Beignets, bagels, and more (pt. 1)

It’s been over a year since I wrote this post and sent it via Mailchimp. I’m going through all of my old posts and updating their formatting so they look beautiful on my current site. This is one of a handful of entries that are too darn long for the platform to support, so I’m divvying it up into two.

The first part covers the majority of my New Orleans trip. The second part is the trip’s end, my mom’s bagel shop opening, my struggle to write concisely about myself (lol), and three whole weeks of current fixations. If you want to read the second part, it’s here. Now, back to 2024!

A theme of my life lately seems to be thinking I have control over things and being very wrong. One example would be saying I think I’ll go for an hour then come home and end up doing the latter after much longer than an hour; another example is this newsletter. I have really dropped the ball on consistency the past few months, but I can’t help that I have a lot of moments to live in.

I flew home from New Orleans thinking that I would have enough time to write about my relaxing romp of a trip with my friends in assumably another solitary, strange Thanksgiving like one I have every year. Instead, I would be waking up to a 3:30 a.m. alarm and driving in the cold to my mom’s bagel shop to work during her first week fully open. I had no capacity to write, something that keeps happening to me. If I write next week (fingers crossed), I think I’ll talk about why I can’t just be concise when talking about myself! Haha.

As soon as I started getting up at 3 a.m., New Orleans felt almost unfathomably far away. I’m starting this entry Monday night after working (my normal job now since I’m back in NY), which will be interrupted by a much-needed yoga class because my legs are so sore that I’m walking like something substantial is between them.

I’m just gonna do what I always do: stream of conscious it all up. I’ll start with Nola, drawing inspiration from my camera roll and notes app, before spilling the tea (or in this case, coffee) on my unconventional Thanksgiving break that included seeing Wicked, my harrowing return to New York, and (of course) making hundreds of bagels.

When I lived in New Hampshire and happened to have free time during my late shifts at the news station, I mapped out an intricate roadtrip of the American southeast, starting in Pittsburgh, working south to Florida, driving beyond the Gulf until I hit Austin, and mozying through the Midwest to complete my loop. Almost all of these cities are places I’ve wanted to go but cannot rationalize spending a long or isolated time in.

I also am extremely inexperienced with the South after not knowing that cool people lived there until meeting some of the Jewish ones at sleepaway camp. In my mind, I’ve been saving a lot of these spots for this hypothetical roadtrip, even the ones I plan to spend multiple days in. In the future when I hopefully take on this route, I could now theoretically skip New Orleans, but I had so much fun that I can’t imagine giving it less time.

New Orleans is one of, if not the most, polarizing cities in America (with Portland, OR, NYC, and LA close behind). I either meet people who love it (my ex’s mom talking about it a lot as her “happy place” where she can relax) or hate it (my mom unable to move past the French Quarter smelling like pee). When my friend Gabby initially pitched the trip, some of our friends who had been before said they never wanted to go there ever again.

Our group ended up being a bit of a mash between two factions of my friend Allie’s friend web: me, Gabby and Meera on one side and Clara, Mara, and Marley on the other. These three girls met in college, and Allie met them through another friend who’s currently on a multi-month cross-country road trip (and might be in Mexico right now?). I know all three on a more surface level than Gabby and Meera (which could be said for most people), so I was excited to get to know them in this more intimate way but also nervous that we could suffer the same gIrLs TrIP fate as a friend group going to Miami. Thankfully, my worries never materialized.

New York had been rainless for a month, and we flew out on the first rainy day, the Thursday before Thanksgiving. I worked in the morning and excitedly cleaned the house before we packed into an Uber headed to JFK. It was a mess, and us three TSA PreCheckers ended up being ushered amongst our linemates to a different part of the airport to go through security and break up the initial crowd (which would have been a great way to abduct us).

We waited at our gate for hours as our plane continued getting delayed in small increments. Allie seemed to be the only one able to tune into the desk agent’s explanations of the plane’s mechanical issues, and I was happy to not care enough if my plane was safe or not. I chomped some Cheez-Its and tried reading Power Broker, something I failed to do for most of the past two weeks. Our bags and water bottle-accented backpacks stacked beside each other was quite the indictment of our archetypes: Aways and Owalas all in a line.

