"If someone ever makes a bet with you and says, 'I bet I can tell you where you got your shoes,' don't indulge them. If you wanna play along, you got your shoes on your feet."
This was a quote from Allison, our Camp Moore tour guide, and it proved to be a valuable piece of information.
The night began in the confines of our hotel room. At the request of Irish, the fine looking, amiable clerk behind the hotel counter, we passed on dropping unnecessary rubles on an expensive dinner, and instead went to Manhattan St. Seafood Market. The Manhattan St. Seafood Market is the most unassuming place to find a world class meal; frankly, it looks more like a grocery store than anything.
However, as soon as we opened the door, the smell hit us like a brick. Cajun shrimp swam in giant vats of spicy broth; fresh oysters were stacked inside a cage; and crawfish stared at us through the glass like prisoners on death row. We found our winner.
Marc and I each ordered a pound of crawfish. Marc paired this with two hard shell crabs and boiled shrimp, and I went for a New Orleans staple: an oyster Po' Boy. Before leaving, I asked the woman behind the counter for a few sheets of butcher paper. A crime scene would ensue back at the hotel.
WHACK! Crab guts flew across the table. CRACK! A crawfish beheaded in seconds - his brains instantly sucked out. It was sheer carnage. The shrimp and crawfish had been stewing in a cajun blend of spices, and each bite sharply bathed my taste buds with a combination of heat, spice, and oceanic salt. I took one bite of my Po' Boy and considered moving to New Orleans. Heaps of fried oyster were mixed with pickles, lettuce, and hot sauce. This heavenly combination sat on top of a deceptively-soft mattress of French bread. We passed the crustacean corpses back and forth without saying a word. As with any meal, the less words spoken, the better the meal is.
With full stomachs and open minds, we set sail for Bourbon St. Again, we chatted with our cab driver and made sure to hear his input on the best sights in the city. As he pulled up to Bourbon St., I took one look down the long stretch of lighted paradise and knew at that instant that it would be a good night.
There are too many words to describe Bourbon St. It is lively, cultured, bright, mysterious, friendly, expensive, unpredictable, and driven by debauchery. Open bars overflow in to the streets. Beads rain down on patrons like a snowstorm of green, yellow, and purple plastic. Every so often, a "Who Dat" echoes through the streets. Drunk bicyclists high-five firemen while drinking grain alcohol-laden daiquiris.
Speaking of which, daiquiris are apparently the drink of choice, and each bar has it's own colorful spectrum of flavors, ranging from Pina Colada (Marc's beverage of choice) to Antifreeze 190 (your humble author's hangover-inducing elixir). We even challenged Tropical Isle - a local bar - to prove it's claim as having "The Most Powerful Drink in New Orleans:" a "hand grenade." No offense, but I've probably drunk beers with more alcohol content than this melon-flavored concoction.
The streets are filled with a blithesome crowd, and there isn't a single person who isn't smiling, myself included. Apparently, after reading today's paper, I learned that an Italian American Parade had taken place earlier in the day. This explained the large number of Southern belles with red, green, and white garters choking their thighs.
When this is all done, I plan on putting together a few rules I learned from the road. Rule #1, a gentleman's club with no cover means you will pay $7.75 for a Miller Lite. Joke's on us.
As we made our way further down the street and deeper into insanity, we stopped at a number of different attractions and indulged our thirst for drinks, and for culture. Nevermind the obvious attractions - a simple 45 degree upward tick of the head revealed some of the finest architecture I had ever laid eyes on. Beautiful stone buildings with spiraling iron gates stood over the crowd like reminders of a time long ago.
We continued for several hours, pining for beads from our northern brethren (Marc won by the way. Final count? Marc: 5, Chris: 3), until the threat of bankruptcy reared its ugly head. On a final walk out, just as Allison predicted, a chipper gentleman approached us and challenged us to test his shoe-identifying ability. Not today sir, not today.
After stopping for a few minutes to peruse the eclectic aisles of any voodoo gift shop we could find, and stopping for a minute to direct the University of Houston's Mens Basketball team (Go Cougars!) to the nearest watering hole, we headed for Canal St. in search of a cab.
"Chris call a cab."
*Chris raises hand*
Screeeeech.
"Where you boys headed?"
Home cab driver, home. I will never forget this place. In fact, I loved it so much, I decided a daytime visit might be enough to beguile my interest of what is arguably the biggest carnival on Earth. I love the spirit of this town. Coming off a Super Bowl win, I will fairly say that no other city deserves it more. Well, maybe one, but we can't get greedy right? New Orleans is like a family reunion for the world's biggest family, and Bourbon St. is the drunk uncle who hasn't been seen in 6 years, but has the best stories out of any one.
Three hours on Bourbon St. is a lifetime. If you have never been, when you do go, keep your eyes, ears, and mind as open as possible, and don't forget the wise words of a wise woman: "You got your shoes on your feet."
Still smiling a day later,
CPS
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