New Orleans: When in New Orleans, Voodoo as New Orleans Do

"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

Leg 2 to 3: Memphis to New Orleans aka Lemme Bayou a Drank

The third leg of our journey started with a word of positivity from an elderly woman in McDonald's. Awestruck by her benevolence, Marc cranked out a few words to commemorate the occasion.

"I’m not very good at writing with feeling. It’s about 6 am. Chris is zonked at our palace suite aka the Rest Inn. I’ve been at McDonalds down the block using their wireless and staring at a computer screen while doing two things: booking our next shitty motel room, and finding directions to the next shitty motel room.

This morning we leave Memphis, after seeing my favorite at the FedEx Forum last night. I’ll leave the concert review to Salera and Ebert. We’re heading to New Orleans today, and the weather is supposed to be incredible. I just finished booking our room for the next two days; we’re staying an extra day to take in as much of the Big Easy as we can. Seafood and jazz – what in the hell could be better?

Ever since I’ve known Chris, everything we have done together has turned into a circus in some way or another. Most people can’t comprehend the decisions we make – sometimes we can’t. We’ve talked about this trip for as long as I can remember.

Some old woman just walked past and asked where I was headed – she said our trip is “a blessing from Jesus”, smiled, and said, “Imma pray for ya both, Hunny”. I’m not very religious, anymore, but that’s all I needed to make this moment one of the best on the trip so far.

It’s back in the car for another 6 and some hours. I’m traveling the country with my best friend – I’m so happy. McDonald’s coffee is pretty good.

That’s how you do it, Son.

Marc."

Well put.

Mississippi (I had to do the old M-I-Ess-Ess spelling thing to remember) crept up on us. The drive from Memphis to New Orleans is basically one road, I-55 South, the entire way. I watched as the odometer simultaneously rose with the temperature, sipped coffee, and downed a Super Bun for fuel.



As we floated past cars on I-55, I felt, for the first time in the trip, that we really had no deadlines and no reason to hurry. We had seen so much in 48 hours, and there was nothing I looked forward to more than taking it easy in the The Big Easy. With that in mind, we looked for some brown side-of-the-road signs aka attractions. About 60 miles outside of New Orleans, we found our winner.



The Camp Moore Historical Association is a museum/memorial cemetery located in Tangipahoa, La. Camp Moore was the site of the largest Confederate training grounds during the Civil War. The upstairs is complete with shelves of historical artifacts, including medical kits, shell fragments, historical documents, and more. Allison was kind enough to show us around. She said she had been working there for seven years, and by all accounts, she knew her stuff.




We took a walk downstairs and saw a huge work-in-progess: sprawling timelines, pictures of famous soldiers, historical documents (including General Lee's final orders), and much more. I probably learned more in 10 minutes than I did in any social studies class. A final walk outside through the memorial cemetery was the cap on a fine visit to Camp Moore.




If you want to check it out, you can become a fan on Facebook, the page is called:

Camp Moore Historical Association

Or, visit it for yourself if you're ever in the area (from the Facebook page):

"Camp Moore is open Wednesday-Saturday, 10:00 am- 3pm. $2 for students, $3 for adults, free for kids 6 and under. Come visit today!

Tangipahoa, LA, 70465
(985) 229-2438"



The final 60 miles felt like 1000 miles. I could not wait to get there and suck crawfish heads while sipping a cool beer. This last road was arguably the most scenic part of the trip, which given the competition so far, was not saying much (you can only look at so many miles of trees). As you drive in to New Orleans, you pass through miles and miles of marsh land. There's a long stretch of elevated road running through the bayou - certainly a dangerous place to run out of gas. However, this stretch offered some of the best, and flattest views of the trip.



The cool thing about driving here is just how flat it really is. In Pittsburgh, you don't see the city until you're halfway down Grant St. Here, you can actually see the city from about 20 miles away. With our goal in sight, we rolled down the windows and let the salty air permeate the car.



I could write a separate blog just on my first impression of New Orleans. Hulking by-ways loop through the city, and by all accounts, there is no indication that this city was almost underwater just five years ago. There is so much to say, and so much to see, but it will have to wait until I get a better look before I write more.



We eventually dodged traffic and found our way to the Sun Suites Hotel, located about 10 miles outside the city. Once again weary from a long day of travel, we checked in to the room (a legendary upgrade from our past accommodations) and prepared for what would be an unforgettable night.

Who Dat,

CPS