Here we are in New Orleans. It’s the first time I’ve been here since 1996. That’s 15 years or so. Morgan was here twice before – as an infant and as a toddler. She has no recollection of the city. Everything here is new to her.
The trip was eight hours, including a 90-minute visit in Hattiesburg, MS, with her granddaddy. Neither of us had seen him in nearly six years. Morgan was 15 then; she’s practically a grown woman now. Mississippi’s rolling meadows and shady streets give it an aura of the Old South. Agriculture is an industry in every town that passes along the interstate.
One of the drive’s few intriguing sights was a pickup truck towing an SUV, which was towing a third auto. We snapped a photo, noting that it could only happen in Alabama. A state trooper on the east-bound lane of I-59 just as Mississippi became Alabama. It was evidence of the Alabama motto that college kids like to quote: “Come for vacation, leave on probation.”
The road into New Orleans is still dotted with buildings that show Katrina’s wrath. Once in the city, though, the pulse is as strong as ever. That is especially true on St. Patrick’s Day. We dodged an Uptown parade to arrive at a friend’s house to freshen up. We hit the French Quarter somewhere around 7 o’clock.
Morgan was hardly impressed with the first few blocks of Royal Street. She thought Tuscaloosa was more of a party town. When we reached Bourbon Street, she changed her mind. Someone threw her some beads from a balcony, and a passing policeman wished her a Merry Christmas. New Orleans already made her feel home. Another string of beads landed on her, but Morgan saw no reason to keep them. They were meant for the woman we passed who was flopping freely.
We stopped into a restaurant for raw oysters and a combination of gumbo, attouffee, jambalaya and red beans & rice. We watched an impromptu St. Patrick’s Day parade. We were ready to rest. We found the car and headed back up Tchopoulas. We must be ready for Dallas tomorrow.
--Ray, March 17, 2012
The trip was eight hours, including a 90-minute visit in Hattiesburg, MS, with her granddaddy. Neither of us had seen him in nearly six years. Morgan was 15 then; she’s practically a grown woman now. Mississippi’s rolling meadows and shady streets give it an aura of the Old South. Agriculture is an industry in every town that passes along the interstate.
One of the drive’s few intriguing sights was a pickup truck towing an SUV, which was towing a third auto. We snapped a photo, noting that it could only happen in Alabama. A state trooper on the east-bound lane of I-59 just as Mississippi became Alabama. It was evidence of the Alabama motto that college kids like to quote: “Come for vacation, leave on probation.”
The road into New Orleans is still dotted with buildings that show Katrina’s wrath. Once in the city, though, the pulse is as strong as ever. That is especially true on St. Patrick’s Day. We dodged an Uptown parade to arrive at a friend’s house to freshen up. We hit the French Quarter somewhere around 7 o’clock.
Morgan was hardly impressed with the first few blocks of Royal Street. She thought Tuscaloosa was more of a party town. When we reached Bourbon Street, she changed her mind. Someone threw her some beads from a balcony, and a passing policeman wished her a Merry Christmas. New Orleans already made her feel home. Another string of beads landed on her, but Morgan saw no reason to keep them. They were meant for the woman we passed who was flopping freely.
We stopped into a restaurant for raw oysters and a combination of gumbo, attouffee, jambalaya and red beans & rice. We watched an impromptu St. Patrick’s Day parade. We were ready to rest. We found the car and headed back up Tchopoulas. We must be ready for Dallas tomorrow.
--Ray, March 17, 2012
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