Nahlins

New Orleans was OUR STOP. I mean, this is where the trip began. Not literally began, that was California, but figuratively. While sitting in a small village in Nepal, I sat there reading On the Road, and just as Dean Moriarty said to Sal Paradise “Let’s got to New Orleans,” I leaned over to Mylinh and exclaimed “how about a road trip to New Orleans.” An idea was born and like cancer it spread. The road trip to the Big Easy quickly turned into a road trip across the south; a road trip across the south quickly became a road trip across the southern states of the United States..

More than just being the climax of our trip, New Orleans was so much more – what I am talking about is a bed and a roof. After weeks of camping we were desperately seeking a padded bed and a warm night of sleep. New Orleans was also more than just a party. It was a Halloween celebration, a reunion of friends, new and old, a place to rest our head and fill our bellies.

Coincidentally, my sisters and a few of our friends were also headed down NO for Halloween. This meant lots of catching up and lots of partying. Not only that, but I peer pressured my good friend Chris into taking some time off work and partying it up for the weekend. I won’t get too much into the specifics of our partying. Every night is the same on bourbon street. Hurricane, hand grenade, hurricane, hurricane, followed my some mix of the aforementioned and 3 for 1 beers. Life was good, my head the next morning, not so much.

Halloween was a spectacle to be seen. Half naked women, slutty old ladies, and a mix of every costume you could name (nothing was too scandalous). As we sat for what was to be our first of many hurricanes, a bartender approached Chris and asked if he wanted to be in a costume contest. You see, Chris, usually not the most enthusiastic Halloween participant, had found the perfect costume. Chris is a big dude, no wait, in fact, Chris is a huge dude – 6’4”, 240 pounds. His costume, however, was a child’s Eeyore costume, which he had torn and sewn to have it fit over his head. It was like if big dopey Goliath and ripped a hole through David’s head and stuck his face through it. It was awesome.

Chris had the added benefit at the costume contest of rolling deep. There were nine of us in all and that was plenty to make lots of noise by cheering, the sole way to win the contest. However, one formidable obstacle stood between Chris and his prize. That obstacle was a man who had clearly put much thought and effort into his costume.

His opponent, had long-ish curly hair, a purple jacket, and cigar hanging from his mouth – he was The Joker. As the Joker slid and strutted across the bar top he pulled out two switch blade knives – the ultimate detail that helped put his costume over the top. While Chris’s costume was good, this guy was great. It was an unequivocal win for the Joker, but Chris made it to the top three, which wasn’t too bad.

The night got messier and sloppier as time went on. We had more hurricanes, beers, jello shots out of plastic syringes, and ultimately wound up singing karaoke. This included about half our group (the drunker half) going up and singing “Friends in Low Places.” However, my claim to fame was putting my priest costume to use and jumping up during “Enter the Sandman” by Metallica and blessing the girl on stage during the prayer in the song. It was pretty fun and crowd screamed like crazy, but as I forgot the lyrics to later parts of the song I quickly exited stage right – my 15 seconds of fame were up. Let’s just say that at the end of the night I was glad I woke up in my bed and not on a street corner like many of the people we saw the next morning still in costume.

The following days of New Orleans were fun, but a little more low key. We walked the city, looked at art, drank Chickery coffee, ate beignets and enjoyed the elegant debauchery that is New Orleans. As we had had enough of this walking business after a couple days, Chris and I decided that we’d like to roll in style – that means on Harley’s.

We woke up early Sunday morning and headed out to get us a couple hogs on which to cruise the Louisiana countryside. Two Fatboy’s called out our names. We put our bitches on the back and painted the road with some burned rubber. The countryside was a far cry from the metropolitan tourist trap of the city. Run down or boarded up houses sat next to run down or boarded businesses that sat next to industrial centers that line the Mississippi river.

We followed the road the snakes along the Mighty Mississippi and saw more than our share of plantations and tobacco fields. The drive was sometimes scenic, sometimes ugly, but always informative. It was interesting to see another side of the south. Staying confined to cities, even those like Mobile, give you a skewed view. It makes the south look more modern and more progressive than it truly is. The backroads of Louisiana revealed a depressed economy and small town life that neither felt nor looked like Norman Rockwell.

From the drunks who stumbled along the streets as our motorcycles passed, to the man cooking on an open fire in front of his FEMA trailer to the unbelievably sweet and cute, yet pregnant (one probably led to the other) 16 year old waitress at the pizza place we found open (the only restaurant open for 50 miles). Renting the bikes was great not just to ride, but to see and see we did.

We had visited New Orleans a couple years ago, about 10 months after Katrina took place. At that time even Bourbon Street looked empty. A plethora of “for hire” signs were scattered about the city as most residents were still living in toxic FEMA housing all across the south. Today, as compared to 2 years ago, it seems as if New Orleans really has been renewed. No more boarded up restaurants, vacant buildings and FEMA trailers in downtown parking lots. While this renewal clearly hasn’t spread to the outlying countryside of the state I’m not sure that it ever did.

New Orleans was lots of fun and it definitely made me appreciate my friends new and old. They are certainly a group of people who know how to have a good time and to make sure I have one too. While most of those friends will be waiting for us in the golden state, we hope that the lost bear will find himself California dreamin – or at least on a motorcycle trip in Scotland with us in the years to come.