Where to begin, where to begin... Oh yes; page one.

Woke up offensively early on Monday morning. That really hurt after a couple of long days on the road but it had to be done. Planes don't wait. Arrived at the airport with plenty of time and said goodbye to The Yank. The happy, amazing, unexpected interlude was over. He got on a plane heading north east, and I got on a plane heading south east. :-( Holiday will not be the same without him, now.

Planes don't wait, but they do get delayed. High winds in Vegas really messed things up and my plane was over an hour late getting off the ground. Which left me about sixteen seconds to make my connecting flight in Dallas. And the terminal there is enormous. Fortunately I walk super fast and I got to the gate just as they started loading my group. (The cheap-ass group that boards last.) I was honestly more concerned about my bags getting to New Orleans on a different flight to me!!

All good though. My bags met me in New Orleans and a shuttle took me to my hotel. I'm staying on Carondelet Street - which is what Bourbon Street becomes when it crosses Canal Road. I'm two blocks from Bourbon Street. And the blocks here aren't like in Vegas. You can walk these blocks in less than a minute, as opposed to needing a cab to move between buildings like in Vegas. So I'm very close to things. Streets cars roll down my street all the time, that's how close to things I am.

After checking in I turned around and went straight out in search of food. I like to eat local, as much as my fussy food hates allow. I do realise as someone who doesn't like seafood I've come to the wrong city, but there's still other stuff I can eat. Po-boys, for example. And Cajun fries. Set my mouth faintly on fire. I succumbed to a Dr Pepper too because I was still knackered. But once fed up, I was keen to have a little look at Bourbon Street.

The first thing to assail you on Bourbon Street is the aroma. There is nothing else quite like it. A potent mix of stale vomit, **** and cigar smoke. You have two options - develop a cast iron stomach, or breathe through your mouth. Every few steps it wafts up and assaults you all over again. The second thing you notice on Bourbon Street is that it's a neon nightmare. It screams gawdy from every shop front. Music booms from every bar at deafening levels, a mix of sounds from rock, to pop, to bad karaoke, to jazz. As the hoards of drunk people meander past these establishments, they will stop and dance in the streets. Anything goes, here. Every venue has people out front enticing you inside. The seedy male-oriented joints have girls wearing little bits of floss in the doorways, the bars have bouncer types just waving you in, or stopping you to tell you why you should come inside, or that they like your shirt, or pretty much anything to get you to stop and then feel guilty for not going inside.

Street performers are another big part of life here. Lots and lots of psychics, but the coolest ones are the simplified performers. Young guys with what appear to be flattened coke cans or maybe tin lids stuck to the bottom of their shoes, tap-dancing on the sidewalk. Another guy sitting on a white jam bucket (the sort we put horse feed in) in the middle of an intersection with another jam bucket in front of him, drumming like crazy, people stopping to dance and throw him money as they pass. You can buy drinks and carry them in the street, you can even take them into other venues in some cases. The music places have signs outside saying "No cover" but signs inside saying "One drink minimum per set". They get you one way or another. And prices are a bit more in line with Aussie prices.

Dotted between all these places are voodoo shops, witchcraft shops and a vampire boutique. It's quirky as hell. But to escape the sleaze, you need only turn a corner. Almost immediately you are surrounded by older world French quarters, art galleries, specialty stores and nice restaurants.

Bourbon Street first thing in the morning is a whole other experience. Less lights, the buildings look very beat up, and the businesses all have staff standing on the sidewalk with high pressure hoses and bottles of bleach. Yeah. For real. It's an experience.

But I keep walking and end up at Cafe Du Monde where I am promised "the best" coffee in the country. Mmmm. I'll be the judge of that. I order cafe au lait and a beignet. Which of course when they bring it out is THREE beignets. God bless this heart attack on a plate country. Beignet, I quickly discovered, is a closed donut. And like everything else edible in this city, it is deep fried to death. Then coated with a couple of pounds of icing sugar. I was sure I'd eat one and be sick. To my utter shame, I ate all three. The cafe au lait tasted exactly like Nescafe instacrap. Believe it or not, not the worst coffee I've had in this country. I drank it and the caffeine was truly appreciated. All that for about $5. (Plus tip.)

Even the booze is trying to give you a heart attack here. Basically if you want to listen to music in the bars, you have to drink. I have this motto of not drinking alone but have had to blow it here. The first night you all saw my pic of that absinthe cocktail. (Did not get me remotely drunk, heady at best.) The second night I went for hot butter rum. You see, my arteries were feeling floppy so I thought I'd prop them up with a rock hard dose of cholesterol in a cup. It's not too bad. I've never had it before and it's pleasant enough if you like that warm grease-ball feeling sliding down your throat. And rum. With cinnamon.

Remember I said I'd had baked brie in Springdale/Zion? Well I saw it again on a menu my second night here and decided to have it again because it was so delish. It came with a vinaigrette and strawberry coulis. Sounded sensational. When they brought it out??? It was the ENTIRE BLOCK OF BRIE. They didn't even cut it up so you could pretend it wasn't totally sinful. Took me a while but once again I chowed down on the whole thing. If I am dead by tomorrow, you all know why. The food killed me.

On my third night, I wandered up to Frenchman Street. I enquired at my hotel front desk how best to get to Frenchman. The girl just said, "Cab. Don't walk." But I looked at a map and decided it really wasn't that far and I can walk fast and I'll beat the snot out of anyone who gives me grief. So I walked. It was a culturally enlightening experience. The vagrants start appearing up around St Louis Cathedral at night and amass along Decatur Street. I think it was early enough in the evening that all the weirdos were keeping the true whackos at bay. I wasn't bothered by anyone other than the occasional "Hey gorgeous", "Hey baby", "Cool shirt" kind of thing. I just smile, say cheers and keep walking. Too easy. Got to Frenchman in no time flat.

This area, I have decided, is the Byron Bay and Nimbin of New Orleans, where the great unwashed hippies of the region flock. It was an experience and a half. The street musicians here are way more serious. Half a dozen guys unloaded from the back of a van and just broke out a brass band and began performing on a corner. And they were amazing!! People crowded around watching, listening, dancing. Oh, and this is a street with traffic. They still dance in it. On a school night. Welcome to New Orleans.

This morning at breakfast, I met another Aussie chick travelling alone and staying in my hotel. We're going to meet for dinner tonight. Who knows what I'll gnaw on this time? :-D Seeing as it's all Hallow's Eve here today, I'm sure the freak show parade will be getting off to an early start.

Me and my camera will be awaiting.