Awesome! It's so warm and humid here, which is spectacular. They tend to over-aircondition indoors, so poor Lizzie has had to hear me whine more than once that I was cold. Right now it's pouring out, which often happens on summer afternoons, giving us a moment to chill, and more importantly, to update you all on our adventures.
We went out a little after ten, and meandered through the French Quarter. The streets are really narrow, and the buildings are all very close together. Apparently they were all rebuilt in the early 1800s after two huge fires wiped out all but four buildings, which we got to see on our buggie tour, which I will get to in a moment. It's not very crowded right now, and when I talked to our bartender at Boudreaux's backyard, where we stopped a little while ago to have a hurricane (they were invented in New Orleans. We had to) he told us that the high tourist season begins in about a month, and also that this had been a cool sunmmer in New Orleans, too. Cool for them is upper 80s, instead of 100s, though.
We had lunch in Jackson Square, named after Andrew Jackson, who, histroy tells us, is a douche (TRAIL OF TEARS) so I have a pretty good picture of a bird s(h)itting on his hat. The restaurant we ate in was sadly disappointing. The waiter screwed up both of our orders, and gave us what he thought was a charming shrug, without offering to make things right, and then protested when Lizzie paid by credit card, because he wanted no bank interference with his tip. Having been a waitress for three years, I call bs on that one. The restaurant has to pay out all your credit card tips, and then you report them to the federal government who taxes the paltry money you make for your hourly rate--$2.63 an hour when I was doing it. Basically, we don't care if we're not making it convenient to lie on your taxes.
After lunch, we decided it was time to saddle up for a mule-driven buggy ride. We selected a buggy driven by a man in his mid thirties, I'd say, who was an inch shorter than me (ha ha) with a flat-top hat and an unfortunate long-haired-goatee look happening. Also, there were side burns. Turns out his name was James, much like our safari guide in Africa. It seemed fitting. The mule's name was Cash, as in Johnny Cash, because he "wore" black. Also, mule fun fact: Mules have a higher body temperature than both horses and donkeys, making them better suited for working in New Orleans.
So there were these really grumpy Floridians on our tour through the french quarter, one of whom was munching, petulantly, on a hot dog as James showed us the sights and told us about the various landmarks, including but not limited to nunneries, burlesque shows, the birthplace of about a million drinks. That seemed to be a theme: booze. We got a boatload of history in in 45 minutes, but it always seemed to come back to alcohol, which made us worry about James a little. So our buggy ride ends, and everyone leaves except us, as Lizzie wants to ask about the cemeteries, which we will visit tomorrow. James pauses, because the grumpy Floridian has left her hotdog on his seat. I said "Neat, free hot dog!" and then James said "So what are you doing tonight?". WORKS EVERY TIME! I said "Just kicking around" and he told us where the better bars and jazz clubs were, which just happened to be near his house. Lizzie didn't like where this was going (probably because she was jealous of my mad pick-up skillz) and ushered me away before I could make any more hot dog jokes. We checked out the Mississippi river, and then walked down Bourbon street (into the aforementioned Boudreaux's) where we quizzed the bartender about pretty much everything.
I know this is going to be suprising to most of you, but I likes to talk, and this is paradise for me, because no one seems to think it's weird when I engage them in long conversations about LSU football rivalries, their feelings on tourists, and the lack of proper public transportation. This bartender got comfortable enough with us to relate stories about people peeing in the bar's courtyard, and also recommened that on our adventures through the gulf we hit Panama city. He also whispered that we should leave Burbon street, because it was a tourist trap, which we'd figured out already, but we appreciated the tip nonetheless.
So now we're back in our swanky hotel, waiting out the storm so we can go back to a jazz club for the evening. No bananas foster yet, but we did see the place where it was invented. I'm sure James would've been willing to educate us on bananas foster if Lizzie hadn't insisted on us fleeing first. Sheesh.
We went out a little after ten, and meandered through the French Quarter. The streets are really narrow, and the buildings are all very close together. Apparently they were all rebuilt in the early 1800s after two huge fires wiped out all but four buildings, which we got to see on our buggie tour, which I will get to in a moment. It's not very crowded right now, and when I talked to our bartender at Boudreaux's backyard, where we stopped a little while ago to have a hurricane (they were invented in New Orleans. We had to) he told us that the high tourist season begins in about a month, and also that this had been a cool sunmmer in New Orleans, too. Cool for them is upper 80s, instead of 100s, though.
We had lunch in Jackson Square, named after Andrew Jackson, who, histroy tells us, is a douche (TRAIL OF TEARS) so I have a pretty good picture of a bird s(h)itting on his hat. The restaurant we ate in was sadly disappointing. The waiter screwed up both of our orders, and gave us what he thought was a charming shrug, without offering to make things right, and then protested when Lizzie paid by credit card, because he wanted no bank interference with his tip. Having been a waitress for three years, I call bs on that one. The restaurant has to pay out all your credit card tips, and then you report them to the federal government who taxes the paltry money you make for your hourly rate--$2.63 an hour when I was doing it. Basically, we don't care if we're not making it convenient to lie on your taxes.
After lunch, we decided it was time to saddle up for a mule-driven buggy ride. We selected a buggy driven by a man in his mid thirties, I'd say, who was an inch shorter than me (ha ha) with a flat-top hat and an unfortunate long-haired-goatee look happening. Also, there were side burns. Turns out his name was James, much like our safari guide in Africa. It seemed fitting. The mule's name was Cash, as in Johnny Cash, because he "wore" black. Also, mule fun fact: Mules have a higher body temperature than both horses and donkeys, making them better suited for working in New Orleans.
So there were these really grumpy Floridians on our tour through the french quarter, one of whom was munching, petulantly, on a hot dog as James showed us the sights and told us about the various landmarks, including but not limited to nunneries, burlesque shows, the birthplace of about a million drinks. That seemed to be a theme: booze. We got a boatload of history in in 45 minutes, but it always seemed to come back to alcohol, which made us worry about James a little. So our buggy ride ends, and everyone leaves except us, as Lizzie wants to ask about the cemeteries, which we will visit tomorrow. James pauses, because the grumpy Floridian has left her hotdog on his seat. I said "Neat, free hot dog!" and then James said "So what are you doing tonight?". WORKS EVERY TIME! I said "Just kicking around" and he told us where the better bars and jazz clubs were, which just happened to be near his house. Lizzie didn't like where this was going (probably because she was jealous of my mad pick-up skillz) and ushered me away before I could make any more hot dog jokes. We checked out the Mississippi river, and then walked down Bourbon street (into the aforementioned Boudreaux's) where we quizzed the bartender about pretty much everything.
I know this is going to be suprising to most of you, but I likes to talk, and this is paradise for me, because no one seems to think it's weird when I engage them in long conversations about LSU football rivalries, their feelings on tourists, and the lack of proper public transportation. This bartender got comfortable enough with us to relate stories about people peeing in the bar's courtyard, and also recommened that on our adventures through the gulf we hit Panama city. He also whispered that we should leave Burbon street, because it was a tourist trap, which we'd figured out already, but we appreciated the tip nonetheless.
So now we're back in our swanky hotel, waiting out the storm so we can go back to a jazz club for the evening. No bananas foster yet, but we did see the place where it was invented. I'm sure James would've been willing to educate us on bananas foster if Lizzie hadn't insisted on us fleeing first. Sheesh.
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