Hi everyone! It’s me, Alison! Wait — don’t hit that back button, you’re at the right travel blog! You might know me from Kate’s high school days or Brian’s Kate days. I’m happy to report that I actually got to see those nerds in person and that they are still the same weirdos you know and love. Though they did warn me and my paramour, also Bryan, in advance that they developed an even more symbiotic sense of humor in the past four months. Joke’s on them, though, they’ve always been creepily and endearingly in sync!

Anyway, Brian and Kate asked me to write a guest post because Bryan and I fortuitously (see: purposefully and meticulously) planned to be in New Orleans around the same time that they would be passing through the Big Easy. Bryan and I had always wanted to go because of the city’s reputation for dangerously delicious drinks, food coma-inducing cuisine, and their chaotically-curated culture. Bryan and I got a head start on the New Orleans festivities, but since this is Kate and Brian’s blog, we will skip to day two of our adventures as a duo and day one of our sweet, sweet reunion as a quartet.

Prior to meeting us on Sunday, Brian and Kate found a place to park their temporary home that was conveniently located within walking distance of our hotel. Bryan and I had just returned to the hotel room (after eating ourselves into a stupor at Commander’s Palace) when Kate and Brian informed us that they were in the lobby! I practically ran downstairs — although I know I didn’t because an elevator was involved — and promptly blacked out. I think hugs were involved. I do know that we shared big cheesy smiles — because I was so damn happy to see them in the flesh! — and crazed eyes — because I needed to drink in the actual sight of them after being apart for so long and I couldn’t do that with my eyes closed, silly!

We somehow made our way back to the hotel room where Bryan was trying to cure his food coma, and the reunion tour continued and more love-filled greetings were exchanged. We briefly caught up because — fair warning, everyone — even though I religiously read the blog, there is a lot of off-the-record information that is just as interesting and saucy as their actual blog posts. They have pocketfuls of anecdotes for any and every city! They told us about how they crossed the longest bridge in the United States, Lake Pontchartrain. (Insert note from Kate or Brian here about that experience!) {Note from Brian and Kate: It was a crazy long bridge! Watching the city of New Orleans fade into existence through the haze was totally worth the $5 Toll to cross.}

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We could have talked for hours and, occasionally, we paused to remark on how easy it was to fall back into the rhythm of our friendship and how it felt like we were just at home hanging out with our amigos. (Miss you, other nerds!) But then we remembered we had an entire city to explore!

And so we ventured into the beautiful cacophony that is New Orleans. Our first stop was the Creole Gumbo Festival, which was bustling right down the street in Louis Armstrong Park. (During multiple points of our trip from various sources, we were told that there was always a festival or parade happening in the Big Easy. Brian noted that he’d heard that special event permits were extremely easy to purchase and obtain in New Orleans, and it was extremely evident that the city’s residents loved to have a good time.) We were immediately met by a crowd of people watching a small parade of individuals who were dressed in very elaborate Native American garb adorned with brightly-colored accoutrements like large feathers.They danced and sang through the crowd towards the stage. The emcee initiated a call-and-response and the crowd immediately knew how to respond without being instructed how to do so. It immediately exposed the tourists (hi, it’s us!), but also spoke to how these cultures were fully ingrained in the New Orleans community and how the community has fully embraced (and celebrates!) these cultures.

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When the procession ended, we perused the food booths, all flaunting great Creole or Caribbean-inspired fare like crab beignets and shrimp-and-sausage gumbo and jambalaya. We briefly separated: Brian and Kate settled on Brazilian cheese bread and some vegan gumbo, and I promptly bought two huge strawberry-lemonade daiquiris. But we reunited near a much larger stage where the Hot 8 Brass Band was absolutely tearing up the stage. We listened to the infectious tunes for a few songs, dancing along intermittently, when we decided to look more food. One of my favorite quotes about New Orleans comes from Harry Connick Jr., a local, who once said something akin to: “This is the only city where you can plan dinner while you’re eating lunch.”

