Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Life on the Farm: My Big Fat Nawlins Vacation: Finale

Balcony View

Day 3

My husband Dan was becoming concerned that I wasn’t eating much, but travelling with food allergies is what it is.
So Innocent, and Yet Not.
I had fruit for breakfast at Desire bistro that morning, and was sick within the hour – most inconveniently while walking through the French Market - which (thankfully) has public bathrooms every hundred feet.

Morning Libation
I just couldn’t take it anymore, and took a cab back to the hotel.

Drank all the Perrier in the mini-bar and cried.

Started talking aloud to myself.

‘I can’t believe I came all this way – on a freakin’ plane – and missed my own vacation’.

I didn’t get to go shopping, or sightseeing, or listen to any local music.

Vacation Photo
I felt guilty that my friends and husband had to experience my own personal level of hell.  I was still crying when he called me to make sure I had made it back to the hotel.  Asked him to please buy me a present.
What Little I Saw Of The French Market
Sat on the balcony and tried not to look the nearly naked guy on the adjacent balcony in the eye.  Was silently thankful to have been upgraded to the shady Bienville side, and that he was wearing underwear while he sucked down a cigarette every few hours in the sun on Bourbon.

Myron and Louanne, posing for the Courier Newspaper
I resolved not to eat any more solid food until I got back home. It was the only way to get through it.

Because God help me, I wasn’t going to miss out on the last thing on the frickin’ itinerary: get a tattoo.

When everyone came back to the hotel, “M” noticed that locals were digging through the trashcans. 

Too hot for horses, but the pedi-cabs were still running.
We postulated that they were looking for redeemable cans, but they were actually picking out discarded alcho-slushies to drink. 


That was one cultural revelation I could have done without.

Husband, shocked at the view in Electric Ladyland!
Later, at Electric Ladyland, artist Lester Garcia had created an original design from my specs. 

Bonded by Blood
Upon observing the tattooing procedure on my skin, Dan and “L” decided to get their first ink.

Day 4

3:00 a.m.

Dude was still here at 3:00 a.m.
Caught the shuttle to the airport, just barely. 

Observed two uber-skanky “professional” girls fight over some drunk man stumbling down the street.  Really, they just should have pushed him over and taken his wallet. Even I could have managed that.

At the terminal, I went through the body scanner again; this time I was searched for wearing an underwire bra and swabbed for explosive residues. 

Homeland Security’s conclusion: just a Northerner, not a terrorist.  Glad my tax dollars are keeping everyone safe from women’s lingerie.

First-class flight this time: hot towels, breakfast, no riff-raff, comfy seats, ten quiet-as-a-mouse fellow passengers, and a dedicated stewardess.

Slept like a baby. 

Sketchy Commuter Flight after Newark 
Back on the ground in Burlington, we called for a Chinese take-away, and I scoffed down steamed vegetables and white rice like someone who hadn’t eaten for weeks. 

Will I fly again?

Oh hell, yes.  

But I’m not going anywhere so hot that I’ll be sweating out of my eyeballs, ever again.

(And this is the last "Life on The Farm" to make it into newsprint, though I'll probably keep annoying people with the real details of my life exclusively from this blog.)

So Long, and Thanks For All The Fish.