Au revoir la Nouvelle-Orléans, jusqu’à la prochaine fois.
7th March 2014
So I’m sitting at my hotel at the moment waiting for the time to pass so that I can make my way to the godforsaken greyhound station and hope that my 24 hour trip back to West Viriginia is not full of scary shit like my trip to New Orleans was. Spending 6 hours trapped on a bus with someone who had very very bad gas to the point that I had to hide my face in my jacket so that I didn’t dry retch was bad enough. Let’s not go into the fact that I had to come face to face with dirty underwear sitting on top of the toilet roll holder in Atlanta. Because every woman needs to see that when they are dying to pee.
I’ve sworn next time I’m just going to pay for flights. Unless greyhound have started doing a direct service that doesn’t take me half way around the states before getting me to my destination.
On the plus side, New Orleans sure knows how to put on a party. Mardi Gras was… well. Amaze. I have a suitcase full of beads (they are being used as padding for my breakables).
I have a cat-woman leather mask, a headband of feathers that make me look fabulous and so many many beads that I’m not sure what to do with them all, so I left them decorating my hotel room.
The best bit? I didn’t flash my girls once for beads.
Mind you, there weren’t that flashing of boobs going on. I was expecting more. However the 30 degree weather would have been the reason I’d say. Everyone had at least 50 layers on. Nevermind that we also had umbrella’s, scarves and gloves on! Because it was raining for the main parade. We got to see 2 days of parades, the night before the main parade and the main parade. Catching beads turned into an Olympic sport. Women were snatching beads out of you hands, they were racing around bending over and grabbing anything off the floor that wasn’t glued down. Broken beads or not. It was interesting and a wee bit painful. Some woman scratched me worse than my cat ever has.
My princess moment might have been brought on by the fact that my fingers were so frozen that I couldn’t feel them so her scratches hurt even more. And that I was so hung over that it took me 3 hours of getting out of bed only to get back into bed that morning so that the world would stop spinning. Drinking trauma was just not the right words to describe me that morning.
Trying to explain me right now is just a story in itself.
You see, I have a bruised ass.
Stop laughing. I squeak when I sit down and stand up. And every so often walk along the french quarter holding my left ass cheek to try to relieve the pain.
I had this brilliant idea. To hire bikes and ride to Audubon Zoo – which was a great idea. If the zoo had been a wee bit closer to the french quarter. Uh huh. 5 hours later, my best friend was ready to kill me and I was walking funny.
Apparently Americans don’t necessarily like geared bikes. Fail. Nor do they come with enough padding.
I might need to take pain killers for my ass. There’s a first time for everything no?