I downloaded a few podcast episodes for my flight, but since we were on Delta, we had movies, TV, and live channels. I forget how nice flying can be after being a Spirit legend for so long. Meera and I got to sit with each other and hold hands during turbulence (which I think I might be more sensitive to than most). We watched an episode of Jeopardy! before separating, a random nature series for her and Bravo for me. We split a can of coke while crunching through Delta’s version of Chex mix. Panera commercials showed a ciabatta bread dipper special, and I was very susceptible to the ad. I’m way too hungry.

We landed around 10, and I could only think of food. We Ubered to our Airbnb, and I feel like I always end up in the front seat next to the driver (not a bad thing, in my opinion)! He was hard of hearing and blasting chiller covers of pop songs, which my friends in the back sang along to. I stared out the window and pondered as I do. I’m always shocked by how flat most of our country is. Lots of highways here. I like that their gas station convenience store is called Brother’s. Seeing the main bridge lit up rainbow made me smile. We arrived at our Airbnb, a bright yellow house with pink doors in Marigny, a neighborhood in walking distance from the French Quarter.

None of us could muster leaving the house in a big way. My friend Leah happened to be here this night and leaving the following day, and I had to ditch her after promising we’d appear at the jazz club she’d be at. We ordered po’ boys (I never knew what this meant — just a sandwich with meat and fixins on French bread) from an oft-recommended spot called Verti Marte. My po’ boy, as you may have seen in my last entry, was double the size of my head. It was delicious but overwhelming, and greased up the paper it was wrapped in. I liked it, but the food here is so good that this ended up being my least favorite meal.

There was a liquor store down the street, and the only people who did not journey there were Mara (fell asleep) and me (needed alone time). This year has been the year of carving alone time for myself while in big groups. I unpacked a bit in this spacious house with warm lighting yet still had that tinge of Airbnb soullessness. “Mon Cherie Amor” by Stevie Wonder came on, which always makes me cry (I don’t remember if I did this time or not). I scrolled through Instagram and already got a targeted ad from Publix. Ladies returned with our alcohol supply for the trip, and we sipped until we were sleepy.

It’s sometime around 8 a.m., and I realize I’m awake before everyone else (or at least up before they are). I needed last night to be cozy, but I still felt a pang of regret of not spending any time outside of the house learning about New Orleans. I was unsure of the temperature, so I put on a short sleeve, wrapped a hoodie around my waist, and set off for a park 30 minutes away that I’d make an hour loop out of before my friends were ready to boogie.

Walking alone is the most empowering, fun activity. It was so bright and warm, rendering my hoodie useless. I walked to the Lafitte Greenway, which looked like a long enough park on Google Maps. I walked through the Tremé neighborhood, which I learned was the oldest African American neighborhood in the country. It was quiet, and the only people on the sidewalks were randoms cleaning trash off their block.

I walked down Esplanade Avenue and was in awe at the sweeping Southern houses and trees lining the street. The side streets had more normal looking houses, but I was still floored at how many houses had bold colors painted on them, a theme I saw throughout the city. Blue and orange, purple and pink…it gives the city more of a sheen. I listened to a podcast on my way there and music on my way back.

I reached the park after crossing under an underpass with Louis Armstrong painted on the pillars holding it up and abandoned trolleys on the other side. The park itself was clear and littered with recreational opportunities. I opted for the the outdoor exercise gym, something I find myself doing when I happen upon parks in other cities. The only other person there was an older Jewish (I am allowed to assume this) man having himself a morning. I tried every machine just for fun and walked home. A little lizard peeked out of the side of a building.

I arrive to hear the girls say they want this day to be very walk-centric, which obviously works for me. We walk through part of my park route and veer into the French Quarter. The buildings are what you expect from whatever vision of New Orleans you have is — low to the ground, ornate building details, and possessing duality you know you’ll see the other side of at night.

After passing a few closed bars and open boutiques, the block opened up as we made it to Jackson Square. This is also what you think of when you think of New Orleans, that pointy white building in front of a park with an Andrew Jackson centerpiece (yuck — but shows how this history has such a complicated past of being both empowering and oppressive for minorities). Fortune tellers and people in weird costumes were already congregating out front.

Across the park was Cafe Du Monde, the only place you probably know about New Orleans if you haven’t been. It was packed, but our crew of 7 found a table. All of the workers wear these old-timey uniforms and come out with plates of the most powdery beignets. They only really serve beignets and coffee. I had a lackluster iced cafe au lait but the beignets were great. Such all-consuming consumption that had me bent fully over the table so the falling powdered sugar would only hit my plate. There were still powdered sugar casualties across the table, prompting Allie to say Why is everything easier for other people? like the protagonist she is.

