A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine was planning her trip home to St. Louis for the holidays and she decided to take the long way – San Antonio to St. Louis, via New Orleans (she's a travel blogger and will, no doubt, write about her stay in the Crescent City).

I was so thrilled to hear she was going to New Orleans – it's such a fabulous city. And I feel like I can almost call it home [however I think the fact that I'm a Detroit Lions fan somehow gives  the city of New Orleans the first right of refusal. But they can never get rid of me entirely. There's a strange connection that I feel to the city. It's almost spiritual. Like in a past life, I must've roamed the streets with Kate Chopin or eaten beignets with William Faulker. In reality, I was probably cleaning some one's toilet, but you get the drift]. Wrapped up in my romanticised memories of New Orleans, I found myself inundating her with all of my recommendations.

So now, as I sit here planning our family's travel home for the holidays, I'm considering the short dip down to the Big Easy.

vs.

Afterall, it is the home of so many fond memories . . .

Like that one time when Tim and I were driving the same I-10 stretch from Destin, Florida to Houston, Texas for a wedding. We decided to do the Big Easy dip and ended up crashing some huge party called Mardi Gras and sleeping in a storage room (literally) full of roll-away beds at the über swankified W on Chartres (of course we had no idea, NO IDEA, which hotel we stowawayed in until much later – like years later). 

And that one time that Tim and I met up in New Orlean's for a friend's wedding. It was beyond cool. We walked – or I should say, danced – from the church, through the streets to the reception – the entourage led by a very authentic New Orleans street band, playing some funk all the way through funkytown.

And that other time when some dude asked me how much I cost.
Serioiusly.
We were in a bar of ill repute and while Tim went to go get us a beverage, some dude turned to me and was all, "Uh. …and how much are you, pretty lady?" And I was all, "In your dreams, sucker." I'm sorry, boys but 1) getting drunk does not give you the right to a blanket, I-can-be-a-jerk excuse and 2) Just because I'm able to successfully put into effect the very sexy, smoky-eye look, doesn't mean I'm a stripper. Or a hooker. Or whomever it was that the dude who had the balls to ask me that question thought I was.

And now I find myself thinking how different the entire New Orleans experience will be with my sweet little Juniper.