Hop on the Bus, Gus

I "don't need to discuss much" (Paul Simon, anyone?) but I would be remiss if I didn't briefly share my recent Megabus trip. I didn't have the amazing experience Megabus worshippers rave about, but it was a very cheap, fairly reliable way to get to Chicago.

Jon and I had tried to take the Megabus over Christmas vacation, but were stymied by the internet. For whatever reason, our reservation didn't go through...which we didn't realize until the week before the trip when all of the seats were taken. Hence, our very first Greyhound trip. While we joked about sleeping on the overnight bus with one eye open and packing a shiv in our carry-on, it was a perfectly uneventful trip, one that I slept through, actually. In all seriousness, everyone should travel by Greyhound at least once in their lives.

But back to Megabus. Due to my recent involvement with the Board of Directors of an honor service organization I belonged to in college, Cardinal Key, I was invited to attend the annual board meeting in Chicago. However, Memphis is a bit of a challenge to fly out of (ie, expensive), so in order to save money, I volunteered to take the Megabus.

I was intrigued, really. I'd heard wonderful reports of people snagging seats for just a couple of dollars and then having ample room to stretch out and sleep/read/type. Since I wasn't able to book my ticket until just a couple weeks prior to the trip, I missed the unbelievable fares, but I was hoping for spacious accomodations. I thought that leaving on a Wednesday night for an overnight trip would ensure me plenty of space...but I was wrong.

Unbeknownst to me, there was an optometry conference in Chicago the same weekend as my board meeting. When Jon took me to the designated bus stop 30 minutes early, the line was already quite long and it was full of optometry students. I must say, though, that I have never seen so many pairs of trendy glasses in one place.

Needless to say, every seat on the bus was taken. In hopes of having the seat next to me free, I had brought both of my bags on the bus instead of putting one in the cargo hold, so I spent the night a little cramped. I was worried when the optometry students couldn't seem to contain their excitement about the weekend's "eye-tinerary" (first and last eye pun, I promise), but they quickly quieted down.

We arrived in Chicago at Union Station right on time and I spent the weekend discussing all things Cardinal Key. After a successful meeting, it was time to return to the Megabus. While I prefer traveling long distances overnight because it's just so efficient, I opted for the mid-morning bus that would get me back to Memphis at around 9pm. I was proud of myself for navigating Chicago's transportation system, and I returned to Union Station with extra time, even though I had to walk several extra blocks due to track construction.

Once again there was a long line for the Megabus. Actually, there were long lines for several Megabusses, all traveling to various spots in the Midwest (Megabus is based out of Chicago). I found myself toward the back of the throng of people, which proved to be good because right before I stepped onto the bus, the driver stopped me and told everyone to evacuate the bus. The gaseous fumes everyone was choking on were not an indication that we were hanging out around half a dozen busses, but rather of a mechanical problem.

So, everyone "de-bussed" in an orderly fashion and we began to wait. We really only had to wait for about 30 minutes, but the hot sun definitely made it feel longer. I did my good deed for the day, however, when I volunteered to help translate for a passenger who only spoke Spanish. Finally, my Spanish minor was good for something!

Once the new bus arrived, we piled back on again. Of course, I had selected the same bus as several of the optometry students, so no empty seats again. I put my larger bag under the bus this time, though, so I was much more comfortable. I had set myself up with snacks, books, and my iPad and was ready to travel the ten hours back to Memphis. I shouldn't have been surprised that wifi on a bus is not that reliable. I also wasn't surprised that I chose the one seat without a functioning electrical outlet. Other than that, though, it was a smooth trip. Our driver was a bit of a ham and played his personal playlist for our enjoyment, and in between all of the reading I did, I had a nice conversation with the wise-beyond-his-years man sitting next to me.

My final assessment of the Megabus is that it is definitely an affordable way to travel, and I would probably do it again. I prefer the romance of train travel, certainly, but when it comes to bus travel, I'm pretty satisfied.

Meet Me in St. Louis

While there was no Worlds Fair in St. Louis this summer, it did prove to be a good place to meet my family from Kansas City. Since my brother and sister-in-law were not interested in driving the eight hours to Memphis for a visit with a 2 1/2 year-old in the backseat, we all decided meeting halfway would be a great way to get together. My mom and younger brother also decided to join us, which led to a mini family reunion in Missouri's inferior east side.

