After a night spent crunched on a too-small couch (an impressive fact considering that i'm barely over five feet...) I wake up cranky and feeling distinctly unrested. I'm hoping that New Orleans' famous café au lait and beignet combination will revive me. But first I have to find the renowned Café du Monde, THE place to sample these diabetic-inducing confections. With literally zero inclination about where anything is I set off in the vague direction of the french quarter. Thanks to the helpful signposts for drunk and lost tourists I quickly find myself on the edge of the quarter, and am immediately stunned by its charm. Elegant french wrought-iron balconies are offset by giddy colorful houses and very tropical palm trees. I love this place! I still have no real idea of where I am, but I'm happy to walk these streets forever.
Forty minutes later the charm is wearing thin. I've been wandering for some time in what is clearly a residential area, and I am hungry and not so interested in architecture anymore. The constant comments from every third guy I walk past are starting to grate. I don't know where to go, and frankly I'm worried about wandering into a neighborhood I shouldn't be in. But I still love this place. I think. To make matters worse it is clearly threatening to rain, and I'm pretty sure that as soon as my tissue thin white t-shirt gets wet it's going to make me way more friends than I'm entirely comfortable with.
I am luckily saved by the chance spotting of a voodoo museum in the distance. Voodoo means hokey tourist traps, and tourist traps mean delicious powdered-sugar covered doughnuts. And I'm right! As the wrought-iron avenues give way to the crowded Jackson Square, the New Orleans of myth emerges. Suddenly the rain-soaked air feels exotic as snatches of jazz bleed out from bars, and tiny shops of beads and masks stand next to lurid strip clubs. Even better, the famed Café du Monde is in the distance.
And what. an. experience. I step into what is essentially a glorified tent and pick a chair. Beignets come in an order of three, and thank god because I am going to eat these for the rest of my life here. Deep fried dough covered in a mountain of powdered sugar, one bite and my brain literally exploded with pleasure. The feeling only intensified with each sip of sweet strong café au lait-- half coffee half milk laced with a hint of chicory for a special New Orleans flavor. I'm not religious but the combination is nothing short of godly, and I'm willing to state that it is the best thing I have ever eaten.
To complete the experience, the rain which had been threatening all day broke the almost literal second I took my first bite. With a deafening crash of thunder the sky exploded as sheets of rain pounded the pavement. Despite the torrents a jazz band begins to play swinging old classics, and the scene is so perfect it is almost unreal. I can't stop grinning and probably the other customers think I'm crazy. I stay there for far longer than I intended.
Nighttime concludes with my first visit to Bourbon Street for the (in)famous "hand grenades." With five shots of (very very very hard) liquor in every drink, even seasoned drinkers are guaranteed to feel good. As a bonus, New Orleans open container laws allow the consumption of alcohol right on the streets. I pretty much love drinking and walking on muggy muggy nights, so I feel like New Orleans is for me.
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