Road Trip Recap: NOLA

Peeps, my sister and I left last Thursday morning for Florida and made two stops in Baytown and Fort Polk to take copious photos of nieces and grandnieces and daughters that we won't see for awhile. We took our time, which was a good thing since it rained almost the entire way. Wouldn't you know it, while we drove butt naked and laughed hysterically, nobody even noticed. What's up with that, Gulf Coast Road Trip Gods? You're making me look bad! Plus I caught a chest cold.

Then came our third stop Saturday night at the Sheraton in the French Quarter. Ooo-la-la! An important note about this hotel, people (especially if you are plagued by vertigo like I didn't realize I was): the windows of the rooms on the 21st floor are carpet to ceiling, so you can stand next to it and feel like you could fall right the hell out. To your splattery death. Were these windows openable, and you didn't fall to your splattery death, you could barf onto Canal Street passersby while looking down from WAAAAY on high, which is, quite frankly, where I'm meant to hang out, gazing down on mortal peons. Am I right?

NOLA dinner was at street level and we stopped in at Huck Finn's for gumbo and related Cajun eats. Then my daughter and her precocious son showed us around, and I was both impressed and grossed out in equal measure at the spectacle that is Bourbon Street. Had I visited there in my younger days as a singleton, I would have fit right in with the other drunks and worn many shiny, beaded necklaces. Now that I'm totally tame (heh, heh, quite possibly that should be lame), I just pose with big, fat, green grenades of the plastic persuasion, while a three-year-old clings to my back, and wonder how bad it would be if I poked a hole in Mr. Rubbery Girth just to watch him blow up and sputter around the piss-stained sidewalks. And just FYI, that is the real reason people get so drunk down on Bourbon Street--it's the only way to tolerate the stinkies. That said, I was completely mesmerized by it all.

The best part of Bourbon Street? I found the treasure of a lifetime. Oh yes. People, a TREASURE! You see, 25 years ago at a Sixth Street piano bar in Austin, a tawdry pianist (really, how do people say that word without laughing?) crooned about that little-known African pygmy tribe, the Fahkawees. They ran through the plains, leaping above the tall grass to see where they were, all the while shouting, "Where the fahkawee? Where the fahkawee?" I was so impressed by their plight, I held their story close to my heart all these years. And now . . . now, I'm an official Fahkawee, thanks to a little shop on Bourbon Street.

Life is good.

More later, peeps.

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