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For our second round, Bryan (known as “Y-an” to some audio listeners) demolished some Cajun meat pies, Kate grubbed on shrimp and grits, Brian (“I-an”) feasted on some jambalaya, and I had the only disappointing meal of the whole trip, which was cushioned by more daiquiris filled with diabetes. We ate on some steps near the Mahalia Jackson Center for Performing Arts that overlooked a duck pond, sharing more stories, until the sun began to set and we decided to start the rest of our night. We exited the park just as another band started playing and spotted a pelican in the water, which personally confirmed why New Orleans has a sports team called the Pelicans, but fostered confusion about why Utah had a sports team called Jazz. (A quick Google search informed me that the Utah Jazz team originated in New Orleans… ah, sports.)

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After a brief stop at the parking lot to pick up Kate and Brian’s things and a few moments of quiet in the hotel room, we ventured onto the mysterious, foreign Bourbon Street. And found ourselves in a place that felt all-too-familiar. Assuming that the majority of you readers are from Las Vegas, let me use some familiar terms: Bourbon Street is basically an open-roof Fremont Street. The architecture is older in an almost romantic way and almost every building had a balcony. There were more stores dedicated to the macabre and restaurants dedicated to Creole and Cajun cuisine. It wasn’t as evident on Sunday night, but there was music coming out of almost every open door — jazz, rock, country, club, pop. It was like the radio vomited out every musical genre at us until it could find a match for our tastes. BUT the crowd had the exact energy of our beloved drunken Las Vegas landmark — reckless, jovial, and determined to have the best time that anyone has ever had — except these drunk people swung beads at any and every willing party. 

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Our first stop was at Pat O’Brien’s, the home of the Hurricane: a rum and sugar-filled concoction that was created in the 40’s because the owner had too much rum from the Caribbean because the other American distilleries were repurposed for war efforts. The war-born spirit was a little too easy to imbibe. The establishment itself was beautiful — the metal fixtures adorning the entry way to the courtyard really drew the eye. During a later tour, we learned that most buildings in the French Quarter were built in the Spanish style after all the French-style homes burnt down, and the Spanish built private courtyards in lieu of backyards or front yards. Pat O’Brien’s was one of the most enchanting courtyards — dozens of tables were surrounded by greenery and in the center, there was a very pretty fountain that had light fixtures that changed colors and a seemingly-perpetual fire perched on top. 

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After Brian and Kate regaled us with more road trip tales, we headed to Preservation Hall, one of the most beloved jazz venues in the French Quarter, and we were promptly told that there was a cover charge so we nixed that plan since there was so much music freely flowing in the streets. A few people had told us to go to Frenchman Street, which is where we were told all the locals go to enjoy the nightlife so we armed ourselves with another round of Hurricanes and journeyed forward. Along the way, we found an unopened bag of chips (thank you, chip fairies of New Orleans!) and we also found some fellow tourists who were also in search of Frenchman Street, but they had given up on the trek because their phones had died and they could’ve navigate through the French Quarter’s dark streets. We happily invited them to join our party and guide them to our shared destination, and in return, our new friends schooled us about proper food storage:  “One time, I carried a chicken nugget for like seven hours [in my bra].” This was easily the best thing we heard in New Orleans.

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When we safely arrived at Frenchman Street — after mutually joking at how trusting our groups were and how any one of us could have been murderers — we parted ways. We walked up and down the street, peering into each storefront. There were definitely less beads, less drink cups from tourist-y establishments, but there was just as much music booming around us. We eventually stopped at an outdoor art market where we chatted with the artists and I picked up a necklace with a charm made out of a rhomboid-shaped alligator gar fish scale. We briefly stopped into a New Orleans-chain Willie’s Chicken to use the facilities where Brian picked up a beer and I ordered some chicken and plain rice (which warranted some funny looks) that we all shared to soak up the Hurricanes.

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We fought off our sleepiness and walked back to the Blue Nile jazz club just in time to fully enjoy the Street Legends Brass Band. We stood front row to our first funk rap-rock brass band concert, and it blew us all away. They played some originals and some palatable pop covers, but the pure euphonious energy was spellbinding. After leaving our appreciation in monetary form, we planned the last stop of the night: the world famous Cafe du Monde.

