Hello from Central time! Highlights from the flights:
We flew from Boston to Chicago to New Orleans. From Boston to Chicago, Lizzie and I didn't get to sit together. Lizzie sat next to a self-proclaimed "former" trophy wife who was a pretentious NY Times journalist (so she claimed, anyway. If she'd been more interesting, our guess would've been that she worked for the Weekly World News, after offering to "profile" Lizzie) and I sat behind a satanic devil-spawn three-year-old who talked about himself in third person. He was wearing a pink polo shirt with a popped collar. I blame his parents. Bascially, he would scream his head off and yell "MORGAN NEED. MORGAN NEED" while pushing every single button in his reach, including the flight attendant call button while his father said, casually, "no, don't do that. stop". Shannon need to explain the difference between need and want to you, Morgan. Shannon WANT to slap your father, because it would be rude to slap you, but she doesn't necessarily *need* to. Also, the woman sitting behind me put her gross foot up on my arm rest, and poked me in the arm with her toe. I wasn't quite sure at first what was touching me, so I elbowed back hard in surprise and fright, and probably broke her toe. You deserve it, lady, don't put your nasty-ass feet on someone else's arm rest.
Onward.
Our flight to New Orelans was delayed a bit, so we arrived later than anticipated. We picked up topless Maude, our lovely Sebring convertible (which will take us a while to figure out) and drove into New Orleans proper. I'd like to note that Digney's "Trouble on the Levee" was playing as we drove by the Super Dome. For reals. He has some serious predicitive powers.
As we wandered through the French Quarter, we noticed, per the picture above, many, many men wearing red dresses (and women too, but that's not so surprising). There were kilts, polka dotted skirts, prosthetic breasts, etc. Turns out there was a charity marathon for the American heart society today, hence the red dresses, but clearly New Orleans has a sense of humor, because there is a cigar convention running concurrently. When we dragged our sorry arses up to our hotel (after first going to the wrong one, oops) we noticed, among the normal amenities in the mini bar, the above pictured "intimacy kit". I feel like the obstetrical towlettes are particularly romantic.
More to come tomorrow, when we explore the French Quarter and the Garden District.
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