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Tuesday, Mar. 05, 2002 - 10:26 p.m.

NOLA: Our own French Quarter walking tour

Walking up the ramp exiting the concourse, I saw Amy and James waiting for us in the area of the New Orleans airport where non-ticketed people can wait. (And, on another note, isn't "Ticketed Passengers Only" redundant? I mean, if you don't have a ticket, you're not a passenger.) I extended my arm and waved in exaggeration, prompting Casey to say, "Put your arm down. You're a dork."

Amy and James, who got married in 2000, began dating their freshman year at Bucknell, in the fall of 1994. Casey, two years younger, began her freshman year at Bucknell in 1996, and although she recognized Amy from one or two crossings on the Lewisburg campus, they'd never really met before. But for the rest of the visit, the three of them would occassionally go off on Bucknellian tangents about fraternities, sororities, study habits, the bar, campus culture, etc. It dodn't bother me, of course, because I tend to do it with my Notre Dame friends all the time.

We waited patiently for our bag -- which still had the new Andy Warhol Museum address tag on it, despite our fears that the loose clasp might not hold during the rigors of travel and airport employee abuse -- to come off the luggage belt and went out to the car. I heaved it into the trunk and we were off into the warm Louisiana morning. James drove east on Highway 61 -- the Blues Highway -- also known locally as Airline Highway and soon we were on the smaller roads of Metarie. In order to fulfill Casey's need for coffee, we stopped at C.C.'s, New Orleans' answer to Starbucks, where the three of them got their caffine fixes and I got a bagel for Breakfast, Part II. At their house, we walked into the kitchen to find Casper, their 2-year-old stark-white cat asleep on the stove, in the center part among the four burners. Casper, who is deaf and perhaps blind in one of his two (one blue, one yellow) eyes, awoke at our arrival and immediately became a stereotypically cute and attention-loving kitty. And we all fell for it.

After a short break during which Casey got in touch with Erica, a childhood friend in college at Loyola, we were off again to meet Erica at her apartment. From there we took two cars into the city and met up again in the French Quarter.

We ate lunch at Cafe Maspero's cousin on the corner of Chartres and St. Louis, right next to Emeril's NOLA on St. Louis, at a table next to the open window on the sidewalk. From my window seat, I looked across at some pub in which Napoleon hid and beneath which there supposedly lay tunnels which led from the nearby Mississippi to march the slaves through for the auction, which took place on the site. You know, back in the day. After lunch, the rest of the afternoon consisted of strolling and shopping. We went to a boutique next door, then down Chartres toward Canal and then Jackson Square. I admired the statue of Andrew Jackson, my favorite president, and as I snapped a close-up picture, some random guy on the grass near me shouted, "You can't take a picture of that!" I didn't realize at first that he meant me, but I turned after lowering the camera from my eye, and he quickly said, "Oh, yeah, you can." Weird.

We walked east toward the Mississippi and then north again toward the bend in the river and the French Market, where we weaved our way through the tables. Out the other side of the produce and flea market tents, we turned west again and walked to Royal, where we turned back south until we reached one of the streets near St. Louis and went east, to the river. There we stood on the banks watching the riverboat Natchez work its way up the river with its big paddle, and I remembered reading a book about the Battle of New Orleans (with Gen. Andrew Jackson) during the War of 1812 and how the British and American forces were situated in the area around the bend in the river.

Then Erica had to leave for work and the four of us returned to the house to relax before dinner. With so little sleep, Casey and I were weary and intended to nap. But it didn't happen for us -- Amy dozed off, though, while James and I watched TV. After several phone calls and showers by Casey and me, we mixed some drinks and then left to meet four of James' med school friends for Mexican food at Taqueria Corona. The tacos and enchiladas were great, and the Dos Equis even better so that by the time we left the restaurant and headed over to the Bulldog for more drinking, I was already well on my way. At the Bulldog, Casey and I tried to help James punch all 50 numbers on his card (the bar has 50 taps and once you get all 50, you get your name on the wall), but James let her get what she wanted, since his available numbers weren't what she was in the mood for. I contributed with a Harp, No. 14. We found a table in the corner and grabbed three trivia consoles -- James, Amy and two others as Oldboy; Casey and me as Irish; and two more as three different names -- for a few hours of questions, answers, gloating and pitchers. The eight of us probably drank six over the course of two or three hours. And while Casey and I never won a game outright, we picked up a couple of silvers and the table swept the medals in two events.

I remember little from the end of the night, other than Man, I was drunk. We got back to the house and quickly changed and fell into bed sometime after 1 a.m., probably closer to 2. Casey put The Princess Bride into the VCR to watch a little before going to sleep, as she usually does (with TV, not always that movie), but I was asleep in seconds.

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