After another looooong drive through boring stretches of highway in Texas, we pull into the Big Easy around 4 am. Oh, and side note: we had the joy of visiting a gas station restroom in the bayou where I was pretty sure we were either on location for the filming of True Blood, or had found the exact people the animatronics in the Pirates of the Caribbean ride were modeled after.
Once again, I mistakenly booked us a hotel smack in the middle of downtown. The good news: our hotel is right on Canal Street, walking distance to the French Quarter. The bad news: there's nowhere to park the freaking car again. As per usual, Michael drives around looking for parking while I settle us into the room. He comes back up around 5 to tell me there was nowhere to park, and he left it on the curb in the covered valet area, but that we have to move it in a couple hours. We decide that it is time to bid Chucky freaking adieu, and we find the nearest U-Haul which, bless them, opens at 7. We take a short snooze, and off we go to get rid of the evil, fun-sucking trailer, which has been like a dark cloud hovering over our trip.
On the way to U-Haul, I call their customer disservice line to make sure it's okay to drop the trailer off at this location. I have the following conversation:
Me: "Hi, I'd like to make sure the New Orleans location will be able to accept my trailer"
U-Haul Lady: *sigh* "What's your order number?" I tell her. Long Pause. "It's a full service station, so they'll probably be able to."
Me: "Probably?" Like how I'll probably be writing a scathing review of my experience on U-Haul.com?
U-Haul Lady: (contemptuously) "Well they should be able to, but just so you know they can charge you up to $600 for a wrongful destination fee."
Me: "Wrongful destination? But we don't even have a destination point selected yet."
U-Haul Lady: (even more contemptuously) "Well, it says you were planning on dropping it off in Florida, so this is the wrong destination."
Me: "Got it. I'll try my luck anyway."
So, we pull into U-Haul, and this one looks a little more promising as it is an actual U-Haul location and not just some crappy towing company renting U-Hauls out of their back room like before. Enter Marty Martin, the savior of our vacation. He decides to be a New Orleans Saint (get it??) and accept our trailer with no fee. Cue angel chorus.
With the dark cloud lifted, and Chucky laid to rest, we are finally able to relax a bit, and we take in the sights and sounds of the city. I don't know if it's just being in Louisiana in July or if the weather is always like this, but I am absolutely choking on the humidity. It is so uncomfortable, I can't understand the mass appeal of this city. It is also by far the worst smelling place I have ever visited. The stink just hangs in the thick, wet air, and I think I want to check out this place quickly because I am ready to move on to the Happiest Place on Earth.
Bourbon Street does hold that New Orleans charm one expects, and we walk up and down, drinking in all that it has to offer. Literally.
Or at least I did.
I mean, I have to take advantage when in a city that allows you to take your beer to go. As we're wandering along, Michael notes that these bars we keep passing sure have a lot of guys in them. I suppose he didn't notice the rainbow flags flying outside, or the name of one of the bars in question:
I somehow doubt we will be finding a bunch of lumberjacks inside "Napoleon's Itch".
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