Day Two: N’awlins

On Sunday morning, we were on our way out of Chattanooga within half an hour of waking up—we weren’t anxious to soak up the local color. More importantly, we were anxious to get to our next destination: New Orleans, LA.

A few miles into our second leg, we crossed the border into Alabama, which, interestingly enough, looks exactly like Virginia and Tennessee. After crossing into Mississippi, we had to stop for gas. Being in the middle to the state, our rest stop options were, shall we say, limited. We stopped at a non-name brand gas station with two gas pumps and a qwik-e-mart that looked like it hadn’t been renovated since 1929. I stepped out of the car into the overbearing Southern humidity and went to use the restroom as Andrew pumped the gas. I successfully managed to hardly touch anything while using the facilities (the small bottle of Purrell that I bought turned out to be a God-sent). When I came out of the bathroom, Andrew was waiting for me by the front door of the shop.

“You want to wait in here while I go?” he said, gesturing vaguely to the local characters just outside. I nodded and waited by the door avoiding eye contact with the sweaty, burly men in wife-beaters who were shamelessly looking me up and down. I starred at my feet with my arms crossed over my chest and practically ran back to the car when Andrew emerged from the bathroom.

Soon as we were back on the highway, and as I was trying to shake the mental images of the experience, Andrew asked, “So did the women’s room have a sticker that said something about all black people having AIDS, too?”
***
Glad to be out of Mississippi, we entered the toe of the boot in Louisiana. We were now on the I-10, which we would be traveling on for the rest of the trip. The highway entered New Orleans, but not before a 10-mile drive over a precariously narrow bridge-like road over the swamp. Once we reached the French Quarter, for a bargain $30, we (self!) parked our car in the hotel’s garage. Parking charges be damned, our hotel was in the perfect spot—right on Bourbon Street.

By the time we had checked into the hotel, I was, admittedly, a little cranky (I have just come off a long driving shift—I am definitely NOT a city driver). Luckily one of the restaurants on our list was literally across the street from our hotel, a kitschy seafood place called Oceana. After all, there’s nothing like a giant plate of fried shrimp to calm the nerves.

Everyone is always shocked to find that I, a wannabe foodie and cook, do not eat seafood. One of my few exceptions is shrimp. (It also doesn’t hurt that it was deep fried to hell.) Our waiter, Shawn, a pudgy, blond, late twenty something from Ohio, brought my fried shrimp on a luscious bed of French fries. “That didn’t look like enough to me, so I asked them to give you a little more shrimp,” Shawn said.
“Ha…well, thanks,” I said, thinking that it was either a joke, or that surely the the mound of fried food lain in front of me included said shrimp supplementation.

Well—no. About five minutes later, Shawn brought out ANOTHER plate of shrimp. Thanks, Shawn. But just because I’m a tourist doesn’t mean I’m going to pound down my body weight in fried seafood.

Later, we decided to waddle off dinner by taking a stroll down Royal Street, just parallel to Bourbon Street. Since it was Sunday, many of the shops were closed. (They were mostly antique stores, anyway so I suppose that was no huge loss.) Royal Street was surprisingly calm, especially considering its one block proximity to raucous Bourbon Street.

Even on God’s day, the bars were still loud and rowdy with drunk tourists. Dueling bars across the street from one another each blasted 80’s cover songs as pasty, pudgy baby boomers in khaki shorts and tennis shoes grinned and pointed and 20-something happily clutched their over-sized frozen daiquiris.

Since I personally usually wait until at least 8 pm for a 32-oz. cocktail, we decided to keep strolling past the drunken masses to Jackson Square, a much tamer landscape for a post-dinner walk. Since it was still light out, families with little kids were hanging out in the Square watching the street performers.

Walking through the park, I could see why the French Quarter was so famous for its beautiful architecture. This place was like a Disneyland for adults, except there is actual substance to go with the kitsch. And instead of churros and barf, the whole place smelled like Old Bay seasonings and old, rotting wood, the way old buildings smell.

So finally, we gave in and bought one of those obnoxious drinks. And it was tasty. But unfortunately, the last thing I remember is stopping by our conveniently located hotel room to use the restroom, not wanting to go in one of the sticky, sweaty bar bathrooms. When I woke up the next morning, my plastic daiquiri cup was on the night table, half-filled with watery, bright red liquid—my only souvenir of my one night in N’awlins.