It has been years since I have been to St. Louis and stayed in the city and not on the couch/spare bed of a college friend. We splurged a little on the hotel because we figured it would be a good idea to have a nice homebase, particularly when planning around naps and such. We stayed right downtown and were able to walk to all of the destinations we were interested in seeing.

Jon and I got into town earlier than expected on Friday afternoon, which is impressive considering we didn't leave as soon as we had wanted to (not surprising) and I had spent that morning and the previous afternoon at the mechanic's getting new tires (very surprising--having a flat on the side of the interstate in 90+ weather is not something I had on my agenda). At any rate, we arrived just in time to enjoy the hotel's complimentary happy hour before heading out in search of dinner.

We knew we were up against the clock as far as bedtime went, so we quickly found a place to eat and then took a chance on an evening stroll. We were so close to the Arch at this point that we had to check it out. Jon helped our niece get some of her energy out by teaching her how to roll down a hill...which resulted in her comical attempt to roll up the hill. It quickly became apparent that we needed to get back to the hotel, so we called it a night, although not until we watched the Royals defeat the Cardinals (or rather watched the Cardinals lose, since we had it on a St. Louis station).



Gateway to the West



The next morning Jon and I got up and ran to Illinois (which only sounds impressive until you take into consideration that Illinois is only a couple of miles from where we were staying). The rest of the family accompanied our niece at the children's museum, an unbalanced four-adults-to-one-kid ratio. Once we reunited, we headed back to the Arch in hopes of riding the rickety elevator to the top. Unfortunately we were not able to find out if the elevator is as rickety as it was when I was 5 because the line was way too long and we didn't have the time to wait--we had a baseball game to catch!

Anyone who knows us well will not be surprised to read that we found a brewery in an area known as The Landing, which was only a slight detour on our way to Busch Stadium (good beer, by the way). We had not planned on going to St. Louis specifically to see the Royals play in the Cardinals in the annual I-70 series, but it proved to be a nice coincidence. We opted for the cheap seats, which actually worked out okay because we were in the shade the entire game. While it wasn't as hot as it is currently in the Midwest, it was still pretty warm in mid-June.

View from the cheap seats

Unfortunately the Royals didn't win, although they did make it interesting at times. The highlight for me, however, was hearing a sweet little 2 year-old voice shouting "Go Royals!" over and over, right in the middle of a bunch of Cardinals fans.

After the game, it was back to the hotel for happy hour and a quick dip in the pool. With the exception of our sister-in-law and niece, we all went to the Schlafly tap room for more delicious beer and food. It was a nice time, although I'm sad to report that both of my brothers were unsuccessful in their quest to crash the wedding reception upstairs.

On Sunday morning, our niece was re-charged and ready to play, so we took her to Grant's Farm on our way back to our respective homes. Grant's Farm is the Busch family (as in Anheuser-Busch) ancestral home and is named after Ulysses S. Grant, who once farmed part of the land. Now, it is a wildlife preserve of sorts, featuring the legendary Clydesdale horses. We got in free because one of Jon's relatives once was handicapped when he was trampled by one of the Clydesdales. (Okay, so everyone gets in free, but the part about Jon's great-uncle is true.)

After checking out the horses, we rode the tram to the other part of the farm, where we saw lots of different types of animals, all desperately trying to keep cool. The folks at Grant's Farm certainly know what they're doing because as soon as we got off the tram, there were several employees selling the ultimate in kids entertainment. For one low price (it actually was pretty affordable), you could ride the carousel, feed the baby goats, and eat a sno-cone. Of course, our niece had to do all that. I'm sure you can imagine her paparazzi.

Beware the ferocious guinea pig

It was a pretty nice way to conclude our St. Louis getaway. I'm a big proponent of vacationing with family. No one is responsible for hosting, everyone has to travel somewhere, and it's always a good time. All in all, it was a great trip...especially since we heard the Royals game on the radio on the way home, in which the boys in blue beat the Cardinals (in extra innings) to win the series.

"You Are Not Your Job"

When I began teaching middle school immediately upon moving to Memphis--and contemplated quitting on a daily basis--a wise friend told me, "you are not your job," reminding me not to let my personal self-worth be based on this work. A job is a job is a job. Not my life.