The beloved French Quarter home of beignets and cafes au lait is open 24 hours so we slumped around a table where we promptly ordered six beignets, three frozen cafes au lait, and one coffee. It was nearly midnight, but the restaurant was still healthily crowded. The beignets were so light and fluffy, but the star of the show was the mountain of powdered sugar that neatly sat atop the mountain of fried dough. At least, it was neat until we started eating. We had sugary smiles and powdery pants. We joined in a restaurant-wide birthday song for someone at the table next to us before we sleepily headed outside to walk the length of the French Quarter back to our hotel.

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Just kidding! I ordered a Lyft because screw that. We had an early wake up call the next day and I think we briefly turned on Friends before we all fell asleep. 

The next morning, Kate, Brian, and I went down to enjoy some standard continental breakfast and I snuck up a bagel sandwich for Bryan, who was showering when we returned. We got ready and trekked down the road to the Voodoo Lounge a little after 10 a.m. ‘They’re drinking again?!’, you might be thinking in a horrified and/or proud thinking-tone. No, we were in the back of a dingy, dark bar on a Monday morning to go on a cemetery tour! This was easily one of the highlights of the trip. Our tour guide, Hope, from French Quarter Phantoms tour company, taught us about New Orleans’ cobbled-together founding as she led us to our destination, the Saint Louis Cemetery  No. 1. She told us how the city first tried to bury their dead six feet under, but because New Orleans is below sea level, during arduous weather conditions, the bodies would pop out of the ground “like a cork out of a champagne bottle” and flood the streets. Not great. So all of the city’s dead were buried in tombs built above the ground, which was practical, but also led to some very beautiful structures.

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The cemetery is the home of voodoo queen Marie Leveau, civil rights hero Homer Plessy, and the future home of probably-a-vampire, Nicolas Cage. (Yes, Nic Cage owns a tomb in the cemetery. Yes, it’s shaped as a pyramid a la National Treasure. Yes, he had the ground repaved around his future tomb. No, I don’t know what the hell is going on with that.) You can no longer enter the cemetery unless you have family buried in one of its tombs or if you’re with a tour guide. The cemetery had a vandalizing problem — best illustrated by the missing heads of the beautiful Italian Benevolent Society tomb — but on the other side of the spectrum, it also had an overzealous adoration problem. People would leave tributes at Marie Leveau’s tomb in the form of scratching little X’s onto her tombstone. Our tour guide informed us that misinformation spread among other tour guides had encouraged this. At Nicolas Cage’s tomb, other tour guides also insisted that if you put on lipstick and left a kiss on his future resting place, you would avoid issues with the IRS. As absurd as the latter claim is, if you repeat it enough, it becomes as grounded in fact as the former claim is now perceived.

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Saint Louis Cemetery No. 1 is roughly the size of a small city block, but there are thousands of people buried within the cemetery’s walls because a single tomb can hold entire families with bodies stacked on top of each other. It’s a much more delicate and detailed process than that, but you should go on the tour to find out! The cemetery is shrouded in history and our tour guide did such a wonderful job sharing emotionally-fueled anecdotes punctured with some much-needed levity and advice: “Never put your mouth on New Orleans.”  We truly appreciated how the tour guide intersected history lessons about colonialism, racism, religion, politics, and so much more during our time together. We emerged from the tour with a greater appreciation for the dead, how the city housed its dead, and the city itself. And with refreshed vigor, aiming to live life as fully as the cemetery’s inhabitants had.

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After a brief respite in the hotel lobby where Bryan shed his jacket — it was bright and sunny during our entire New Orleans adventure, thank you very much — we went down the street to Acme Oysters. From my extensive research (I watched half a dozen travel YouTube videos and perused a dozen listicles), I found that Acme Oysters’ chargrilled oysters were a must-have appetizer in the French Quarter. They did not disappoint. They were smothered in cheese and garlic, and were accompanied by some warm bread. For the main course, Kate ate a shrimp po-boy, Brian downed some jambalaya and half a shrimp po-boy, Bryan dined on a fried shrimp and fried oyster po-boy called “The Peacemaker”, and I had the seafood etoufee with fried crawfish and rice on the side. (I’m sorry, New Orleans, I’m Asian! My tastebuds get confused when rice isn’t separated!) Everything was absolutely delightful and I don’t think we left a single bite of anything. We exchanged bites of each other’s meals and I was awed by the fact that everything tasted delicious. Fried and SO unhealthy, but so good.