Some random sax player was just playing songs we all know. This was peak daytime Nola touristy, and I was happy we were starting our trip this way. I was thinking about Leah, who I failed to see the night prior. Our crew decided to walk to the Garden district, which allegedly had plenty of pretty houses and shops to gawk at. The sun shone as we passed by hurricane bars and gimmicky stores as the French Quarter transitioned to their real downtown.

In an instance of fate being kind to me, Leah happened to be walking towards my group. If I were a dog, I would have been barking up a storm and maybe poop myself. What could be better than 1. unintentionally seeing 2. one of your best friends 3. in a totally different place than you’re used to seeing them? The answer is 4. your friend deciding to join you 5. and your other friends you love. She regaled me with tales and recommendations from her trip. We made a promise beforehand to write letters to each other after every day, which we just revealed to each other today (December 4). You guys wish you could receive the romance that I got from her!

I am definitely more of a lone wolf on walks, but that doesn’t mean that I hate to romp around with friends. We took a detour for cheeseball/cheese industry rising star Allie to go to a cheese shop she knows stuff about. Allie geeked out with their cheesemonger, who ended up giving us samples of really incredible cheese that I am not smart enough to know about (Correction: Leah reminded me it was called Black Betty). I got my first cocktail of the trip, a cranberry marg that tasted like a Starbucks refresher, which I decided to take advantage of the city’s open container (the open carry that I care about) law.

We passed through primarily residential streets, houses of all sizes plus one with a big-top-esque fumigation tent. We came across a massive mud puddle that we all had to jump over. I came out unscathed, as running and leaping over a puddle is one of my favorite ways to retain childlike wonder. Leah had a flight to catch, so she departed before we got lunch.

Turkey and the Wolf has the energy of a midwestern basement or at least a Chicago bar. It’s kitschiness galore with salt shakers are glued to Matchbox cars. The marg, walk endorphins, and hunger were hitting. I’m waiting in line and watching a bartender I would not find attractive if I saw him in the wild cleaning glasses, giggling, and singing along to the 90s music with his coworker. Something about seeing this man so in his element was so attractive, almost like how seeing someone onstage makes them way hotter. I needed to get my food. The girl at the counter was my first true introduction to Southern Hospitality.

She asked me how I was doing, which prompted a real, look-in-each-other’s-eyes exchange before I ordered. She peppered ended her questions with love and baby, words she throws as casually as gum wrappers to the trash. I left the exchange particularly delighted, having the kind of service exchange I aspire for always. This is how you build community and feel at home.

I got to experience lots of Southern Hospitality on my trip, and I thought about it a lot. Was it sincere? Was I getting punk’d? Do they do this because they can tell I’m a tourist? I know that it’s more common in the South to grow up with manners ingrained, and the Christianity factor certainly amplifies that. I think I would have more hate for it if I lived in the South and had a hard time finding deep connections or true honesty; however, this was great to experience as a tourist, and it furthered my desire to be as human as possible no matter who I’m talking to. I need my southern readers to have commentary for me.

I got a frozen marg and this behemoth of a fried bologna melt, and I was ready for bed upon finishing it. At this point, I have officially checked into vacation mode. Stuffed, we walked through the garden district, bopping in and out of vintage stores. I am a terrible shopper when I’m not prepared, and I also think I’m too stupid to sift through stores with eclectic collections. I also graze through a place faster than others (this is where my mom would say I’d finish the Pittsburgh zoo in 30 minutes when I was little).

I left our second vintage store to sit outside alone and have phone time for the first time all day. I was exhausted. Why am I such a phone gerbil sometimes? Anyway, it felt great. There are a few times this trip that I just need to decompress in this way. Clara came out and joined me, and getting to talk alone with her always feels like we’re on the top outside of something and looking down at things happening below. Slowly, the rest of our clan left of the store. I don’t remember if anyone bought anything. This little park and how well it was manicured made me think of Pasadena. We took pictures of the cute statue and then looked up who it was…turned out to be a Daughter of the Confederacy.

We walked the rest of the way home, stopping first to use the bathroom at a bar that we ended up getting drinks at. Courtyard Brewery’s owner was the bartender that day, and all of us sleepy girls were persuaded by his charm to drink even sleepier beers. Two girls got beer with those froyo-sized boba balls (one liked, the other did not). Another vintage store next door to be explored but I sat on the bench while they searched. I cannot be bothered.