I've been calling upon this wisdom quite often lately. For the past year (since leaving the aforementioned middle school), I have been working as an adjunct instructor at a community college, adjunct being a fancy word for part-time. I have appreciated the break from full-time secondary teaching, as I was nearing the dreaded burnt-out phase, and I'm thankful for the time and opportunity to do volunteer work. However, I can't seem to shake the feeling that I am an unproductive member of my family and society in general.

This feeling became more accute this summer. The class I was scheduled to teach was cancelled, due to low numbers. I was devastated, surprisingly so. I was upset about my lack of funds, but more so, I was upset about my lack of purpose.

Why is it, upon meeting someone new, that the first question after exchanging names is inevitably, "What do you do"? I have come to dread this question. I always answer "teacher," but I usually feel like I'm not being completely forthcoming and often explain my current situation in more detail than necessary.

This question is often just a formality, a pleasantry we're accustomed to, like discussing the weather. Normally, I enjoy talking about my work, feeling proud of what I do. But these days, as an un-/under-employed educator, I feel like a slacker.

I thrive on being busy, so I've found plenty to do this summer (in fact, writing this post has been on my to-do list for weeks), but I think I still would have gotten just as much done if I were teaching a class. It's frustrating...particularly because I'm aware of the irony that if I were teaching full-time right now, I would be pining away for such a lack of responsibility.

But therein lies part of the problem. While I struggle daily to recognize it, I have plenty of responsibilites and lots of irons in the proverbial fire. Even so, I need to heed my wise friend's advice and realize that I am more than a (lack of a) paycheck. I am not my job. Like Popeye says, "I yam who I yam."   

Hostess with the Most-est

I honestly believe that teaching is my calling, not just what I decided to-be-when-I-grew-up. (And for that reason, I don't feel too guilty complaining about it. For the record, I don't trust people who say they can't wait to get out of bed in the morning to go to work. Yeah, right.) That being said, I have realized--even more accutely in the past several weeks--how much I enjoy playing the hostess. I'm only half kidding when I say that our "retirement job" is going to be running a bed & breakfast over a brewery.

I actually get a thrill out of preparing the guest room and doing the necessary last-minute de-cluttering. I like fluffing the pillows and setting out extra toothpaste in the hall bathroom, and it's fun to plan special weekend breakfasts and lists of things-to-do.

Lately, I've had several opportunities to indulge in such activities as we are smack in the middle of "visiting season." A few weeks ago, we hosted one of Jon's college roommates and her friend, who were in town for an archaeology conference. While they were busy with various conference and networking activities, we still had the pleasure of showing them around our adopted home. And last weekend, my college roommate and her boyfriend came to Memphis for the Beale Street Music Festival. The fun doesn't end there, as my little brother will be driving from Kansas City over Memorial Day, and Jon's dad and wife will be making the trek from Seattle in early June.

I can't contain my excitement!

Not only do we get to welcome visitors into our home, but we also get to play tour guide in a pretty cool place. While we had zero expectations upon moving to Memphis, we've been pleasantly surprised by all the city has to offer, and we're so glad we chose to live right in the middle of it (well, technically not the middle of the city, but the middle of the action). We hardly leave town--which is rare for us--because it's almost like we're constantly on vacation here. I suppose that means we're on a "stay-cation" (one of the very few portmanteaus we're comfortable with).



For instance, on a recent Saturday, we went to the Farmer's Market and after dropping off our loot, strolled by the Hot Wing Festival en route to a Corvette Show on Beale Street, which led us to the Africa in April bazaar where we took in the sights, sounds, and smells before spending the rest of the afternoon at a beer fest where Jon served his delicious homemade beer for enthusiastic strangers. Whew.



Our favorite car at the Corvette Show

Jon working the tap...and the crowd



And yet, that was not an unusual weekend. We had a real "first-world" dilemma the week before when we had to leave a crawdad (crawfish in these parts) festival early to make it to the ballet, which was being performed just down the street.

  

We are doing our darnedest to keep up with what's going on around town--from Wine Races (a relay featuring servers from local restaurants running down the street balancing trays of red wine) to the christening ceremony of the American Queen Steamboat to "grinding" with the Grizzlies NBA team. We have season tickets to see Broadway shows at the Orpheum and Shakespeare in the Park. We've been to every local museum at least once, and a few--such as the National Civil Rights Museum and the Stax Museum of American Soul Music--twice. We participate in a running group that meets weekly at a bar, and I'm getting ready to kick off my roller derby season with the Angels of Death. And to top it off, I think we've impressed our guests with our knowledge of Memphis and its history (which is of course due to the fact that neither of us is actually from here).

