Part Four - Welcome to the French Quarter
When we left Kim and Libby dusk was rapidly approaching, making it too dark to see anything in the way of scenery or post-Katrina damage as we drove across Mississippi and Louisiana into New Orleans. It was about 9 p.m. by the time we pulled up in front of our hotel. There was some confusion as we saw the valet drive off to park a car, and then never come back. Within 15 minutes of being in New Orleans, we managed to get yelled at by the police to get our car off the street. Yikes!
Kimmer pulled into the parking garage where we’d seen the valet go and we waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally, Kimmer got out and went into the hotel, where we learned that we actually had to check in before the valet would be summoned. She attempted to do that, and a valet did show up within a few minutes. I say “attempted” because at one point she had to walk away from the desk or risk snapping the heads off the people working behind it. One was an older gentleman, clearly new to the job and suffering from short term memory issues. At one point as he was processing Kimmer’s registration, he looked up, saw Kimmer and asked, “May I help you?”
It was straightened out eventually, but it’s always a little stressful when a vacation starts off rough - and remember that this wasn’t the hotel Kimmer had originally booked - so things were already on a bit of thin ice.
The valet parked the car, the registration process ended and Kimmer and I headed up to our room on the fifth floor. We got off the elevator and turned right. Walked down to the end of the hall. And turned right. Walked down the end of the hall. Turned left, and then quickly jogged to the right. Walked down the longest hall yet. To the very end. And turned right. And then at the end of THAT short hall was room 516. Our room. At the very end of the hall.
After recovering from the long journey down the various halls (it was EXHAUSTING!), we (as The Boyfriend would say in a bad English accent) “tarted” ourselves up (translation: we put on makeup and desnarled our travel-stricken hair) and headed out to see what we could see.
After walking up and down Bourbon Street, we decided to stop in a place called La Bayou for a drink and perhaps some food. We almost turned away when we were told we couldn’t smoke, but the host took us upstairs and seated us on the balcony. Soooo cool.
Here we are:
(Ok, so my hair still looks totally travel-stricken. I tried.)
Both of us took photos with our cellphones and sent them to various people with the same text message: “Bourbon Street Bitches!” Pictures like this:
We had some really good spinach and artichoke dip and had a lovely waitress who was covering for one of the waiters who had been dealing with a large party. He came over to see how we were doing and we chatted with him for a bit. He was… what’s the word to describe a former Marine who was born in the Dominican Republic and had both gorgeous muscles and a sexy accent? Oh yeah, that word would be HOTT. (Trust me, it deserved two T’s.)
And then he kicked us out as they were closing the balcony. But we were ok with that, because it was time to get our drinks on. Back down to the street we went, and then it became a matter of deciding where to go next. Kimmer had pointed out some places that she’d been in before, and they were strong possibilities, but it was the sound of AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” that drew us in to the Famous Door. Yes, I realize we should have been listening to blues and jazz music in NOLA, but AC/DC was a part of both Kimmer’s and my formative music years. And so, we went in.
The place was PACKED. The band was good. Nay, the band was great! They were called Rockbox and they played all kinds of songs from our youth and beyond. I just realized that I took no photos of them; only video. I might post that later, but for now… here’s a scary photo of Kimmer and me clearly in need of and enjoying liquid refreshment:
See? Told you it was scary!
We started out standing in a crowd on the floor, which is where Kimmer came up with this ingenius plan: let drunk people bump into you repeatedly and eventually they’ll give you money as an apology! Ok, so really it was just this one woman, but she seriously did give Kimmer $20, which Kimmer promptly tried to give back to no avail. She ended up slipping it into the pocket of the guy Really Drunk Woman was with. But then somehow, Kimmer had the $20 again, only this time with instructions to buy them and herself a drink.
So, we proceeded to the bar. Kimmer bought the requested shots for the Really Drunk Woman (clearly, she needed MORE alcohol) and her friend, and bought each of us a cocktail as well. She made me hold the open spot at the bar, and miraculously came back with two barstools. Or maybe there was already one there. Either way, we both had seats in a prime spot (near the alcohol) and out of the crowd. And we stayed there until the wee hours of the morning, listening to the band, giving the money to play requests they never did, and screaming obnoxious things such as “O-H!” and “I-O” in LSU territory. It was great fun, even if we did have to put up with the occasional sick and twisted man trying to bump and grind up against us or telling us Ohio State sucked.
Somewhere around 3 a.m. Lousiana time, we stumbled out of the bar where Kimmer proceeded to say hello to Every. Single. Person. we passed. I am not kidding. And right about then is when we realized we had absolutely no idea how to get back to the hotel.
Oops.
Thankfully, I had my cellphone which I can (and have) used as a GPS. And brilliant me had already programmed the hotel’s address into it! So, it was just a matter of asking “Michelle” to calculate our route and send us in the proper direction.
Unfortunately, the settings were for vehicles and not pedestrians. Which meant that “Michelle” wasn’t letting us walk the wrong direction on a one way street. Of course, there are hardly any of those in New Orleans. Riiiiiiight.
We finally arrived. We made friends in the elevator with a gay couple who appeared to be having a spat. James was the sober one. His friend? Not so much. And he’d punched James in the chest. James wasn’t too pleased. The elevator stopped on the second floor and James’ friend stepped out. James didn’t. The last thing we saw was James’ friend looking somewhat surprised and dismayed. As for James himself, well he rode up to the fifth floor with us and then announced, “I’m gonna go get some pizza.”
It was much more HILARIOUS! at the time. Because, you know, we were drunk and all.
And then we passed out. Well, Kimmer passed out. I fell into the body asleep/mind wide awake mode that only someone who drinks her alcohol with a caffeinated beverage has experienced. All night long, I dreamt of “Hang On Sloopy” playing and yelling, “O! H! I! O!” And nearly froze to death with the sub-zero air conditioning system. And listened to some alarm or something going off somewhere, intermingling with the sounds of any large city in the middle of the night (police and fire sirens) and wondered if the police and fire sirens had anything to do with the alarm that was going off, and if so, why in the hell didn’t they shut the damn thing off already?
Until the bright and shiny morning woke me up completely.
To be continued….