Our walk brings us back to the downtown area. In our loud debating of where to go next, a random woman on the block with a drink started recommending this bar down the block to us and told us about all of its drama. She’s apparently a family lawyer but drinks away the depressing circumstances of her clients. I usually avoid random conversations with strangers (and half of our group did, too), but I was enjoying our exchange. When we said goodbye, Gabby said Thanks for approaching us.

Mara is a Bay Area native and big Warriors fan. She saw on her phone that they happened to be playing the Pelicans that night in New Orleans, and tickets were way cheaper than games at home (two of which she would go to over Thanksgiving break). She tried convincing us to go with her, and Clara did the mitzvah of going with her.

The French Quarter was starting its nightly hum. We all desperately needed to pee, but I think it’s rude for our large group to go use a bathroom somewhere we won’t pay. I always realize my trepidation for being anywhere from a bad customer to a customer that speaks up when something is wrong every time I’m with Gabby, who always offers to do these things for me. We peed in the bathroom of a touristy restaurant, and the basketball girls plus Marley Ubered home to take a beat before the game.

Allie, Gabby, Meera, and I stopped in a touristy frozen hurricane spot and got a big strawberry one to share as we walked home. I got three brain freezes, and we debated if there was any alcohol in them. Glorified movie theater Icee. This walk was quite the meander. We happened back in Jackson Square and watched a high school band play before walking along the water. We walked past gorgeous houses and did one of many I’ll take this one and you can take the one next door. We waved at old people sitting in rocking chairs outside their doors.

A moment at home. I got my Nuuly rental for the month in just the nick of time — two hours before we left for the airport. In it, I chose a floral black-and-white jumpsuit that I thought would be fitting for our 9:45 p.m. dinner reservation. I looked and felt delicious, having a body dysmorphia epiphany when I realized that I actually have an ideal body shape but just refuse to buy new clothes that fit it well.

The four of us and Marley got dressed up and Ubered to French 75 Bar in the French Quarter, which was attached to this famous restaurant called Arnaud’s. After waiting for a while, we got a corner table with old, upholstered chairs. If you want an upscale bar experience that feels like what you imagine New Orleans to be, this is a great choice. The servers all wore white suits, and one of them was flirting hard with Allie and gave her her card. The French 75 was of course great, but all of the other drinks were so ornate that some looked more like cornucopias than cocktails. My biggest qualm was the lampholders, which were little statues of monkey bellhops. Just felt racist!

We enjoyed sipping while snacking on some cheese bites and something I wanted to get after seeing it in an Eater article: soufflé potatoes, which is like a wartortle between chips and fries. After getting sufficiently drunk before dinner, our server led us to a semi-secret “museum” featuring the pageant dresses of the original owner’s daughter, worn by worn-out mannequins. The room was dark aside from the exhibits, and we just laughed in a circle before leaving.

I stared out at the Hotel Monteleone neon sign from above as we waited for our Uber to Pêche, the restaurant we chose to fill the “sophisticated seafood restaurant we’d need a reservation for” slot on our trip. We met Mara and Clara, who had enjoyed their cultural immersion through sport. I was definitely drunk through this dinner and don’t remember much of what we ate, but it was a lot of different seafood we shared, including a whole fish. I definitely enjoyed it, and felt very cozy as a unit with these girls.

To cap off our night, we went to a jazz club on Frenchmen Street (the more musical, less fratty version of Bourbon Street with a mix of tourists and locals) called The Spotted Cat. The place was packed but not in an uncomfortable way, and I was enthralled by the voice of our longhaired, long-bearded frontman. All of the bands I saw in the city were incredible and did such a great job at interacting with the crowd. My friends all went to the front to dance. Former sax player Marley and I stood in the back and nodded along, enjoying the music while trying not to nod off to sleep. Eventually, we were too tired to stay. Meera Ubered home with us and we had a nice debrief on the back patio. The rest of the girls got home soon after us, another theme from this trip.

Another great night’s sleep, which we needed for our morning commute: a walk to some Homewood Suites where a bus would be waiting for us. We got tickets for a swamp tour an hour away, and didn’t know anything about this journey. My biggest worry was the bumpiness: would we be packed into a glorified van? Would our boat zip and bounce along the water? Thankfully, we got onto a coach bus with a bunch of other tourists. This bus and almost every Uber I was in on this trip played the Christmas music radio station, which I found a bit unsettling after a while.

