What else can I say about our trip to New Orleans:
- I think I hate Bourbon Street. I mean, the hour or so we spent at Pat O'Brien's piano bar, swilling down $10 kool-aide-of-death and requesting songs the piano mistress hadn't played in decades (Tom Waits and Nina Simone fall to the bottom of the list when smashed 21-year olds in tiara'd bachelorette attire request Sweet Home Alabama four times in a row, I suspect), was really fun in a dank, touristy way. But nothing else on that street is. I promise you.
- Because I disliked Bourbon Street so much, I think I'd rather don a tiara and parade through the piano bar at Pat O'Brien's, naked, than get anywhere near Marti Gras.
- I didn't eat enough "real" New Orleans food...because we're not locals and I have no idea where the "good, cheap, authentic" type grub is. The $14 po-boy I had at the fancy french-named place was effing excellent...but I'm sure we could have done better. Anyone have some suggestions?
- The night Blake and the guys finally played, I lost track of him for an hour and a half--until I realized they were on in 10 minutes and he was nowhere to be found. He had apparently snuck upstairs to a hidden third floor (!) of the ancient club to take a nap on a couch. While searching the Quarter for him, I encountered at least 5 bars/venues with awesome-sounding music coming out of them, and fantastic-looking, my-type-of-people clientele. I was thoroughly freaked out about not knowing where he was, but the impromptu pub crawl was awesome.
- Best quote of the weekend: (From a coked-out radio exec wearing a tie-dyed Grateful Dead shirt whom we met standing next to the hotel elevator) "Daaaamn, Maaan. (sniiifff) Is this elevator goin' up, down, or sideways?"
- I saw no ghost tours, no garden district, and no cemeteries. That, among other reasons, is why we'll be heading back for another weekend very soon.