There are few things finer than setting your alarm for 3:00 am to make a 6:00 am flight to New Orleans.
OK, I lied. There are quite a few things finer than that. Including hearing someone call your name in the airport and finding it's a friend you hardly ever get a chance to see.
Miss N. was on her way to Florida.
Kevin's got business to tend to in New Orleans and we finally washed up, via Chicago Midway, in the early afternoon. We dropped our bags off at our hotel and wandered through the French Quarter.
A late breakfast at Café Soulé. Grits, a biscuit, a gigantic croissant... Yum.
I was impressed by the ornate...
...as well as the simple.
I was not expecting the cacophony.
We greeted the river. That there is the Bulk Patriot out of Panama. I wonder what's on her. Probably some of everything.
Eventually we passed out back at the hotel and woke up in time for a late dinner just off Bourbon Street at a steakhouse. This town is crawling with Brennans in the restaurant industry, but you don't get a break if you share that name. Heh heh. I have no shame.
Initial quick impression? The soundscape is like the cousin of Mombasa - that's got the boom box / Muslim call to prayer mashup. This is snare drum meets trombone and tuba meets banjo and fiddle, with jacked up car stereos and amplified magicians mixed in. The faded beauty and elegance reminds me of Venice. There is way, way more neon than I expected.
It's in the 70s and humid down here. In a little over a month, I've gone from New England to southern Africa and back, to South Carolina, to Connecticut and then Vermont, and now here - I think I've got a touch of whiplash. Yee haw! Fortunately, I've got my running shoes. I should be good to go.