I stared out the window at the bayou while listening to my tunes. The bus crossed one of the longest bridges I’ve ever been on, which spans Lake Pontchatrain (the lake that gives Louisiana more of its “L” shape). We arrived at Cajun Encounters’ HQ, where we got our tickets and had more than enough time to buy souvenirs and snacks (they really optimized trip timing so we’d be more inclined to spend). I just got a Diet Coke but mooched off some Fritos that Mara got.

It was time for our tour, and our crew plus maybe 15 other people got on a low, open boat headed by Scott, whose Venmo is @captainscott69 and commented on most of our profile pictures after we tipped him. Scott’s got a great accent and true swampy swag about him, as any tour guide worth his salt should. He taught us about the history of the swamp, the Pearl River, and how industrialization and climate change have absolutely screwed the ecosystem. It was actually quite the bleak tour! Go on one while you still can. Scott asked our girl gaggle if we were in New Orleans for any special occassion, and we said Nope! City girls out on the town!

It was starting to get cold, but we still saw a few gators out and about. Scott tossed food to them, and they got close to our boat. They could chew but not swallow the food because their bodies are getting cold for winter. Our boat snaked around so many special trees and vines, one of which serving as inspo for The Princess and the Frog and its corresponding Disney World ride. We saw snakes and turtles in the sun, plus a gator sprawled out on a log with a few turtles chilling behind him.

Hilariously, the best animal we saw was the raccoon. As we’d wade through the denser parts of the swamp, Scott started calling out Come out, come out! something I assume he does many times a day. Eventually, one raccoon pops out of the water, and then maybe 10 others follow suit. They know the drill, and climb up a tree almost to our boat to eat food we have for them on sticks. They looked so cute in the water, so eager for food. Maybe I should be a bit less disgusted by the ones in my trash.

The tour was one of our favorite parts of the trip because we got to learn about the land’s history and future. We were all pretty drowsy on the bus home, and I remembered that I haven’t written Leah a letter yet. I started by saying I was soaking sun through the bus window like a gator on a log. I also remembered the rightfully incessant pleas from my friend Ryan to listen to this random album from an artist I’d never heard of: Miss Behaves by CeCe Natalie. Every song feels like a surface, sexy radio song you’d hear in 2010. My favorite is probably “Team CeCe,” which starts with It’s obvious that I’ve got my type / Just like me but twice my size. I was glued to the window, staring at levees and megachurches for miles.

Clara separated for some solo walk time, but sleepy girls needed a pick-me-up, so we walked to an oft-recommended beignet spot called Loretta’s Authentic Pralines. Was it better than Cafe Du Monde? Check out the Food section of Current Fixations to find out. We took some time at home, and I had a nice shower. Mara got the group hooked on a card game called Cambio. I liked watching everyone get super into it, but I just could not motivate myself to play with them.

I was having fun on my phone, mostly talking to my mom, who did a test bake of the bagels and posted on Balena’s Instagram that anyone who wanted one could pop by. It went super well, and she planned to open on Tuesday. Ben and I talked about him coming home, too, and grinding hard on his school work. Felt proud of my family and excited to see them.

As I enjoyed my screen time, Clara returned from her walk through the French Quarter and said she had a lot of random men accosting her in the street. I’ve been having such a great time with our group and thinking that New Orleans would be such a fun place to live for a few months, but hearing Clara’s experience reminded me that having a group shields us girls from the realities of any city.

For the night, we spent time in the much-recommended Bywater neighborhood, which ended up being my favorite area. The restaurants, bars, and houses just seemed so young and fun, exactly the kind of place I’d want to live. Surprise, surprise: later research shows that this was one of the first neighborhoods to gentrify after Katrina. I am nothing if not consistent.

We started at The Joint, a casual BBQ spot with old posters all over the walls. I had some okay brisket and amazing baked beans. We walked to the bar at the top of my list, Bacchanal, which was across from a Soviet-looking graffiti’d parking garage next to tracks with sleeping trains. This place had a great backyard with standing heaters and a jazz trio onstage. We sat at a round table, periodically going to the upstairs bar that looked like a treehouse. It felt like such a great, Brooklyn-y neighborhood spot, which probably means it’s a Gentrifier Olympic gold medalist.

To end the night, we walked to Saturn Bar, another lived-in, wood-lined performance venue bar. When the bouncer told us the place had a $10 cash cover, we took a beat to figure out what to do. In that interim, some random guy paid all $70 of our cash cover, which some of our group members thought was extremely kind but I thought was very sus. I was sober at this point, so I got a beer and shot combo, and the beer ended up being a tallboy. So nice when New York prices and portions are not the same in other places.

