New Orleans

It's a smelly place, New Orleans. And I mean this literally. Especially the French Quarter, or as I like to call it, the smells-like-vomit quarter. Saturday night on Borboun Street throngs of drunken tourists crowd the narrow streets and obnoxious thudding sounds (or music, as some call it) spill out into the streets. I'm not sorry I went there on a Saturday night, but I didn't find it particularly appealing. You squeeze yourself towards the bar between tourists, who are just like you except they inexplicably seem to comfortable squashed between strangers, and then squeeze yourself back towards your friends where you pretend to dance or quickly decide to leave cause, you know, it sucks in this bar. During the day the French Quarter is nicer, though it still smells like the bathroom did after that time my roommate got really sick. The brick streets are narrow and the buildings are tall and old close together. And it's easy to find an ATM. Which is important when you go to New Orleans with some of my friends. Because they will want to eat. This is what they do for fun. They eat. And then they talk about what they eat. So we go to Brennan's, and I drop 50 dollars and try to convince myself that it's the best brunch I ever had even though these poached eggs taste like vinegar. I hate vinegar. At least the soup was good. And then there's the mufaletta. ooooh the mufaletta. I believe my friend when she says it's delicious if you get it at this deli in Jackson square, but when you buy it at the coffee shop before you leave on the long trip back to Texas, you regret it the entire way. Just thinking of the salty smell of those green olives makes my stomach churn. But at least I saw my friends. They were fun, and didn't smell, and I hope I see them again before another year is up.