As soon as we got into Louisiana, Holly and I skedaddled to New Orleans’ French Quarter. It was a jerky ride on the authentic trolley system (wooden seats, even) before we spilled out and headed down Bourbon Street. Although originally in search of food, that ambition got derailed once we entered the legendary Pat O’Brien’s. Pat’s is notoriously known for its Hurricanes, a fruity red concoction chock full of rum and garnished with an orange slice and a cherry, served up in a “hurricane glass.” (Named after the hurricane lamp, which it resembles.) We figured on splitting one and then cutting out of there but the first one turned into a second and third and… anyway, it was a blast and we didn’t end up exiting till late night. I blame the whole thing on the crazy couple from Brooklyn, Paul and Sue, who invited us to hang out at their table. Paul is pretty boisterous and his animated relay of experiences with the mafia, an ex-wife and the little league kept us more than a little amused. I’m not sure if they have any recollection of the night, but Holly and I left with cloudy memories as we bumped back home on the trolley feeling schlitzy.

The city of New Orleans is unlike any other. With all its extravagant old architecture and wrought iron, it just begs to be explored. Certainly the most fascinating of its quirks is the cemeteries. Because the city is below sea level, they didn’t have the option to bury their dead below the ground as a slight rain would cause the caskets to float to the surface. Their solution is a tomb that combines both traditional burial and cremation. The tomb has shelves for caskets along with empty space on the ground below them. With the casket sealed inside and the hot sunshine bringing the tomb interiors to something like 250-350 degrees, it takes about a year for the body to fully cremate—hopefully by the time the next family member is ready for burial. When the time comes, remains are emptied from the casket onto the ground in the tomb and the shelf is ready to take on another. It seems peculiar, but it makes sense. There’s a cemetery here that has more than 25,000 bodies “buried” in a single square block using this method.

Back in the French Quarter during daylight hours, Holly and I got some fried dough with powered sugar called beignet ( “ben-yay”) along with some chicory coffee for breakfast. The beignet is exceedingly good but neither of us are too hip on the chicory joe. With all the sucrose and caffeine coursing, we kept a brisk pace walking the city and taking in all the architecture and street performers. Once noon hit, though, we bee-lined to Central Grocery for a muffuletta. The muffuletta is a sandwich of the sorts we’ve never tasted. The unique bread is a large sesame-seeded round, maybe 10-12 inches across, full of all sorts of Italian meats and cheeses. Then there’s some delectable olive salad stuff on top of that. It’s a badass little sandwich and I have no idea why it can’t be found anyplace else.