Forgive me, Harry Connick Jr, but I was not jazzed up by my recent visit to New Orleans. Matter of fact, if I never return, it’ll be fine by me. Of course, my husband and I loved the beignets at Café du Monde, the Bloody Mary and Margarita at 801 Royal, and the two bands we enjoyed enough at 21^st Amendment to return to each twice, but unsure most of the French Quarter was worth the aggravation, sour smells of rotting garbage, urine and vomit; streets clogged by construction and blaring horns; or having to tread very, very carefully with eyes looking down on broken sidewalks. Looking down isn’t advised in a city where we had multiple people intentionally bumping into us (hoping to pick our pockets?) or aggressively thrusting us toward their club, but after several stumbles, I decided looking down was the only way I could safely navigate.
Full disclosure here: I have only been to New Orleans one other time. I was honeymooning with a now-deceased husband and we got food poisoning our first day. We left the next day without really seeing much. I’ve always wondered what I missed.
This trip decades later was my husband Russ’ idea. When we travel, we focus on interesting architecture—usually historic in nature, local cuisine, and people watching. He eats very little seafood and gets sick from any shellfish. I like some Creole and Cajun cooking, but it does not rank high on my list of must-haves. I positively do not like enormous platters of heavy fried food, Read more