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.
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.
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.