Ah, New Orleans for Easter Sunday. The land of jazz, beignets, and apparently, never-ending blisters. Never ending emergency sirens. Never ending abusively loud noise. Let me walk you through (pun intended) what was supposed to be a relaxing weekend getaway but quickly turned into a comedy of errors—complete with sunburns, stale bread, and the kind of exhaustion that makes you question every life choice.
Thursday Night: The Calm Before the Chaos
We rolled into town around 8 or 9 PM, starving but too tired to care. The hotel bed won the battle over dinner, and we called it a night. Little did I know, this would be the last moment of peace for the next 72 hours.
Friday: Fishing, Friendship, and Fried Knees
The alarm went off at 5:00 AM because apparently, vacations are for sleep deprivation. We headed out for a fishing trip, which was lovely… for the first five minutes. I spent hours bonding with Whitney, Sheldon’s new wife, while getting smacked around by the wind like it owed me money. Meanwhile, the guys lounged under the awning, oblivious to our slow descent into sunburned madness. By the end of the trip, my knees were scorched, my back ached from the boat’s relentless rocking, and all I wanted was a shower.
But wait, there’s more! Dinner at Mr. B’s was supposed to be the highlight of the day. Instead, it was a symphony of stale bread, disappointing entrees, and an impromptu nine-block hike in heels because Scott apparently moonlights as a tour guide. By the time we got back to the hotel, I was blistered, sunburned, and officially over it.
Saturday: Lettuce, Leather Bars, and Bathroom Emergencies
Saturday started with a lovely visit to see Dave and Debbie—honestly, the highlight of the weekend. But then it was back to the hotel to prepare for another round of walking and dining. Dinner with Wayne and Cindy was fun, but the wedge salad? Let’s just say it was more “lettuce” than “salad.”
And then came Bourbon Street. Oh, Bourbon Street. Picture this: me, fighting off a fish-induced stomach rebellion, being dragged from bar to bar while dreaming of a bathroom. The Montleone Bar finally gave me the relief I needed (bless their plumbing), and I made my escape back to the hotel, leaving Bourbon Street to the younger, more resilient crowd.
Sunday: Crawfish and Crawling to the Finish Line
Sunday brought a crawfish boil at Sheldon’s. The food was good, the company was better, but the sheer exhaustion of making small talk with strangers left me longing for my couch. By the time we hit the airport, my blisters had blisters, and my knees were still radiating heat like a bad sunlamp experiment.
The Verdict
Sure, there were some lovely moments—catching up with friends, the crawfish boil, and the occasional laugh—but overall? I think I’ve outgrown the whole “city party” thing. Your dad’s not thrilled with me because he thinks we turned in at 8 PM every night (spoiler: we didn’t), but honestly, I’m okay with that. I came back sunburned, blistered, and with a newfound appreciation for my own bed.
So, New Orleans, thanks for the memories—and the blisters. Next time, I think I’ll just stay home.
Moral of the Story:
Sometimes, the best vacations are the ones where you don’t leave your zip code. And always, *always* pack sunscreen.
Reba Nietert 