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On the verge of being stuffed, we walked to the enticing-sounding Museum of Death down the street. We all had different ideas of what it would be, but the majority of us thought that it would provide a history of different burial rituals from different cultures, but it turned out to be about a very respectful exhibit-and-a-half of after-death practices. They had old, empty bottles of different brands of embalming liquid, after-death photographs that were commonly taken a hundred years ago, and a book filled with alternative burial procedures, like turning your ashes into jewelry or shooting them into space.

The rest of it felt more like a museum dedicated to serial killers. There were letters written by some of the most infamous serial killers and article cut-outs of their exploits littered throughout the museum. In the back, there was a theater dedicated to videos of people actually dying with a jazzy soundtrack playing over it. In the men and women’s bathroom, there were photos of crime scenes involving members of the opposite gender. It made my stomach churn. In the museum’s defense, it might have also been all the fried food and sugar that I’d been inhaling, but after an hour of perusing, Bryan and I went back to the hotel room to become not-sick. 

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When Kate and Brian joined us at the hotel a few minutes later, we all agreed that the museum was not what we were expecting and that we enjoyed the cemetery tour more. But it was my last night in New Orleans and I was determined to watch the sunset on the Mississippi River. We raced down all eight blocks of the French Quarter to make it to the Canal Street ferry terminal, only to find out that the ferry wasn’t running that day. Such is life! Instead, we walked down the Moonwalk Riverfront Park alongside the Mississippi River and honestly, it mustered up the same romantic wanderlust that I’d been searching for on the ferry. There was an old-fashioned steamboat, called Steamboat Natchez, blasting light jazz music that became the whimsical soundtrack that elevated our walk to a magical jaunt along the Mississippi River. Bryan and I had to check into our flight for the next day so I asked if we could briefly stop, and when I glimpsed around, I realized that we were standing near the Monument to the Immigrant statue. 

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The pinks and violets of the sunset started to tinge the family of immigrants when we first saw it, and it might have been fatigue or a tummy ache, but pride swelled up inside me for obvious reasons. I have a lot of complicated feelings about our country’s past and present treatment of its immigrants, but in that single moment, I felt so proud and in awe of every single immigrant who has made their way to our shores, not taking for granted how difficult and arduous and emotional that journey must have been. (Shout-out to my parents, shout-out to Kate and her loved ones, shout-out to your family!)

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When the night sky finally took over, we left our spot facing the monument and the Mississippi River. We found some more steps that led straight into the Mississippi River when the Steamboat Natchez roared to life. It started projecting the most hilariously off-tune music that sounded like a possessed ice cream truck ditty if all the instruments playing the song were slightly bent and broken. We admired the skyline and the lights on the bridge on the horizon when I realized that we had arrived at Jackson Square. It was a little too dark to admire the church, the fountain, the statues, and the other stores and structures in the area so we decided to return in the morning. 

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We headed back into the French Quarter, briefly stopping at an ice cream shop where Brian grabbed a few scoops, and stopped in the cutest costume shop called Junkeez that also has a location in Reno of all places. We found a lot of cute hats and dresses, but Brian found the greatest prize of all: a collared shirt with pizza print! The Pizza Shirt, a delicious staple for anyone’s closet. 

After Brian’s tasty purchases, we went to the famed (and allegedly haunted) Hotel Monteleone to have a drink at the Carousel Bar, where the seats around the bar actually made a complete revolution like a carousel, but every seat was taken so we left. We happened to be close to Brothers Food Mart, where the cheap chicken was lauded as some of the city’s best. I grabbed a box of chicken with French fries that were peppered with some Cajun seasoning and we hopped back onto Bourbon Street, where we set off in search for some good beer. There is so much alcohol on Bourbon Street that it can be overwhelming to just hunker down and choose a spot, especially when every establishment seems to be touting some sort of drink special or special drink.

