I went out a little today to get some gifts for the folks back home. I really should have stayed in. There seemed to be two types of tourists today: visitors from some unknown wealthy middle-eastern culture that worshiped American gangster rap and Hollywood stereotypes, and old grizzled American tourists in their late fifties and sixties, all acting like the world left them behind and goddammit, they are bitter about it.
"Gahd, Dan. Look at all dees ehdiehts! Ah faught in dah wahr for wat? I ask yah?"
In one bar sat a man with white hair and a red face, his sagging ass clutching his barstool with polyester gym pants. In one finger he held a cigarette which he used to point at some old skinny dude with a jean vest and a tee-shirt that advertised Jack Daniels. He was shouting how tired he was that the country had lost its way. I couldn't tell what side he was on, but man, was he pissed off about our foreign policy. He ranted about who was really in charge, but I didn't hang around long enough to get names of who he thought lost their way.
I passed by knots of empty nesters, probably making their retirement time with travel. They pointed at the architecture, the art in the windows, and pronounced the streets, "Two Louse" and "Ca-NAHL."
Someday, I will be old, too.
I couldn't stop to take in the sites anymore. It simply blocked traffic. I was just walking at a fast pace, and often had to make turns I didn't expect just to keep from being run down or pushed into an open bar.
I made a wrong turn and ended up on Bourbon Street. I know some people like that sort of thing... I don't. It smelled really bad today. Business was hard as hucksters tried to get me to come into their strip clubs. Since I didn't want to smell like baby oil and body glitter today, I declined.
But a few wrong turns later, I was next to the the Bienville House which meant one thing: Southern Candymakers! Simply the best candy in New Orleans in my opinion. They got me to like Pralines, because whatever I had before in my life was a sham compared to real pecan pralines which are sweet and full of flavor. All my life until I came here, I thought "praline" meant, "tasting like burnt corn husks and sugar." So I got some, despite the HORRIBLE line in that teeny, tiny little space. One young woman was holding up the line, a spoiled rich girl who had the body and mentality of a 9 year old, but with huge boobs (no offense, Scarlet). She had racked up over $200 in candy so far, and was slowing down the line with her thick accent and ditzy attitude. But she wouldn't let anyone go around her because her Lebanese gansta rap boyfriend with the bling was speaking Arabic into his Japanese cell phone, and he was all, "Hold on. HOLD ON! She's not finished, yo!"
But eventually, they got traffic around her, because she was angry it would take 30 minutes to make more dark chocolate strawberries, and had a fussy tantrum which I couldn't tell if she was angry or trying to pull out the defensive instinct of her 6'4" boyfriend with the Platinum American Express card.
"Neeewwww... I wan moh staw-berriss! Nasir?? Mak them go fasteeeerrrrrr!!"
Then I stepped wrong on a broken sidewalk, and twisted my ankle a little. Not enough to limp, but I am kinda paranoid about my ankles these days, so I hauled my sore ankle back to my hotel, and wrote this blog entry.
I think I am a little tired of New Orleans. Like Vegas, I just went too much too soon. I did everything I wanted to do, and I ran out of stuff that interests me. I wish I had more people to hang out with; I think that might have helped.
I have been invited to a party tonight, possibly back on Bourbon Street with some of takayla's coworkers. I am debating on going. On one hand, might be fun. On the other, I may be stuck in some drunken, flashing, screaming hell.