French Quarter to meet up with the wedding party to watch the Gators ultimately lose to LSU. The bar was packed with both Florida and LSU fans with constant whoops and shouts going back and forth. I had a complete blast despite the loss because everyone was having so much fun by hooting and cat calling to the other side. After the game, Caren and I were wide awake so we hit the streets again in route to Harrah’s. All that could be seen from the rear of us was asses and elbows as we charged up the street for a little gambling and at 1am in the morning we were definitely up to no good. I learned quickly that everything in N.O. was over the top and constantly caught myself in behavior that would have been unusual for me at home. The phrase “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” was reminiscent in my mind.
Day Two
Had a leisurely breakfast at Café Dumont of coffee and beignets. Cheryl and Eric were right. The beignets are awesome! How is it that every culture has figured out how to fry dough? I wonder if I can get these in Atlanta. After breakfast we took a swamp boat tour down the Mississippi River and into the marshes. The tour guide was a true Cajun but his sing-song accent was easier to understand than the accent of the waitress at the Cracker Barrel. Captain Bob pointed out all kinds of various native birds and plants. It was wild when he attracted alligators to the boat by throwing marsh mellows overboard. Naturally all of the people ran to the side of the boat where the gators got fed causing the boat to tip and lean hard to one side which made me very concerned. He let us touch the teeth on a dead alligator skull and showed us that they were not very sharp. He explained that the teeth were meant to hold on to its prey so that the alligator could pull it under the water and drawn it instead of tearing it to shreds. Very sneaky. He said that one time after a local gator clamped on to a guy’s leg a Game Officer shot the gator two times in the back in order to try kill the gator. The gator let go but later after they caught it they found that the bullets bounced off the gator’s back with no penetration. Captain Bob said the scales on the back are harder than bone and the best way to kill a gator was by penetrating its tummy. He held a baby alligator that he kept in a tank and let us touch the scales to prove he was right. He was right but the whole time I kept wondering where the momma was and if Captain Bob had some kind of previous record that I needed to know about. Another animal that Captain Bob pointed out was a Nutria. Apparently N.O. considered these guys to be a pest because they destroyed the natural barrier to the marshes. So you can shoot these guys all you want and N.O. will give you $5 for each tail. I knew I wouldn’t be able to shoot one because they were too cute, like a beaver, even if they were semi-aquatic over sized rodents. I could tell Captain Bob would have not second thoughts.
After the swamp boat tour we hustled back to the hotel and it was presto-chango as we transformed from swamp tramps to classy wedding ladies. Caren was decked out wearing clear plastic high heel shoes that I thought only Diva’s wore. The wedding of her niece, Anne, went off with out a hitch and was elegant in its simpleness. There was no bridzilla here as her niece laughed freely and let everything roll right off of her. Caren’s family and mine held the same values. If something goes wrong then it’s not only worth laughing about but most likely will be turned into a family legend that will be laughed about for years to come. Anne’s shoes matched her true Florida personality and stunning white dress. They were simple white flip flops laced with pearls that screamed out the lyrics of Buffet’s “Margaritaville”. Oh how I missed those crazy lazy days of Florida. The reception was held at an oyster bar in the French Quarter around the corner from the chapel. The second floor was reserved for as we dined on oysters, shrimp, Cajun chicken strips and red beans and rice. Afterwards we threw beads off the balcony at the crowd, again accompanied by hoots and hollars. It was interesting that there were tons of beads on the ground but nobody bothered to pick them up. They just wanted to catch them. There was something magical about catching one as if the act proclaimed that that day was your luckiest day and for Anne it was just that.
After the reception broke up we quickly changed back into our street clothes and headed back to Harrah’s for more abuse. After it was all said and done I had broke even over the course of the weekend. Some time during the night we gave it up and decided to walk up and Bourbon Street. Every bar it seemed had a cover band so we popped into one and got sucked into the dancing frenzy bopping and weaving to “I Wish I was Jessie’s Girl”. The crowd had gone completely wild as if this song engineered rock and roll itself and this bar in N.O. was the only place on earth to be. Drug and alcohol free that I was at that moment I somehow got swept up in the energy as well. Dizzily we walked back to the hotel and passed a row of strip joints where the dancers were trying to coax in the gents. Suddenly, I doubled up over and choked with laughter. Caren tried to shake me into saneness until I whisperer “Look at the shoes”. Yep, every single dance girl wore high heel clear plastic shoes. Swear to God!
Day Three
Poured down rain all day long. We ate brunch with Anne and rambled through the French Market. Then we headed home with fond memories of fun, laughter and an emblazed image of a young bride in her wedding dress throwing beads off a balcony to a cheering crowd below.
