New Orleans!

New Orleans is an interesting place. On the surface, it's an adult wonderland, like Vegas minus the gambling. Anything goes, alcohol is available any time of the day (they have to-go windows for beer and daiquiris), and half-naked women are a dime a dozen. 

Underneath its frivolity, New Orleans has a heavier side. Crime and poverty are high, and its citizens are fearful. The general feel is oppressive, like a dark energy has pressed down on the city for centuries.

That said, there are such lovely things about New Orleans. Like its peoples, who must be the friendliest people on earth. Everywhere I went, people stopped to chat. And the buildings and homes were beautiful, with their balconies and hanging gardens.

Unfortunately, I didn't take any pictures of them. No, I have no idea what I was thinking. I did, however, take a picture of this sign, partly because it's hilarious and partly because the bar's name was the Pour House, just like in the Guardian series:

In the mid 1800s, a crate arrived on the docks, marked "EXPEDITE" and nothing else—no name who it was being sent to or where it was from. After several months, someone finally opened the box to find this statue:

Since it was obviously a saint, an executive decision was made to deliver it to the Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel, where it still stands today. Of course, they named it St. Expedite. 

There are a lot of antique and junk stores in New Orleans. In one of them, I found a gaggle of odd birds.

I met a voodoo priestess. Here's a shot of her workstation: 

Her "office" was fascinating. You can't imagine how much stuff there was in there, everything from dolls to bottles of alcohol to Christmas lights to money. The impression I got was that everything there had a purpose, or was added for a reason. I asked the priestess about this, but she didn't give me a direct answer. Here's a small corner of her space, but the entire room is covered in kitsch like this:

I also met Dr. Love. My sister and I were sitting on a bench, listening to a jazz band and eating homemade popsicles, when he blew us a kiss from the other bench. Then he got up, picked up his broom, and began to pretend-swat unsuspecting women's butts.

Yeah, I don't understand it either. All I know was that it was funny, because most of the women never realized he was pretending to whack their booties. Then he sat down with us, flirted, and had us sign his white cap. He even let me wear his black sheriff's hat:

No, I have no idea what his story was. I'm going to google him later.

Apparently New Orleans is home to the best fried chicken in the country. So my sister and I trekked for miles on foot (literally) through the hood (also literally) to see if Willie Mae's Scotch House really did have the best fried chicken ever.

The answer: it was the best damned fried chicken I'd ever eaten. It was worth the achy feet and near heatstroke. If you go to New Orleans, go to Willie Mae's. Except unless you're walking with a kung fu princess, you may want to take a cab to the joint.

Since we're talking about fried food...

That's right—beignets! From Café du Monde, at 3am, which is really the best time to have beignets, in my opinion. Yes, there is a cup of powdered sugar on top, and somehow it ends up all over your face before you're done.

New Orleans is a musical city, more so than any place I've ever been. And it was especially musical due to Jazzfest last week. You could find talented musicians jamming on every corner, kind of like this one: 

On our last night there, after leaving a club, because it was 3am, my Magic Man took me for beignets. We sat at the edge of the Mississippi and ate them under a crescent moon. After we dusted the powdered sugar off our faces and turned to leave, we were greeted with this view of the St. Louis Cathedral:

Lovely and magical. That pretty much sums up the trip.