Guests boarding the American Queen in the middle of a quintessential Memphis shot

The Lorraine Motel (where Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated), home of the National Civil Rights Museum

The Stax Museum was commemorating Andrew Love of the Memphis Horns

Lest you accuse me of bragging, I'll fill you in on my ulterior motive with this post: COME TO MEMPHIS!!! You already have a place to stay with some folks who are more than happy to show you around. We'd love to share any of the above activities with you and fill you up with the world's 2nd best BBQ (I will forever be loyal to Kansas City). Just say the word, and I'll have some fresh sheets and towels waiting for you.





Grammar Matters

A recent restaurant coupon we received:

I'll have the Gobi, please

A common response when people find out that I teach writing is, "I guess I need to watch my grammar." Usually, I try to reassure the person by telling them that conversation is much more relaxed and therefore, it's not always necessary to follow a strict set of rules. I want to put them at ease, not remind them of a harrowing school experience.

While I am a stickler for my own grammar, I try really hard not to impose this standard on other people. I make a conscious effort to avoid marking every single error in my students' writing and almost never use a red pen.

That being said, my tolerance for poor grammar goes out the window when it comes to professional, published writing. I'm not talking about the occasional Facebook post with the wrong form of they're/their/there or a text message featuring the number 2 instead of the word to (although I can't promise to not secretly judge you in either of those situations). What irks me is when I see a sign, an advertisement, or some other form of professional communication riddled with careless errors.

I'm not trying to be harsh when I say careless. If you are not a grammar expert, then by all means, have someone else edit your writing. I have yet to master the art of changing my car's oil or cutting my own hair, and therefore have professionals do it for me. If I take the time to revise and edit blog posts countless times (which might explain why they are more infrequent than I would like), then the least you could do is make sure you spell the word "dessert" correctly.

While I have been known to correct parking lot signs ("violators," not "violaters"), cross out errant apostrophes (the orange's what?), and take pictures of correctly worded grocery store express lanes (10 items or FEWER), this most recent rant stems from an extremely frustrating e-mail conversation regarding a product purchased on-line.

To make a long story short, I purchased an item and had it delivered as a gift. For a variety of reasons, it was over a month before it was confirmed that said item didn't work. Doubtful that I would be able to return the item, I nonetheless sent off a brief message to the seller making that very request.

I hoped for a full refund, but all I expected was a brief sentence or two stating that the return period had lapsed. Instead, I received a rambling message lacking punctuation (except for an overuse of !!!) informing me that since I had kept the item for over a month, I couldn't possibly think that I might get a refund. Whether intended or not, the poorly written message came across as rude, condescending, and extremely unprofessional.

Frankly, I was insulted, both as a customer and a reader. I thought for about two seconds about taking the high road and not replying, but Jon quickly talked me out of that. We spent over an hour crafting a brief reply that called out the seller for such poor customer service. Unfortunately the seller did not take an equivalent amount of time to think out what s/he wanted to write and hastily dashed off a note--from a cell phone, no less--about the negative feedback I'd left and how it "got to go" if I wanted even a partial refund.

I'll spare you the details of the ensuing messages we exchanged, but needless to say, I was disappointed and upset with such deplorable writing. It still makes my blood boil to think about it.

One thing I preach to all my classes is the importance of purpose and audience. If your purpose is to conduct business and your audience is a customer, then for the love of all that is good and holy, please write like a professional. Please. At least now my students will have a perfect example of what NOT to do.

Hip Czech

I am officially a Rollergirl. Or Derby Girl. I'm still not sure of the official, or preferred, terminology. In fact, I'm not sure of a lot of things when it comes to roller derby, but one thing I am sure of is that it's a lot of fun. Extremely challenging, humbling, and crazy...but also empowering, encouraging, and enjoyable.

At a team gathering this past weekend, we went around the group explaining why we decided to try roller derby. My answer was not all that different than a lot of my teammates but worth sharing here.

I had grown up roller skating, spending each Tuesday and Thursday morning during the summer at the Blue Springs Rolladium with my neighborhood friends. I was never one of those girls who won the limbo competition with inches-from-the-floor splits, but I could certainly hold my own. The same could be said for my roller hockey career which took place in the street in front of my house (complete with goals constructed by a neighborhood dad out of PVC pipe).

