Land of the Delta Blues: New Orleans

Louisiana can be deceptively alluring.  At least that's the impression I am left with after having spent the last two days in New Orleans.  When the airplane begins its decent from the giant puffed masses of cloud cover, you're suddenly struck by the sight of endless stretches of some of the most vibrantly green land I've ever seen.  It screams out at your eyes, like some kind of neon-infused curiousity that's engulfed the landscape.  If you didn't know any better, you'd think that you were about to arrive in a gentle landscape filled with lush breezes and temperate climate.  This illusion is dispelled the instant you exit the airplane and start the march down the jetway.  You immediately are struck with the sensation that you are no longer walking, but are instead swimming toward the baggage claim.

  The humidity is almost strangling, and decidedly unlike anything I've experienced as of yet.  This is a bad sign for my personal enjoyment level, since I can handle hot or cold weather with relative ease until humidity is thrown into the mix, and then I become nothing short of a whining, angry man-child.

The journey from the airport to the hotel seemed to be leading a double life as a scene from the next installment of "The Fast and the Furious."  We rocketed down the interstate with reckless abandon for the safety of ourselves and the other vehicles on the road.  Our obviously insane/brave driver marshalled the racetrack before him with a level of skill that was awe inspiring, darting in and out of meandering traffic like a bee in a flower patch.   When we finally arrived at our destination with our lives intact, I was just happy to have made it my first hour in the Delta without being hurled through a windshield.  I went through the motions of checking into the hotel and was relieved to throw myself into the comforts of the bed with a sigh and a thump.  I opened my eyes awhile later and decided it was a little dark in the room and headed to the corner lamp to brighten the space, only to be met with utter dissatisfaction when it refused to beam.  Two other lamps in the room, and it was no-go with any of those either.  I grabbed the phone to call the front desk and ask for new lightbulbs only to find that it too did not work.  I give up on trying to make good out of a bad start to the day and surrendered to the ghettoness of the hotel.   At least they have a free breakfast service and an open bar.  

The evening was young and the city seem to be teeming with life outside my balcony, so I rounded up as many coworkers as I could and demanded we spend the rest of the evening turning the grumpy tide that had wiggled its way into my heart.  After partaking of the hotel's complimentary free liquor, we marched down toward Bourbon Street on the hunt for Creole food and fun.  We found ourselves at the Gumbo Coffee Pot where we downed crab cakes, jambalaya, gumbo, corn bread, crawfish etouffee, and shrimp po boys.  The food was pretty good, though not really the stellar level of culinary orgasim that I was hoping to have in my mouth.  I have a sneaking suspicion that the restaurant called The Court of Two Sisters would have delighted my palate more skillfully, though I have nothing to base this thought on besides the fact that I think it had a cooler name.   Dinner was rawkus and filled with revelry, based largely on the free cocktails from earlier.  New Orleans seems to be busting at the seams with loud and interesting characters, so instead of being booted from the restaurant, we seemed to blended in like locals.  My compatriots took their beer and wine to go, and I gathered up my diet coke, and we resumed the parade down to Bourbon Street. 

When we finally did arrive, it was a bit of a surreal experience.  It wasn't nearly as crowded as you see on TV, which is to be expected when you think of the time of year and the fact that it was a Sunday night.  Yet the people you did find braving the fabled gas lit street were making the most of their evening, filling the night with cat calls and incoherent bellows of merriment.  The head of Bourbon seemed to be infested with the run of the mill tourist trap stores and bars, filled with bright neon lights and hawkers on the street inviting you into their establishments.  The further down you get the more seedy and wild the advertising and partiers seems to become, with pirate wench strippers gyrating on the slate stone road as plastered frat boys paw at them with abandon. The tail end of the spectacle arrives with the disappearance of any decent overhead lighting, signaling the end of the normal festivities and your subsequent arrival on the gay portion of Bourbon.  
The liquor had started to take its toll on my coworkers, and the insanity of their actions grew by leaps and bounds.  We found ourselves taking in a drag revue on the top of a gay bar called The Bourbon Pub.  The crowd itself was mediocre at best in size, and though I'm not really one to "judge", there really wasn't a single man there I'd consider giving a second look over my shoulder at.  The most diappointing thing in New Orleans so far besides the almost Biblically offensive level of humidity is the complete lack of attractive men.  Perhaps they were all driven away by Katrina and have yet to make the trek back into their home city?  I'm in full support of goverment subsidies to encourage man candy to return to the friendly confines of N'awlins.  We did manage to find some decently attractive men in a bar called Oz, but they were working there for dolla dolla bills.  Being the inebriated straight girl that she is, Julie felt the need to say hello and stuff a few bucks down one of their short shorts.  Immediately following our short jaunt in Oz (I wanted to leave, in all honesty, strippers make me uncomfortable), we found ourselves in some random bar that required Cheryl to wear a toilet seat to get into the ladies room.
The last stop on our jaunt down Rue Bourbon was (apparently) the oldest building on the street, which for this day and time was serving as a hole in the wall piano bar.  By the time we arrived here I was sufficiently tired and out of my senses, and found myself propped up against the wall on a wobbly bar stool hardly listening to any of the music blaring out of the baby grand tucked into the smoky, candle light corner.  Julie and Leigh had also had enough of the festivities for the night, and we politely excused ourselves from the rest of the group and wandered over to the Clover Grill for some late night snacks.  The two of them settled on cheeseburgers, which sounded and ended up looking like gut-bombs waiting to happen after their night out on the town with so much liquor in their systems (this morning confirmed my suspicions, as neither one of them really had the stomach to eat breakfast).  I played it safe and ordered a solitary waffle to sate my hunger.  

That was my first evening in the sweltering, yet sultry city of New Orleans.  I've come to two conclusions about this locale already:  1.  You could never, ever, ever in your life pay me to live here.  The humidity elicits the most heinous of grumpy emotions in me.  I'd likely find myself at the top of a bell tower taking shots at people if I was subjected to this level of moisture in the air for more then a 2 week period.  2.  There is something decidedly romantic and fanciful about the French architecture, the gentle glow of gas lights under grand balconies, and the tropical hints of palm trees on the river walk.  It'd be a great city to fall in love in, but only in March when I could avoid the unmistakeable sensation of drowning while breathing.  I have another three days to go in this city, and I'm sure there is plenty more to see, particularly when I take proper pictures with a real camera.  For now, I'm satisfied with my two discoveries and the knowledge that I've experienced a walk down Bourbon Street.

And yes, I made it to Cafe Du Monde for beignets, so stop asking. =)