 |
| 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.
Ick.
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.
So Long, and Thanks For All The Fish.