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I don’t remember the name of the bar where we ended up, but it essentially looked like your standard sports bar and restaurant. Upon closer inspection, you could definitely see and feel the age of the establishment. You could spot remnants of the old brick under the flat screen TV, you could see the wood in the separated dining area, and you could definitely hear how many people had opened and closed the unwieldy bathroom stall in the door’s creaks. We had a few beers and appetizers — our bartender had lived in the Rhodes Ranch/Summerlin area of Las Vegas for six years because the inhabitable world is so small sometimes — before we decided to go back to the hotel and fed our souls with some deep, hearty chats.
We grabbed a case of Voodoo Ranger brews and ordered a large pie aptly named the “Hangover Pizza” — a strange, but delicious mix of mozzarella, grilled chicken, onions, honey BBQ sauce, and corn. We spent the rest of the night hanging out in billiards area in the lobby of our hotel where I fought off sleep and mumbled through some spirited group conversations. At some point, Kate and Bryan started their own conversation about their families and other topics, and Brian and I became engrossed in our own conversation about politics.

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When the pizza finally arrived at 10:41 p.m. (thank you, Postmates app for the timestamp), I went up to the room to feast, not realizing that Brian intended to feast as well and had only paused to tell the group about the pie’s presence. I unknowingly stranded poor Brian in the lobby because he didn’t have a card key for the elevator, and I only realized after ten minutes when I checked my phone that I had put down to fumble with the hotel room television set. (Sorry again, Brian!!) We ate pizza in our respective beds, continuing our discussion about politics and religion as Rachel, Monica, Phoebe, Joey, Chandler, and Ross talked in the background on the television. 
I don’t really remember falling asleep, but it must have happened because I woke up the next morning. Brian and Kate went to get breakfast at 9:30, where they were told that breakfast was ending, but they managed to get a plate of the items that they wanted before everything was taken away. I had a rogue bagel from our flight and Bryan wasn’t hungry, but in all truthfulness, our bodies were extremely cross with us for all the duress we’d made ourselves endure food- and drink-wise. After packing and checking out of the hotel, we settled on going back to Jackson Square. During our walk, the sunlight finally afforded us the luxury of being able to drink in the sights of the city — the varied architecture, uniform in how utterly mismatched it all was — we admired the hanging greenery, the well-kept balconies, the worn steps, the sturdy cobble streets. 

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Jackson Square was truly bustling — full of tourists and field trip groups and Andrew Jackson’s horse’s balls. Yes, in the center of the square stood a statue of the square’s namesake, one of the most dickish presidents in our history, and he sat atop a horse that had anatomically correct genitalia. Not sure why that fact is important, but I included a picture. You’re welcome? We admired the square’s shops and water fountains, where the cutest little birds bathed and selfie-takers took selfies. Afterwards, we headed to the community flea market at the French Market. Kate picked up some cute earrings and I picked an overpriced praline and Mardi Gras cookie, which was basically a cookie with a bunch of sugar sprinkles on top. 

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We perused a few stalls and shops, but then we decided to prioritize finding a place for lunch. We chose NOLA Poboys, another New Orleans staple. I gobbled down a fried oyster po-boy, Bryan (Y-an) imbibed an alligator po-boy (and it betrayed him at the Louis Armstrong Airport, on the plane during a bout of turbulence, and at the McCarran Airport), Brian (I-an) feasted on a veggie burger, and Kate grubbed on a catfish po-boy. The fried oysters were perfect — the oyster meat was tender and not too chewy and not too fishy, and the breading was light and full of flavor. We also shared some fries that I doused in Tony Chechere’s Creole seasoning and it made us all sneeze, but it was so good and worth the sneezies. The restaurant had old flyers pasted onto the ceiling — some promoting protests, others featuring festivals, etc.. The restaurant kept their doors open and a light breeze wafted through the vicinity, sometimes dusting the Creole seasoning right back into our faces. 

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Unfortunately, it was time for us to depart. We returned to the hotel to pick up our luggage and shared a few moments of calm in the hotel lobby, where we talked about this and that as Brian briefly played with a wooden Connect Four set and we all used the restrooms, prolonging our time together. Finally, it was time to call our Lyft. We shared hugs and sad faces and “see you soon”s. And thus, we parted ways. Our stomachs — a little more stuffed. Our alcohol tolerances — a little more tested. Our hearts — a little more broken and bolstered all at the same time. 

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If you’ve made it this far and you are not the owners of this blog, thank you so much for reading! I wish you well. Brian and Kate, thank you for letting me intrude your road trip and your corner of the internet for a short while. I love you both and even though we just parted, we have recovered enough that we are ready to do it all over again. See you soon. ♥