by Phoebe Blyth

Ever since coming to the US, I've had this itch for New Orleans. In terms of "must see" cities, I never cared much for Los Angeles, and New York was always "somewhere I'll probably go one day"; but New Orleans fascinated me, with its mix of bright festival beads and dark voodoo underbelly (the crazy delicious food also factored into my preoccupation).

With our departure from the US looming on the horizon (see our upcoming article about moving countries for a third time), it was looking like we weren't going to make it down to the Bayou, until my brother announced that he was extending his trip after spending a week with us in Utah, and asked if we would be interested in flying down to NOLA? Despite the fact that we unwittingly picked the weekend of the New Orleans Jazz festival, we somehow managed to get flights and a hotel room for the three of us before everything sold out.

That first night, after landing at 11pm, we wandered up and down the alleyways and corridors leading too and from Bourbon street (which reminded me of a cross between Khao San Road in Thailand and Wrigleyville in Chicago) till the wee hours, and I adjusted my expectations for the city that I'd thought to be more... authentic? Less overrun with tourists? I'm not sure what... or why. I'd had a romantic vision of jazz and whiskey and slow dancing in lush, dark courtyards, and instead we were confronted with a crush of shrill middle aged weekenders and boozy, beaded bachelorettes, stumbling down the road clutching giant frozen, syrupy drinks.

And so we decided to set out looking for a more satisfying New Orleans experience... and what we found was unexpected, varied, and wonderful. Rather than a plan, we had a list of recommendations as long as my leg, and a pretty bad sense of direction, so getting lost was inevitable. What we found when we lost our way was nothing short of spectacular...