New Orleans

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New Orleans


After Gustav, my hopes for New Orleans weren't that high. We were lucky to be able to continue with our original plans; and killing three days in the hostel if necessary wouldn't kill us. The bus from the airport was being used for transporting those who'd been evacuated back home, but the $15 airport shuttle service was operational and, dodging a few downed trees, got us to the hostel safely.

It was now about six o'clock, so we wandered out to get dinner (for me, a cheese muffin which I stupidly thought might be savoury) and some bottled beers which we drank in the hostel chatting to a few of the other guests who'd been brave (stupid) enough to make it into New Orleans. The hostel itself had the potential to be fantastic, with a huge communal space both outside and in – but not many other people had made it in. This accentuated the other issue with the hostel, which was that it seemed to have a hardcore bunch of people who actually lived there, full time, as paying guests – which is unlike others I've experienced. I see why they do it, but in other hostels anyone over the age of thirty-five stands out. Here youth was in a minority for the first few days.

Still, as a sociable evening passed by, I was oblivious to a menace far greater than hurricane Gustav: the mosquito. The next morning however, my ignorance was shattered as I erupted into a cross between a living piece of aboriginal artwork and a huge join the dot puzzle, with the obligatory itching. By the end of the time spent here, I counted 84 bites on my body in spite of sweating to death in long clothing and dousing myself with horrible insect repellant to such a degree that a lit match may have caused me to spontaneously combust.

We set out in the next morning on a tourist jaunt with Alice, a Kiwi girl, and her companion : Mighty Max the truck, in search of Oak Alley Plantation. The guidebook promised us a visual feast of colonial era architecture, and a beautiful, photogenic drive lined with oaks. I rode in the back of 'max', on the way, which was an experience in itself. It still amuses me that in a country obsessed with health and safety for the most petty things, you can still ride in the back of a truck down dual lane roads without so much as a seat – far less a seatbelt. It was amazing how comfortable it was sitting in what was effectively a large, open topped metal box on top of a slightly dodgy truck though!

Perhaps predictably, after this fun, the plantation was closed. A large sign advised us that access was for deliveries only. We pretended not to have seen this, and drove into the car park, which was (oh so surprisingly) deserted. Pushing still further our imagined 'innocent tourist' and 'helpless pretty girl' defence – I presume you can guess who took each excuse – we walked past the boarded up ticket office (no $15 entry fee for them!), past the 'Tickets Needed Beyond This Point' sign, and into the plantation itself. A quick wander established that the oak trees had largely survived, although the beautiful path in was somewhat littered with the debris from the storm.

There wasn't a lot to see, so we headed back in search of some of the worst hit areas from Katrina in 2005. We didn't find these, but did see a fair amount of houses boarded up – some of them would have been quite nice, which was still somewhat shocking. Also went into a 'Popeyes' for some fried chicken; again the only white people in there.

The second day was quite a lazy one with nothing all that exciting happening save endless use of the hostel pool, so on the third day I decided to make sure I saw some of New Orleans itself. The celebrated French Quarter was really beautiful, although full of annoying Americans saying 'hello, how are ya' on their way past, and like most nice places a little too full of simply nice places to eat and drink. The pictures though, are testament to the beauty of the place. Coloured houses with plants trailing from the delicate black iron balcony railings at the front. At the same time skyscrapers rise up in the background, giving the appearance of an ancient oasis of quaint, original buildings with character amongst the backdrop of normal life.

In the evening, we went out for a meal in 'Yo Mama's Bar and Grill', which our travel guide recommended as doing tasty burgers. In our innocence, we had presumed that the 'Yo Mama' label referred perhaps to the motherly gift for cooking, the sort of 'apple pies just like 'Mom' used to bake' type thing. Indeed, the cooking tasted delicious so we continued in our naivety.

This illusion was shattered however when we saw our receipt, featuring a black and white image of a seductively dressed femme, above the line “Yo Mama's like a screen door. The more you slam her, the looser she gets' – delightful!

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