I had always enjoyed skating--quad skates and never in-line--and was excited when the daycare I worked for in college took field trips to the skating rink. Sure, I spent most of the time holding nervous skaters by the hand as we chugged around the rink, but it was still fun. Other than that, though, my adult experience on skates was limited to childhood memories.

I knew roller derby existed and fondly remembered Saturday mornings spent with my father watching roller derby on Classic Sports. These wild bouts on banked wooden tracks featuring outrageous characters were more akin to professional wrestling, and we loved it. As a girl growing up in a football family, I always thought derby would be a fun way for me to show some aggression. (Note: Modern derby is no longer the "show" it once was. Check it out; you won't be disappointed.)

Flash forward several years. While on a weekend trip to Portland, Jon and I heard from a fellow bus passenger that roller derby was alive and well. Apparently a roller derby groupie, this gentleman gushed about the most recent bout and told us about what a great following the Portland team had. Unfortunately there was no bout that particular weekend, but just hearing about it got me excited.

Not excited enough to actually do anything about it, though, and I could just kick myself now for missing the opportunity to witness the roller derby culture in the Pacific Northwest. We lived 20 minutes away from the team in Olympia--consistently a national contender--for pete's sake! Fort Lewis even had a team, but I talked myself out of joining (although in my defense, we were marathon training at the time).

When we moved to Memphis, however, things changed. We decided to check out our first bout after randomly seeing an advertisement in the window of a local business. Not sure what to expect, we arrived at the venue, a warehouse on the Mid-South Fairgrounds, quite early. This gave us time to take in the atmosphere and read over the rules. Not that our brief study really helped, however. Once the whistle blew for the bout to start, we found ourselves struggling to understand the chaos in front of us. Ten women on roller skates, jockeying for position as they moved around the track, pushing and shoving, with the occasional crash. It was a hot mess...and pretty awesome.

Participating in roller derby was on my "list," and as I watched the bout, I began to think that this was something I could do. I truly believe that we most regret the things we do not do, rather than the ones we do, so I started to entertain the notion of joining the sport. I told Jon as much, and while he was nothing but encouraging, I know he didn't think that I would actually do it.

Jon should know by now that this doubt is often all the motivation I need. Hence, skydiving and driving a stick shift, for example.

Once I survived last year's awful job and began to rearrange my schedule by including new activities, I began to actively pursue roller derby. The league in Memphis is welcoming to all, regardless of the ability to skate, and offers three opportunities each year for "newbies" to join. I nervously showed up on a Monday in September to the same warehouse we had watched bouts at earlier in the spring. Gearless, I watched that first practice, and decided that yes, I did want to try. The next week I showed up ready to go and was relieved to discover that I could still skate around the track without falling down...not that it mattered, though, since I was wearing so much protective padding.

Over the next couple of months, I continued to practice with the league and on designated "newbie" nights where I learned the very important skills of how to stop and how to fall down and get up. Apparently, I improved because I passed my skills test at the beginning of February and became the newest member of the Angels of Death.

Less than two weeks after passing my test, I was eligible to participate in a pre-season inter-squad "mash-up" bout. Nervous does not begin to describe my emotions.

Jon came up with the name Hip Czech (we certainly love our puns around here), and thanks to lots of Facebook input, I chose it as my new derby alter ego. The number--816--was a much easier decision and was chosen as a shout-out to my hometown (816 is Kansas City's area code). The morning of the bout was spent ironing both name and number to the back of a t-shirt, for which I again have Jon to thank. He can no longer say that he has never ironed something on a shirt. New experiences all around.

The afternoon of the bout was spent at the venue, getting ready for the evening's events. After an intense bout between Memphis's travel team and a squad from Oklahoma, it was time for me to put on my skates. All of the girls on both sides were very encouraging about my first bout, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little relieved that the crowd had thinned out considerably. After warm-ups and introductions, it was time to begin. Once that first whistle blew, I forgot about the crowd completely and focused only on the track. I didn't even really notice the scoreboard, which was good since our team was getting beat horribly. But, as one of my teammates for the evening mentioned, at least we were winning at having fun.

At halftime, I skated over to talk to Jon. Much to my surprise, a few of our friends were seated in the bleachers next to him. I was pleased to see them...but also glad I hadn't known they were coming. The second half was more of the same: a lot of fun that was not necessarily reflected on the scoreboard.

