N'awlins

Where to start?? First, there's little sign of flood damage, recession, or even restraint here in the French Quarter. The delay in Texas meant we arrived quite coincidentally in the midst of Jazz Fest, so Saturday night was packed with revelers, drinks in hand, crowding the narrow streets from curb to curb. My kids would LOVE this place! Music rages from every doorway. Bourbon street resembles nothing so much as a circus midway: barkers with placards beckon from blaring pubs and cafes; busty women in not much, lure young men to their deliverance; buskers, hucksters, jugglers, and pantomime; masks, silverface, drag-queens, dykes; bikers, wedding parties, tattooed men in tight shirts and hungry-eyed women; it's all there.

CNN reports 400,000 visitors, and warns of high crime, but other than the cost of liquor, no felonies were seen. The few cars that dared navigate the tight passages mostly sat idling behind goups of uncaring, drunken strollers. It's a place for the young and restless, although the high proportion of galleries and REAL antique shops suggest a more well-healed traveller, of whom we saw few. Nowhere have I seen such a selection of unique artwork, crafts and jewellry, much of it N.O.-specific, but some, like the Louis-the-whatever gilt cabinets and Faberge eggs are more museum than Mardi Gras. There IS a bit of an odor about the place, however, and more than once, showers of wet slop rained from overhead balconies as we passed underneath. Like Paris, there's dog shit on the sidewalk, but unlike Paris, there's horseshit in the streets, and bullshit in the come-ons.

Robbi TOLD me to take my camera to dinner, but I foolishly declined, so I have no photos of the night crowds, or the black dude with the heavily modified lo-rider, with tilt-up Lamborghini-style doors, and matching LIVE bald pythons on the roof! Or the three-wheeled motorcycle that resembles my Slingshooter, only way cooler. Maybe tomorrow. Our hotel is a lovely 17th century piece, nicely appointed, just 1/2 a block from Bourbon Street. It even featured free live porn in the next wing, but Robbi closed the curtains and wouldn't let me watch, spoilsport. So it's back to DIY. Why do I have to do EVERYTHING myself?!

Okay, so 'tomorrow' the streets were empty and the place looked half asleep again. It WAS Sunday morning, though, and there were people still coming back to the hotel at 4;00AM, so maybe they were tired. We walked as much as we could, in tight forays between the start, middle, and end of the Talledaga race, where the 'big one' couldn't wait until lap 8 to happen, and Carl Edwards was punted high into the catch fence on the last turn by unlikely race winner, rookie Brad Keselowski, who hadn't led a lap all day. We never made it to Jazz Fest, there being so much music in the streets here that a trip way out of town to sit in the hot sun to hear mostly local musicians didn't make a lot of sense to us. The shops here are a feast for the eyes, and I could spend many days and dollars happily browsing.