A Streetcar Named Debauchery

OK, this one is a difficult one to write. I have had one of the best
weeks of my life and I'm struggling to put it into prose. Nevertheless, I
will do my utmost to describe to you the fun, the fever, the frippery that
is New Orleans.

As soon as I stepped off the plane I was met by elaborately undersdressed
burlesque dancers in baggame claim while a dixie blues band provided a
snappy underscore to my arrival. Already this place just didn't seem
real. I felt like I'd turned up to a party no one invited me to. But that
happens to me all the time, so I knew exactly how to handle myself.

Within minutes after arriving at the hostel I'd made a bunch of friends
and we hopped in a cab and made our way to Bourbon Street, the main drag in
New Orleans.

What happened in the cab was the first domino to fall in what was to be
the craziest week of my life. But because my parents might be reading this blog,
I'll write two different versions of this story - the truth and the PG
version.

Version 1:

So the cab was filled with the unmistakable smell of marijuana. The
following dialogue ensued:

Me: "Driver? Why does it smell like weed in here?"

Driver: "I don't know what you're talking about, mon" (He was a big
black rastafarian, so "man" sounded like "mon")

Me: "I'm talking about the cab stinking of pot."

Driver: (And I quote) "It's the CD player, mon."

Me: "You've been smoking the CD player?"

Driver: "Give me a break, mon."

Me: "Dude, I don't care, just if you got some...you with me?"

Then without speaking he took out a Bob Marley CD and put it in the CD
player. And with that he faced me with a huge grin and produced the
largest joint you've ever seen, lit that bad boy up and shared the wealth, so to
speak. And as I sucked back on that enormous scoob it became blindingly
clear that New Orleans was my kind of town.

Now here's the version I want my parents to read:

So the cab was filled with a smell I didn't recognise. The following
dialogue ensued:

Me: "Driver? What's that offensive odour?"

Driver: "That's marijauna." (He was middle eastern - possibly a
terrorist. Not sure)

Me: "Pull over at once, and let me out of this car! How dare you."

Driver: "You're right to scold me, sir. Smoking marijuana is wrong."

Me: "It sure is. Goodnight."

And with that I returned to the hostel, said my prayers, and started
reading the new testament, as I am wont to do on occasion, and it became
blindingly clear that New Orleans was NOT my kind of town.

There. That should get me out of any trouble with the folks. But I
digress. Where was I? Oh right, Bourbon Street. Now, first things
first,Bourbon Street smells really, really bad. But then so would you if every
night hundreds of sweaty, drunk people vomited all over you. Why does
everyone vomit on Bourbon Street, you may ask? Because New Orleans
practically insists that you get totally hammered every single night.
Where else do bars offer 3 for 1 drinks? 3 for 1 fucking drinks?! I don't have that many hands! Or can you walk into a bar and order
beer "to go"? In New Orleans the law is more of a recommendation than an
enforcement.

But the truly brilliant thing about New Orleans is the beads. Now for
those who don't know, beads equals boobs. I'll explain. If you stand on the
balcony of any of the bars in the French Quarter and tell any of the
passers by that you'll give them a string of beads if they show you their breasts,
more often than not they'll oblige. I couldn't believe it. To think of
all the money I've wasted on fine dining and expensive wine just to see a
breast or two, when all I needed was some worthless plastic beads. But that's
the beauty of New Orleans. You don't have to be witty or charming. You don't
even have to be sober. You just have to have beads, and enough cognitive
activity left to be able to yell, "YOU! TITS!"

But that wasn't what made New Orleans amazing. It was the people I met at
the hostel. We really became great friends. The best night we spent was
the night we didn't even leave the hostel. About 15 of us bought 100
pounds of oysters and 20 pounds of shrimp and stayed up all night telling dirty
jokes. It felt like we'd been friends for years. Hard to explain. Or
forget.

Then there was Halloween. You could barely move in the streets. Everyone
looked incredible. I eventually found myself at a blackjack table at
5:00am, and won back all the cash I lost in Vegas. I was on cloud 9.
Then I blew that money on booze. The next morningI was on cloud 2 or 3.

What more can I say. It was truly amazing. Great food, great music. One
guitarist, who was playing on the street, promised that I'd have an
"ear-gasm" if I bought his CD. I was too disturbed to try.

You got to see it to believe it. But see it quickly, because it's
literally disappearing. The water level is rising fast on New Orleans, and they
predict that in 20 years or so, most of it won't be there anymore. We'll
be telling our grandkids about the Lost City of Debauchery, where the streets
were paved with vomit, and breasts were as easy to get your hands on as a
cocktail.
"Tell us again about the stoned cab driver, Grandpa Josh."
"Not tonight", I'll say. "It's passed your bedtime, and I'm far too
drunk."
And as I tuck them in my eyes will become watery as I remember the week I
spent in New Orleans, and how I wished you were all there with me.