Here we go again. I plan a trip, and Mother Nature -- ever in search of a good location to drop a hurricane or two – takes notice. Those of you who have followed my adventures know that wherever I go, hurricanes seem to follow: Juan, Marilyn, Fran, Georges, Floyd, Mitch, Irene and Michelle are but a few of my acquaintances, and I was just about to meet Isidore and Lili. You see, a trip to New Orleans in October (really, the nicest time of year in the Crescent City other than maybe April)– a girls’ weekend with a girlfriend who really needed the break – was just too good for Mother Nature to pass up.<br><br>I had a delicious weekend in mind for my friend Jodi. I was holding very difficult-to-come-by hotel reservations at the Royal Sonesta, as well as brunch reservations at Commander’s Palace, for the first weekend in October. This is a city I know well, having gone to college here and visited often since then. About 10 days before departure, Tropical Storm Isidore inspired lots of dread, but ultimately made a lot of noise and dumped a lot of rain, but didn’t mess the city up too badly. I thought we were out of the woods – what were the odds that there would be more?<br><br>Pretty good, as it turned out, when Lili set her sights on the Louisiana coast. By this time Jodi was freaked out and could hardly look forward to the trip – if there was going to be one at all. Even if the storm passed, she didn’t want to fly into a zone of mass destruction and misery. I tried to settle her down. I know enough about hurricanes -- both from personal experience of living on the Gulf coast and now the mid-Atlantic, and from island travel – to appreciate their fury and potential for destruction, but also to know that their effect is most often localized. But rather than asking Jodi to accept my judgment, I substituted a more objective source: I promised her that if school at Tulane, Loyola or Orleans Parish public schools was cancelled for Friday, we would cancel too. After all, if the local authorities felt it was OK to send kids to school, it would be safe for travelers as well.<br><br>Hour after hour, I followed Lili, getting a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as it reached Category 4 status. By some miracle, or maybe a little gris gris, the storm weakened dramatically before landfall, and then left the area with only a glancing blow at New Orleans. Not that folks in its path were spared – they are in my prayers. But things were looking good for the Big Easy, and by 4 p.m. Thursday, the trip was on: all schools would be open Friday, Delta was flying, and the Royal Sonesta was open for business.<br><br>After a few hours at the office Friday morning, I drove myself to BWI, grabbed a quick lunch, and got on an early afternoon flight on Delta to Atlanta, where I would meet Jodi, who was flying in from Cleveland. It all went like clockwork, and by 5 p.m., we were in the Big Easy. The weather was clear, hot and humid – just as it should be in early October – and there was little obvious effect of Lili anywhere. <br><br>By 6, we were checking into the Royal Sonesta, which is located right on Bourbon Street in the heart of the French Quarter. It’s a grand, elegant hotel, a zone of marble-clad, mirrored and gilt splendor all the more amazing because it resides in the honky-tonk tawdriness of Bourbon Street. We deposited our bags in our third floor room, facing the interior of the building because I had specifically requested not to face the loud, smelly streets. The reward (albeit interior rooms are actually cheaper) was an attractive, well appointed room with french doors opening onto a balcony overlooking a lush tropical courtyard and fountain, steps away from the beautifully landscaped pool area.<br><br>We didn’t linger because we were starving, so we hit the streets. Jodi was intrigued by the concept of walking the streets with a drink in hand, so we stopped and picked up frozen drinks at a daiquiri shop. These were quite welcome, since the outside air was hot and heavy. Although not exactly emblematic of New Orleans, and pretty tacky-touristy to boot, our dinner destination was Margaritaville Cafe, because mine and Jodi’s friendship started over a mutual attraction to all things Jimmy Buffett. The restaurant is funky-tropical, features live music (we had a Cajun band playing during dinner, complete with squeeze box and washboard accompaniment), has a long list of great rums to enjoy (including a 15-year-old Barbancourt I like), and – of course – lots of JB music and paraphenalia. The food was fine (especially a spicy crawfish dip), if not inspired, and it was a nice start to a girls’ weekend. <br><br>Before and after dinner, I showed Jodi some of the highlights of the French Quarter at night. A stroll past St. Louis Cathedral and Jackson Square, taking in the vast Mississippi River from the Moonwalk, and strolling the teeming, pulsating streets. Jodi had heard about Pat O’Brien’s, so we headed there and grabbed a table in the patio area, near the flaming fountain. Though it was a Friday night on a busy convention weekend, crowds seemed somewhat thinner and the action seemed a bit milder than usual; perhaps people stayed away because of Lili. Although Pat O’s ranks high in the touristy category, and drinking their signature hurricane punch can be a cloyingly sweet and disgusting experience, it’s still a fun and attractive place to hang out. In the meantime, we chatted with lots of people. We gained instant credibility because of my status as an alumna of a local college, and because we were here for no reason other than just “fun,” evidently placing us higher in the tourist hierarchy than conventioneers and sports fans. By this time, it was getting to be way past our bedtime, and we had had way more to drink than usual, so we strolled back to our hotel.