Four grown men ever so closely reaching the tip of the 40 iceberg decided that in order to stave off the staleness of life we needed a trip to New Orleans. This was no ordinary celebration as our dear old friend Shades was getting married. Let me take you back several months before so you can truly understand where this post is coming from.
About 9 months before we decided to go on this splendid trip, upon learning of Shade’s engagement my brother made a profound statement to our circle of compadres, “this is the last wedding in our group, so we have to do this one up big.” As all of us married guys know, what we say among the guys does not necessarily translate the same in front of the little old lady back home. So when it was decided to go to New Orleans for Shade’s bachelor party, only four out of ten married guys were allowed the pleasure of taking this little 48-hour alcohol fueled ride.
I arrived in New Orleans last, a little after 9p.m. on a Friday night. The rest of the crew got in town that morning and at the point of my arrival were unable to communicate clearly. No one could articulate where they were at or where the hell our hotel was actually located. So after a frustrating 5-minute phone call I took a cab down to Bourbon Street. On the way I was chatted up by the cab driver, who to keep a long story short, offered to sneak a kid from Africa to me as long as the price was right. Welcome to New Orleans!
After diverting the conversation away from human trafficking I told him where we were staying and the cross streets of where the guys were supposed to be. The cabby of course replied, “I know right where that is.” He proceeded to pull up in front of the hotel and I jumped out. Now ask yourself when getting out of cab, how often do you really look at where you just got dropped off at? I did not and spent the next 30 minutes arguing with my drunken friends that I indeed was at the hotel and banging on the door that was supposed to be their room. In a dazed moment of clarity of one my friends asked, “are you sure you are in the right hotel?” It was like gravity had just been discovered as I quickly realized I was not in the right hotel and the yelling match I was having on my phone was most likely scaring the other hotel guests.
Going to Bourbon Street stone sober at 11:30p.m. is like wondering into a zombie movie. Like any good zombie movie you stick around and watch what happens. New Orleans is a very interesting place to say the least but what I found is that you have to leave your watch at home and quickly assimilate to New Orleans time (which doesn’t exist). Once I put aside the hustle and bustle and just relaxed the city opened up to me like a fine wine. It is such an immensely charming place with amazingly good music, food, and fun. Around every corner there is another party to go to and your invitation is the awesome jazz pouring into the street saying come on in. I love New Orleans!
Oh I almost forgot the best part; you older readers will appreciate this! So as my group stumbles back up Bourbon Street from an amazing night out we stopped for street pizza. As we ate our delicious slice a group of very young girls came to our table and asked Shades if he would take their picture. He of course obliged and they then went on about their party and we went on about our pizza. About three hours later and some more drinks we crawled into our hotel lobby where before going up to our room we stopped to rest and also enjoy a 24-pack of Krystal’s burgers. As we eat, along comes the same group of girls when my buddy microfiber ( I call him that because he refuses to wear cotton and it bothers me) gives a hardy hello to the girls expecting them to remember that we just spoke a few hours ago. The leader of the girl band promptly replies F- you! It was such a sobering moment as the entire lobby, which seemed strangely packed for 4a.m., all turned to look at the commotion. She was not through with us yet, she then dropped the most dreaded words any man who still thinks that girls find them attractive could ever hear. With the slow motion camera rolling she said, “You guys are old, you’re like 40…” We all just looked at each other with epic failure and just like that the lights went out on our party.
Man-eaters aren’t just twenty year-old blondes, the next morning we went face-to-face with the real deal…gator justice. No trip to Louisiana is complete with out a trip to the bayou and an alligator jumping in your boat.<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/89812055″>Gator Justice</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/user8160324″>Asixpackofstories</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a>.</p>
Cheers to 40.