There’s something wonderful about the South. The people are much friendlier than New Englanders. They are also much more intoxicated (which, now that I think about it, may explain the friendliness). It’s taken me the first three days to stop gaping open-mouthed at the people carrying 25 oz containers of beer at hours of the morning I (and pretty much all sane people) would deem just a tad too early. New Orleans has no open container laws (which is dangerous) and the people here have very little reservation or propriety (which is very dangerous).
The pronunciation of things in New Orleans is at once appalling and fascinating. The original French is handled so roughly, that it’s mangled beyond all hope of recognition. Streets like Burgundy become Berr-guhn-dee. Chartres becomes Chah-rtur. I think it’s an indication of both the state of intoxication and the Southern drawl of the city.
I feel like I could write about the Jazz, the spirit of New Orleans, the rebirth of the city, and the joie (or as the locals would say joy) de vivre, but that all feels cliche. I could recount the things we did, the things we ate and drank (although to be honest, I can’t recall them all), but that would also not do the city justice. There’s something wonderful about being here, in the thrill of it all, beer in hand, and without a care for life back in the Northeast.