<br><br>Miraculously, Saturday morning dawned without hangovers, for which I’ll credit preventive measures: room service pizza before bed, lots of water, and Tylenol. Nevertheless, we were loathe to leave our beds, since they were luxuriously comfortable, with high-count cotton sheets, feather pillows, and down coverlets. But morning was calling, and by 8:30, we were headed for an obligatory breakfast at Cafe du Monde: beignets, frozen cafe au lait, and people-watching. Watching this night-time city wake up is entertainment, because it does so very reluctantly and languidly. <br><br>We strolled through the French Market, and I predictably succumbed to buying silver jewelry which will get worn a few times and then forgotten. Then we wandered the streets of the daytime Vieux Carre, stopping in galleries and antique shops. I found on Bourbon Street a perfume shop which will custom-design a scent for you in a 30-60 minute sitting which includes analysis of your skin-type, coloring and personality, as well as your scent preferences – I had seen this on television and was intrigued, and therefore very excited to have it done. It was a very pleasant experience, and went very quickly for me, since I’m very sense-oriented; I walked out with my very own secret perfume, featuring jasmine, gardenia and grapefruit, which got better and better as the day wore on. I also made a fine jewelry purchase at a gorgeous shop called Great Expectations, having a great time with the jewelry designer holding court that day.<br><br>Before lunchtime, we dropped our purchases off at the hotel and headed for the Central Business District to catch the St. Charles Avenue streetcar. The plan was to head Uptown (showing Jodi the Garden District en route) to revisit some of my old stomping grounds. The streetcar, it turned out, was one of the few casualties of Lili (the electrical lines were damaged), so we took as bus instead, all the way to the Riverbend area. We had lunch at Cooter Brown’s, a dark dingy cave of a pool-and-beer hall, with 30 beers on tap, scores more in the refrigerator, and great sandwiches. Not particularly a very New Orleans experience, but very nostalgic nevertheless.<br><br>Fortified with lunch, we hoofed it through uptown. I never cease to delight in the grand candy-colored homes of all styles, from Greek Revival to Victorian to Creole, with their leaded glass doors. I love the sidewalks buckled by the roots of vast live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss. I love the sultry pace of the place. We eventually made it to Audubon Park and walked its paths. By now, our feet were raw, so we caught a bus to get back to the French Quarter.<br><br>During a few hours of much-needed downtime, we spent an hour or so in the pool, away from the hurly-burly of Bourbon Street. But then we dolled ourselves up for a night on the town. Dinner was at Remoulade; I wanted a casual place where reservations would not be required, since we would splurge on Sunday brunch. I introduced Jodi to the pleasures of fresh, raw Gulf oysters, with their briny sweetness. Even though we were eating at the casual cousin of the old-line Creole restaurant Arnaud’s, we had a chance to sample some of the signature dishes such as the turtle soup and Shrimp Arnaud (shrimp in remoulade sauce).<br><br>We had planned to hit some clubs for music, but at 7:30, things were still pretty quiet. So, by default, we ended up at Pat O’Brien’s piano bar, which turned out to be a great choice. We were seated at ringside copper-topped tables to watch the show, which was as much the dueling pianists as the audience. We shared our table with a nice couple from Destin, Florida; a wedding party (including bride and groom) was at a table next to us on the left; and two unusual and already-inebriated couples were to our right (they were clearly into swinging, even across gender lines, and did not hesitate to hit on us either). The place was mobbed, and because of the large Pittsburgh contingent in town to watch the Steelers lose to the Saints, we heard the Steelers’ fight song regularly, followed by the obligatory and raucous “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Despite being a little cozier with our neighbors than we might have liked, and despite the smoke-filled air and over-priced drinks, we had a blast, our fun only getting queered when the guys to our right decided it would be fun to fling their hurricane glasses against the wall to watch them shatter, and then get into spats with their partners. (The really scary thing was that they were driving 100 miles home afterwards). By then, it was high time we left anyway, so we did.<br><br>By Sunday morning, we were running out of steam, so we lingered in our beds until it was time to head for brunch. We’d been doing the honky-tonk French Quarter scene all weekend, and now it was time for a little elegance. Nevertheless, brunch at Commander’s Palace is no less an “event” than anything else in New Orleans. Housed in an old Garden District mansion, Commander’s is owned by the Brennan family and is one of the queens of the New Orleans dining scene. Brunch features balloon-festooned tables, a three-course menu, and a strolling jazz trio. It is relaxed yet gracious (proper attire required), festive yet leisurely-paced, with impeccable service. We started with mimosas, had first courses of soup (Jodi a smoked chicken gumbo and me a sampler of 3 small portions of the soup du jour (rabbit vegetable), the gumbo du jour (smoked chicken) and turtle soup), inventive egg dishes for our main courses, and decadent desserts. At about $30 per person (alcohol not included), this is a moderately-priced way to sample some of the best food in a city which is a diner’s delight.<br><br>After brunch, we had a few more hours in town before catching our plane. We spent a little time at Harrah’s vast casino, neither of us ever having set foot in a casino before. We didn’t venture beyond the slot machines, being rather inexperienced and suffering from sensory-overload. After that, we walked to the riverfront promenade and shopping complex known as the Riverwalk, where we got more of those awesome Cafe du Monde frozen cafe au laits and did a little window shopping. Since we had checked out of the hotel and left our bags with the bellman, we returned to the Royal Sonesta to retrieve them and catch a cab.<br><br>By this time, we’d about had enough and were quite ready to return to our husbands, though we enjoyed every minute of the Big Easy. Flights home were uneventful, and now it's back to sober reality.<br>
