‘Big 50’ Birthday Bash - Day 1:

    Ah, New Orleans. I remember you now. It’s been a minute, hasn’t it. Have I missed you? I’m not sure, but now that I’m here I can already sense that invisible swamp dog circling me, ready to lift its leg and leave its mark.

    For those of you who have chosen to indulge this story, please allow me to set the stage and make an introduction. 

    This is a tale about a boys trip. Not the type of boys trip which you likely heard about in the 70’s and 80’s, when degenerate twenty-somethings went to Tijuana to watch the donkey show and search for the ever elusive Spanish Fly; no, this is definitely not that. 

    This is a story of old friends, of three 50-year old men, two of whom most recently crossed that accursed threshold, while the other lingers, just days away. These three friends felt drawn to the Big Easy, to go forth blindly and without plan, to drink and eat, and drink again, as they stumble their way through adventures yet to be identified. 

    But back to the introductions… There is Joe, the oldest, though by merely a couple of weeks. There is Adam, the middle child. And there is Eric, which is I, your humble narrator, who at the time of this writing still enjoys his few remaining days of youthful vitality.

    So, three semi-centennial Pisces have chosen to look into the abyss. Will it look back? Will we, perhaps, even learn whether 50 is really the new 30?

    Day 1 started upon arrival. Chaos was incarnate almost immediately, in the form of a Haitian cab driver who seemed hell bent on getting us all killed before we were halfway to Bourbon Street. Rules of the road - there were none. Street lanes - What are those? The fact that we survived seems of have been a matter of luck more than anything else, yet we made it, after which our destiny was placed once again into our questionably capable hands. 

    Despite being dropped off directly in front of the door through which we should have entered, we made a ninety degree turn and found ourselves meandering around the block. Yes, three 50-year old dudes pulling carry-ons, half a block over from Bourbon Street. We didn’t just look cool, we looked SUPER cool. Eventually a homeless street person took pity on us and provided directional assistance, while inquiring politely if we “needed anything” (wink wink nudge nudge).

 

    This brings us to the glorious aroma which fills the air with amazing consistency. Cannabis. It is apparently the perfume of the French Quarter. You can’t miss it, and you’d be hard pressed to avoid it. For many walking the street, this is exactly the way it should be, and for those who disagree, well, at least it covers the true smell of the street. So really it’s a win / win.

    Our weekend residence was a three room apartment on the fourth story of a building that seemed old, despite the renovations that have occurred over the last century, and we were admittedly a bit alarmed to find the building plastered with signs informing the world that this was a private residence and that short term rentals were prohibited by the City of New Orleans. Violators would be ejected. Yet… we were nonetheless admitted; Lock, stock, and vodka filled barrel. Perhaps local laws are more like suggestions?

    The first outbound adventure involved a bowl of gumbo and the first of what would prove to be many icy boozy drinks. Of course there would be more, and we all know what they’ll do to you, but if you intend to go down any path you might as well take the first step quickly.

    Next up was the liquor store run. A bottle of vodka and a case of beer seemed like a solid initial stash, one which could buttress our outings, ensuring we didn’t accidentally dry up. By the end of the night we would realize how woefully we’d underestimated out thirst, but for the moment we felt steady and ready.

    Finally, out into the night air of New Orleans we went. At the top of a graffiti plastered door at 433 Bourbon Street were scrawled the words, in discreet and surprisingly elegant script, “Through these doors pass the worlds most dangerous vampires”. I was intrigued, enough so to snap a pic, when suddenly I noticed a strange looking dude standing next to the doorway, giving me a knowing nod as though we understood the same secret. Shitballs!, did I just get myself into something?

    No time for such worries, there are Hand Grenades to be had. Oh, my, don’t these icy boozy bastards pack the proverbial punch! Ahead of me, the long stretch of nighttime Bourbon Street lights is starting to look like a pair of continuous neon rails. Wait, is my vision getting blurry?

    More weed - everywhere - Bourbon street is weed city - “pre-rolls, get your pre-rolls here!” - There's even a full sized weed bus that promises delivery, yet Google is certain that recreational cannabis is illegal in Louisiana. Once again, it seems that laws here are merely guidelines.

    Then there was a hustler on a bicycle, swooping in upon us from Canal Street. Wow. Wish I wasn’t already drunk, although perhaps that actually helped. He asked a question, and we tried to deflect, but he started talking and wouldn’t stop. We tried to disengage but he was like a steam roller. Telling a story that wasn’t a story, until finally we realized he was scatting. A senseless rambling soliloquy about a lion and an elephant, rattled out in a cadence that would make a metronome proud. There was only one way out of this, slip him a fiver for his time and get out of dodge. There was a late night hunger building.

    Willies Chicken Shack was the answer, serving New Orlean Famous Fried Chicken. OMG I would literally slip between the silk sheets with this stuff it’s so good. Willie also serves icy boozy beverages, though his are presented in a half-yard glass shaped like a dick (keep in mind this is a chicken place, so of course he calls it a cock). I won't admit if we tried one, but I’m sure that along with the countless empty Hand Grenades that litter the gutters of Bourbon Street, the Mississippi River is also floating a legion of Willies Famous Cocks toward the Gulf of Mexico.

    Finally… back to the VRBO. The night’s getting late and it looks like some derelict has already finished off the vodka bottle. I’m blaming one of the 50-year olds, most likely the one who’s already passed out on the couch. Glad I’m still 49. #youthfulenergy

    We’ll see what tomorrow brings...