Passing the Louisiana border, the scenery almost immediately started becoming New Orleans-esque as swamps surrounded the interstate. I drove across an incredibly long part of Highway 10 with water everywhere you look, and the New Orleans skyline straight ahead. After a bit of confusion figuring out the layout of the city in the middle of rush hour, I finally found my way to the French Quarter.

The place I'm staying in is called "A Creole House", near the corner of North Rampart and St. Ann Streets. My room is in the annex (#44), which was built in the mid-19th century, and used to be slave quarters. And from what Dave tells me (who helps run this place), no. It's not haunted. I guess I'll find out tonight.

Now, if you know the area at all, you might also know that I'm conveniently located from the coolest street in this part of the United States. I'm speaking, of course, of Bourbon Street.

First off, let me say that I really had no idea what to expect of New Orleans. (If I've offended anyone from these parts, I apologize. It's N'awlins.) Driving across that long bridge, speeding towards downtown N'awlins, I saw skyscrapers. I didn't know they had skyscrapers here! Maybe I'm just being ignorant, but I guess I figured it was mostly smaller buildings. I guess that's possibly due to the fact that the only pictures I've ever seen of this area were of the French Quarter.

Anyhow, Bourbon Street is a riot. I'm two blocks from the very end of the fun part of Bourbon St., so I got the whole joyous tour in one pass. Strolling by countless souvenir stores, jazz clubs, strip joints and voo-doo shops, I decided to treat myself to a Pina Colada. (My favorite drink.) I'm not much of a drinker, which is probably why my feet weren't cooperating as much after a while. ("Left, right, left, right, right.. no.. left.. right.. right.. damn." *THUD*)

Quite a few of the places I went by surprised the hell out of me, particularly one that advertised crossdressing dancers. There they were, men dressed as women, standing outside laughing and taking pictures with the happy tourists. (I have to admit though ... they had nice legs.) It's an unusual feeling to see female impersonators walking by, but it's a bit more odd when there's children standing around looking at them. They're growing up in a much more.. uh.. diverse (perverse?) world than I did. I can't imagine what the kids of today are going to grow up to be like.

Another thing that surprised me was.. well.. how do I put this? It's a pedal-driven 1971 German Volkswagen. Yup. No engine. No gas. No horsepower. Just.. well.. footpower. I spent a good while chatting with the overly-happy Scottish gentleman who built the majority of it. Ronny ("like Ronald Reagan, but drunker") and a friend of his from Houston had been reading up on recumbent bicycles. (Those are the kind where you sit back and pedal, low to the ground.) Basically, they wanted to build one that three or four people could all ride. Ronny's buddy was getting ready to chuck his old VW, when the idea hit him. Voila! The world's first "pedal-wagon" (as far as we know). It's got one-wheel drive, a bicycle seat for a steering wheel, and they've clocked it going at a lightning speed of 7 MPH. (The speedometer is the only thing on the dashboard that works.) They were in a parade in Houston a week ago, and in another here in N'awlins two days ago. They head back to Houston in a week, and what will happen to the car? They don't know. "We think it might end up in an art-car museum." Sounds pretty appropriate, I'd say.

It's been a long, long day, and I want to get up early to experience some more of this wondrous town, so I'm off to bed.

See you on the road...

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