Cadillac, Cajuns & Crazy Blue Dogs

It's not like me to be this reminiscent, but I found myself falling through the universe, back in time to another place still swilling with memories, strong and faint. Most of them came back to me, however, as I looked at a few blog entries I wrote during my trip down to New Orleans with Jess. Now it seems like yesterday, when my adventurous partner and I were drawing that fateful line down the middle of America, mapping out our fantastic journey of unforgettable moments that, up until now, I've let slip through my fingers like water.

Last Days of New Orleans

As we cruised along the stretch of highway ‘cross the State of the Beautiful, faint traces of New Orleans still lingered in the air around me -- the distant sounds of a jazz ensemble playing it hot in the market square, the steady trot of an old horse named Cadillac, and the sultry sounds of violin strings somewhere on a corner in the streets of the French Quarter. Scents of the city lingered as well - the fresh baked smell of beignets at the Cafe Du Monde, the aphrodisiac aroma of plants along a swamp's edge, and even the strong odor of booze slopped over drunken tourists parading down Bourbon Street.
After spending nearly a week in Louisiana, Jess and I knew we couldn't put off leaving forever. It was time to move on and attempt to recall three days' worth of experiences to write this blog. Impossible.

Tuesday morning, the sun gave us a rude awakening, clearly not understanding the sort of troubles the night had offered. Several of our hosts' friends had generously provided us with entertainment by turning on loud music, cooking god-knows-what in the kitchen, and, every few minutes or so, shrieking out the phrase, "Couuuuch Suurrrferrrs!"

Fortunately, exhaustion overtook annoyance, and I was soon sleeping like a baby. Jess, on the other hand, did not have it quite so lucky. Nevertheless, our hosts were beyond generous and gave us a warm departing as we took off on several wrong streets before getting on our way. Earlier that morning (I actually woke up feeling productive), I had made some calls for a swamp tour our last interviewee suggested, and soon we were barreling across the Mississippi River Bridge to take an exotic ride through the bayous of Louisiana.

Late as usual, we jumped on a tour boat, avoiding impatient looks from the other tourists.
Captain Allen, ironically the man George Rodrigue had sent us to see, gave us a worthy tour of the bayou labyrinth. But this was no ordinary captain -- no, this man could summon the very alligators of the wild. With a few calls reminiscent of those grunted by the carriage drivers to their mules in the French Quarter, Cap'n Allen brought these misleadingly terrifying creatures up from the depths to swim alongside the boat. The ancient lizards glided through the water in a surprisingly graceful manner as the captain began throwing them marshmallows. Who knew these beasts were so fond of them? As our pontoon forded the narrow passages, he named various plants along the river bank, entertained questions from the tourists, and even offered a few lame jokes even I enjoyed. I whipped around to ask Jess what she thought of this character, but it was apparent -- we had to interview him.

Following the excellent tour, I sidled up to the captain and casually asked if he had time to talk with us at the dock. Instead, he suggested a small restaurant some way down the road and asked us to stop by his house. It only got better from here. The restaurant was a treat (delicious crab meat and catfish) and the captain’s house was the epitome of comfortable living. He talked endlessly (we enjoyed this) of his experiences with alligators, his love for the job, and authentic Cajun cooking. What we weren’t expecting, both from Mr. Rodrigue and Captain Allen, was the rich history each had to offer on the Cajun people. Captain Allen explained to us that the city had taken the history and name of the Cajuns to profit on, misleading much of society’s now accepted beliefs of a falsified style of Cajun cooking and way of life. He stressed the idea of preserving the respect for and cohabitation with nature. Only take what you need was this captain’s motto. “It’s in my blood,” Captain Allen said animatedly when we asked him why he chose the life he did.

As he continued to hand down generations of authentic Cajun stories, another unexpectedly joined the group, Captain’s Allen’s wife, Wendy, to add her own experiences living on the bayou.
This couple led an entirely different lifestyle – Wendy working at the casino downtown as Allen offered three to four tours a day – and appeared to be very happy leading their passions in life. If I took anything from this interview, it was the fact that no matter what you do – as long as you love doing it, have someone to share both the pain and happiness inevitably thrown at you at every curve, and strive to open up to others and share that lifestyle – you will lead the life of the truly blessed.

Before we could say our final goodbyes, a seven foot alligator waded toward us through the murky strip of bayou alongside the house. As I was watched the Alligator Whisperer toss marshmallows to his “child,” I couldn’t help but think: This has got to be the coolest interview we have had yet. On quick reflection, however, I admit it paralleled the interview with George Rodrigue in excellence.

Time to hit the road again. This time, our Couch Surfing ambassador (Jess) found a younger pair of friends living in a small apartment full of character off St. Charles Avenue, just minutes from the city. Aislinn, our host’s roommate, was the first to introduce us to their humble abode. A public transportation driver who has traveled extensively around the U.S., she made us feel at home as we exchanged stories of obscenities and travel experiences. Later on that night, our actual host, Ryan, took us to a karaoke bar in the neighborhood where I admittedly – and ashamedly – participated in singing the Beatles’ song Dear Prudence. A full night, as a friend would say. After making some pancakes and fighting off a few cockroaches during the night, we solemnly left what had become our second home and made our way north to Atlanta, Georgia.

Eight months have passed since our 10-day excursion into the Deep South, and I can now single out the little moments that first sparked our ambitions to create our RoadTripNation team, BurningMaps. Jess's destiny-labeled deodorant stick, the computer lab in the basement of the Willard building, our fingers trembling as we submitted our team name and picture, and the emotional two-day limbo, when the trip seemed to fall down all around us as my parents delivered a temporary death sentence on all our hopes and dreams.

And while RoadTripNation may be blamed ruthlessly for losing most of our blogs, not posting pictures of the trip, and overall, doing an utterly horrible job on our profile, we managed to come out of it all with some great experiences and even "some penny."