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My first trip to New Orleans was on business. I got put up in an extended stay hotel and didn't go out the first week except for work and to pick up "po ‘boys" (French bread sandwiches with your choice of meat, lettuce, tomatoes, and mayo) for breakfast and dinner at a grocery mart across the street. By Friday night I was stir crazy, so I went downstairs to see the manager.

"I'm thinking of going to Bourbon Street."

"Why?" He seemed disgusted. "I can get you free tickets to a club next door instead. You don't want to go to Bourbon Street."

"I'm in New Orleans. I have to go at least once."

"If you say so."

I'd been led to believe Bourbon Street would look like a late night cable promo for Girls Gone Wild. Maybe it does for Mardis Gras, but my timing was off. It was the tail end of summer. The streets were full of drunk tourists, sure - the open container laws there basically allow you to walk around sipping from a fishbowl full of hard liquor - but nobody I would've thrown beads at. If I'd come at the right time. Which I hadn't.

A bit about me... ...

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