I felt pretty proud of myself for just being out on the track that night. Honestly, I'm not very good and still have A LOT to learn, but I am excited for the season with my fellow AODs (Angels of Death). If you find yourself with nothing to do come June and July, we could always use some new fans (just maybe don't tell me you're going to be there).

The Big "Eat-sy"

"Maybe we didn't drink enough."

Jon's comment was the latest in a number of hypotheses as to why we once again returned from a trip with a cold. We had spent at least half of our three-state holiday tour feeling less than 100%, and I, for one, was frustrated by a repeat performance when we traveled to New Orleans over the Martin Luther King holiday weekend.

Fortunately for me, my daily vitamins were working with my immune system and I was feeling much better by the time Jon attempted to make sense of our illness. Unfortunately for him, he was still doubling over with a barking cough made worse only by the disgusting way he hacked up whatever was lurking in his chest.

Jon did have a point, though. We spent 2 1/2 days in the land of Mardi Gras and could count the number of drinks we consumed on one hand. Yes, we enjoyed the customary hurricane in the touristy bar on Bourbon Street, but in all honesty, we were there to eat. And eat we did.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Even though we had recently returned from our aforementioned holiday trip a few weeks prior, we decided to take advantage of our mutual day off and travel over January's three-day weekend. We'd wanted to travel to New Orleans ever since we moved to Memphis. Jon went to the Big Easy for work about a year ago but was eager to return. So, equipped with a fantastic list of travel recommendations, we hopped the train early in the morning on Friday the 13th and were in Louisiana by afternoon.

It's no secret that we are train travel aficionados. We had a lovely breakfast on the train and plenty of time to read and relax. Jon brought his computer, hoping to get a little work done, although that plan fell apart when we got to the lounge car only to find out that a party had erupted. Cards, dominoes, music, and lots of red plastic cups. Too bad we hadn't gotten that memo. At any rate, Amtrak did a wonderful job getting us to New Orleans, and early at that. We had to wait a bit for our host (but wait, we don't know anyone in New Orleans) to pick us up, so we enjoyed the beautiful weather at the train station in the meantime.

Last summer Jon and I joined the Educators Travel Network. Through this network, we have access to the guest bedrooms of educators all over the country (for a nominal fee)...provided we agree to host at our apartment as well. Our trip to New Orleans proved to be the first time we've been able to use this service, and we were not disappointed.

For a variety of reasons that involved taxes and houseguests, our hosts decided not to let us shack up in their guest room but instead to have full reign of their 6-bedroom (19 sleeping spaces--we counted) guest house. Not too shabby. The house was in a nice, quiet neighborhood, blocks away from the St. Charles Street streetcar line and within easy running distance of the Loyola and Tulane campuses. Our hosts even left a traditional king cake for us. Serendipity #1.


Needless to say, we didn't have much trouble finding the plastic baby in the king cake

After dropping off our meager luggage, we hopped on the streetcar and headed for the French Quarter. We strolled down Bourbon Street, just taking in all the sights and sounds. Yup, we were those tourists. We went over to the riverwalk--because we don't see enough of the Mississippi River--and then headed to a bar recommended by multiple friends. Since it was still early on Friday afternoon/evening, we had just one drink at Port of Call before heading out to dinner. We didn't plan very well, however, because the dinner location we'd decided on (also recommended by multiple friends) was all the way across town. We power-walked down Bourbon--which to me, seemed a lot like Beale Street here in Memphis, except much longer and a lot taller--and hopped on the streetcar again.

The extra time, distance, and wait were well worth it, though. We ate at a place called Jacques-Imo's, and if we had returned to Memphis the next morning, I would have been completely satisfied with our trip. We had been implored to try to the alligator cheesecake, so we did. Hands-down, best alligator cheesecake I've ever eaten. Seriously, it was so good; I'm salivating right now just thinking about it. I don't even know how to describe it--just go down to New Orleans and have some. We rounded out our meal with some traditional New Orleans fare including crawfish etouffee and gumbo. Oh, and the corn muffins were not to be missed. Jon, who doesn't even like cornbread, ate three of them. Who needs drunken debauchery when you can have a food coma?

