Last week I lost twelve hours of my life. Those twelve hours were spent throwing up what looked like a mangled midget, but was instead jambalaya and one Pat O’Brien’s Hurricane.
I’m not much of a drinker (except for when I was 22 and drank myself to sleep on a regular basis and wrote emo diary entries about how no one loved me), but wanted to participate in the intoxicated fun of New Orleans’ Bourbon Street on my first visit to the magical city with my mother and our friend Margie. Each of us indulged in a Hurricane in the romantic courtyard of Pat O’Briens and enjoyed a pre-Fall evening in the jovial atmosphere of the French Quarter. We got tipsy, but no one was fall down drunk. We come from a lineage of non-drinkers and all my mother can handle is a few sips before falling into a giggle fit, then sleep.
We traversed the relatively tame crowd of Bourbon Street back to our hotel in the Warehouse District. Last week, the city was full of middle-aged men with pot bellies and polo shirts (more…)
