I’m only a stranger looking to find better nature in my fellow man.

– Jordan Page

Well, Jordan should go to The Sportsman’s Paraise (Louisiana). That’s where I found it in the form of a proud army veteran named Joleen. (I have no idea if I spelled that correctly.  She goes by Jo).

When, through my blog, word reached, literally, almost a DOZEN, folks across this great land, one of them happened to be my buddy, Ethan.

He messaged me that he had a friend in The Crescent City (N’awlins) and that I should contact her for travel tips. I did. Even though I thought that the “friend of a friend” connection was kind of thin.

Jo invited me to her home as soon as I could get there. She informed me that she had other visitors in town from other parts of The Pelican State (Louisiana) and even some from way the hell up in Michigan. It’s almost like she likes people – even strangers. But, wait, she gets weirder.

Upon my arrival she fed me. And, I don’t mean snacks. I’m talking biscuits & gravy, Belgian waffles, something called Boudin (which looks like a giant snausage but is way better…pic related)

and a screwdriver (the cocktail).

During chow, Jo gave me tips on how not to be an asshole. This consisted chiefly of instructing me to quit pronouncing it “N’awlins”. It’s “New Orlins”. I grumpily complied.

Plans were made for me to accompany her and her gang when they hit the town on Frenchman St. At no point was I made to feel anything other than welcome despite being 2 or 3 decades older than the others. It was clear to me I would not be able to hang with the youngsters with their loud music, their skinny jeans, their ability to stay up past 9 pm and they fact that they “pre-game” more alcohol than I can handle in a month.

They were a fun bunch.

I went with them for a drink, then excused myself to visit the town on my terms.

I made for Bourbon St! But, I got lost and ended up on Rampart. The Voodoo Lounge. Bar and Ghost Tour Emporium. Open 24 hrs (pic related)

Well, I do love a crowd, you know, from a distance, and when I finally found Bourbon St I got that crowd (pic related)

There were street musicians and this one guy breakdancing (pic related).

This was really ironic because I hadn’t seen a breakdancer in about 25 years and then I stumble upon one, who is my age by the way, right when I am internally thinking about making the switch to Velcro because tying my shoes is too much effort anymore.

Bourbon St had all the charm of one those “exclusive” nightclubs where you have to stand with your hands above waist level because it is so crowded. It also has that loud music that allows for conversations like the following:

You: why do we come to these places? It’s too crowded, the drinks are way expensive and the music is so loud you can’t hear yourself think.

Your friend (giving a thumbs up): OK!

I sought succor in a little bistro. I could see they had the World Series on the tube. My dogs were barking. I could use a seat.

I approached the Maître d’, a youthful African American named, “Smooove” according to his name badge. I inquired about a seat for one. He discussed it with his underlings in a closed huddle. Then, one of them, who looked genuinely nervous and a tad gunshy, led me through a gauntlet of patrons (this will make more sense in a moment, I think). Finally, we arrived at the end of a bar that was set in the center of the room. I gave the fellow a buck. I dunno. It was packed.

I order a diet coke and a menu. The commercial break ended and my waitress scurried away.

It turns out that, of the perhaps 100 or so customers packed tightly into the dining area, we could be broken down into 3 parties.

There was me (pic related)

A family of 4 from the midwest, as I am guessing from the shirt of the dad – Royal Blue with a small “KC” on the breast (Go Royals!)

And 95 assholes from New York City who had left the Big Apple together to come down here and “cheer” for the Mets.

The thing is, anytime anything would happen – and, I’m talking ANYTHING. from a home run to a foul tip – they got up from their seats and jumped around like someone had called “all skate!” during an earthquake in a gorilla cage (Don’t be racist. They were predominantly white). It was pandemonium!

When the Royals took the lead, the only sound was Dad lightly clapping. Ballsy.

I had been wanting to try some authentic N’awlins cuisine so I ordered a burger. A Bayou Burger. The meat was deep fried. If that strikes you as maybe not such a good idea, then I’m sure you would agree, why stop there. It was topped with deep fried cheese, deep fried onions, and deep fried pickles.

The city itself is unique in many ways. For instance, the weather. It rains hard for about 30 seconds every half hour. This results in a climate that Hollywood portrays as “sultry”. But, in reality creates humidity levels that make it impossible to dress for comfort and as a result you often want to strangle the nearest stranger for no good reason.

The people are a bit different as well. There seems to be no racial tension that I could detect from either side. This might be a result of the city planners.

The roads are awful. Pitted and unpatched. Warped and narrow. And the people like it that way. It makes them make do without a lot of meddlesome rules and regulations. It is not uncommon to see a vehicle parked partly on a sidewalk. As long as he leaves room, folks can get by whether they are walking or driving. You do what it takes while letting everyone do their thing.

The ones I met seemed to have an attitude of doing what it takes to get along.

As I was making the 2 mile walk back to the Rambler, a fellow was openly urinating on the dark sidewalk ahead. When he saw me, he turned away and apologized. He didn’t think anyone would be coming.

I appreciated that and told him, “No harm done”, then vaulted his puddle without much effort.

I have considered staying another night but, I dunno, Halloween in N’awlins is just so touristy. I move on. Probably drive west just so I can be nearer Trixie.