For multiple reasons--including the meal from the night before--we decided to go for a run on Saturday morning. That was just the beginning of our vitamin D overdose for the day. After eating breakfast on the balcony, we went back to the Quarter for a historical cemetery tour. It was more fascinating than morbid. Like most old cities, New Orleans has a rich and unique history. Our tour guide told us that there was no way she could make up all the crazy stuff she described as we walked to the cemetery. Due to the potential for floods, bodies aren't buried underground in New Orleans, so all around were above-ground tombs, each more elaborate than the next, including the ridiculous pyramid Nicolas Cage has reserved for himself in the St. Louis Cemetery.
 

Future home of Nicolas Cage

Tomb of Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau

After our tour, we demolished a traditional muffaletta and decided to stay in the Quarter to watch the rest of the Saints play-off game at the very touristy Pat O'Brien's. I have no idea what it was like when the Saints were bad (and they were bad), but right now, you'd think everyone in the city bleeds black and gold. All day, we saw Saints jerseys, and if possible, I'm pretty sure that Drew Brees would have no trouble being appointed king of the city (in fact, I think he was king of Mardi Gras a couple of years ago).

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate loyal football fans. I am one. Maybe I was a teensy bit jealous that my NFL team hasn't made it that far in the play-offs since 1993. However, I can't say that I didn't find some satisfaction in watching all the pseudo-Saints fans watch the game. Sure, I'm sorry that they lost, but some of the reactions were priceless. When you stroll in during the fourth quarter in your sparkly fleur-de-lis headband, please forgive me when I don't buy for a second that your tears are real. Where were you the rest of the game, sweetie? At any rate, it was an exciting game, and we were happy to watch it with people who cared...or at least pretended to.

At this point, we were pretty hungry, so we followed our list of recommendations to a restaurant farther downtown...that was closed. Undaunted, Jon led us to a place he remembered from his previous visit. Another feast of alligator, crawfish, jambalaya, and other fishy things I never would have eaten before living in Washington brought on the beginnings of another food coma.

We tried to walk it off as we headed to the streetcar stop. As we waited, a party bus rolled up and offered us a ride. The unbelievably nice driver was working a wedding and since he had several hours to spare, he was driving around town, giving people rides. In addition to this generous offer--especially since there was no streetcar in sight--he gave us an impromptu tour, pointing out celebrity houses and making restaurant recommendations. Serendipity #2.

We wanted to make the most of our tourist status, so before Mass at the St. Louis Cathedral on Sunday morning, we stopped for breakfast--with hundreds of our closest friends--at the famous Café du Monde for beignets and café au lait. Yes, we waited in a ridiculously long line, and yes, I got powdered sugar all over my black dress pants, but it was totally worth it. Hooray for the French version of "shmuzinky," which loosely translated from Bohemian is fried dough.

St. Louis Cathedral, the oldest cathedral/basilica (depending on who you ask) in the U.S.

Luckily we were within sight of the cathedral, so our wait for food didn't make us late for church. After a beautiful service, we headed next door to the Cabildo, which houses the Louisiana State History Museum. The first exhibit we toured was strictly historical. The highlight for me was the Sala Capitular, or council room, in which many notable things happened including the transfer of land known as the Louisiana Purchase.

The famous Plessy v. Ferguson civil rights case also took place in this room

Since we were in the area, we also toured the new Hurricane Katrina exhibit. Extremely informative, and I imagine for those who lived it, emotional. The final exhibit we saw was devoted to Mardi Gras. I knew it was a big deal in New Orleans, but I had no idea. The colors, the music, the costumes, the parades...it all looks so crazy. I'm sure it's an experience like none other. Jon and I mutually agreed, though, that the history of the Krewes (secret-ish fraternal organizations) totally creeped us out.

By this time, the cold Jon was trying to blame on seasonal allergies had fully taken hold. We were both feeling pretty tired, congested, and hungry, so we stopped for what turned out to be Jon's first po' boy sandwich of the day. Food helped with the tired and the hungry, but not so much the congestion. We went for another run in the neighborhood, which actually did help with that, but after cleaning up and getting some dinner, it was time for bed. In fact, when our host called to say she was dropping by at around 9:30, we were already in our pajamas. We might be the only tourists in New Orleans to ever make that claim.

There wasn't much time for anything on Monday except to pick up our rental car. Unfortunately the train schedule didn't work with ours, so we had to drive a very long and boring stretch of I-55 to get back to Memphis. Regardless of an uneventful car ride and the inability to breathe through both nostrils at the same time, our trip to New Orleans was a blast. I hope we have time for another rendezvous in the Big Easy...I'm hungry for some alligator cheesecake.