The first group of the night to perform was a band called Minka, which was a few dudes with disco songs and garb. The lead singer bopped around the whole bar and got in people’s faces but in a way that was welcome. Their music boomed and kept our crew dancing at the front. Some people sat on the ground of the balcony at the perimeter of the room, low enough that someone could easily take the shoes off of their dangling feet.

I found myself getting sleepy again, so I crept far into an empty corner to sit and scroll. I answered DMs for Balena’s Instagram and Facebook. I keep having the urge to get alone time during my night out, something new since living in New York and is probably just a part of getting older. I like this time to recharge my battery. Doing this keeps me present in the moments that matter.

Suddenly, the guy who paid our cover comes up to me and asked a question that, in hindsight, might have been Are you okay? but I interpreted as Are you gay? I shot him a look and said What? No. The audacity! He then motioned me to rejoin the crowd and said It’s not like you’re running a business from your phone, a disgrace to bagel shop daughters and MLM girlbosses everywhere. Little did he know, I actually was running (the digital presence of) a business from my phone. I hated this remark so much, and it felt like an alternate version of You should smile more, a sentence uttered at Clara a few times on her walk earlier.

Either this is a negative of male audacity or southern hospitality (por que no los dos?). Even him paying for us while we deliberated…leave us alone! Maybe this is just the northeast individualism jumping out, or maybe I deserve my privacy. What gives you the right to enter my bubble? He seemed to be affiliated with the band (or at least was a big fan), which made me wonder if my retreat from the front was bad audience member etiquette. What do we owe performers? I like to think we owe a lot, but I still think it’s my party, and I’ll sit in a corner if I want to. I took little notes through my trip for eventually Leah letter and newsletter writing, and one of them is I really do care about what other people think of me. Girl, duh!

Sitting isn’t recharging me but is making me more tired. I’m back at the front for the end of the show, and my friends get another drink before the next act. I realize that there’s no returning for me, and I think that random’s comments unfortunately made me self-conscious about my sleepiness. If I can’t wake up, maybe I should just go home. I called an Uber before the next group went up, which my friends said were great. Another weird anecdote about that guy: he and Meera were washing their hands at the same time in the unisex bathroom when he asked, Are you transgender? (I’m assuming this guy is cis). Aside from this freak, the bar was fantastic.

Another Uber playing Christmas music. I hoped I wouldn’t be missing much from the rest of the night, but I just could not get fun. The car played the OG Brenda Lee version of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” a song that always brings me back to shivering in the backseat of my fam’s minivan slinking through Baldwin streets on the way home from my aunt and uncle’s place on Christmas Eve. The feeling is very specific and one I won’t feel again, which brought me a mix of sadness and relief.

Ah, home. I made the right choice. I feel great, just sober and sleepy. I do my whole night routine and get in bed. As soon as I’m horizontal, my body betrays me (or really just acts as it should). Dizzytown, USA. Crap. When I’m this level of dizzy, I know that Dizzytown is just an exurb of Pukeville. I wasn’t even drunk at this point, but a day of indulgence does a number on even the strongest traveler. I put on Julia Louis Dreyfus’ podcast Wiser Than Me, the episode with actress Isabella Rosselini. This serves as background noise to ease me into throwing up.

I ended up making three unsavory trips to the bathroom that night. I felt terrible, but puking also makes me feel safe because my body is reacting to toxins in the way it’s supposed to. My friends came home during this process and had no idea I was sick until I came out and told them I just frew up. But you seemed fine! Yeah, I thought so too!

I pass out before the others go to bed and wake up with only a hint of a hangover. I wake up around 8:30 and immediately start scrolling on my phone. All of a sudden, I get a call from my dad (who, as you definitely know, I haven’t spoken to in almost four years)! I obviously don’t answer it and presumed it was a butt dial because he’s done that before. The new phone update reads out voicemail text live as someone’s leaving it, so I read along: Hey Syd it’s me. I’m here in Brooklyn like outside your apartment. I just really miss you. I would love to talk. Call me back.

HERE IN BROOKLYN! I am floored. John has made numerous attempts to contact me through text, call, and email, which all go unanswered. I immediately report these to my mom, she asks me if I want her to reprimand him, and I usually say yes. I hate to keep my mom in the middle and talk to someone she certainly doesn’t enjoy speaking with, but I am the only person holding my dad accountable through silence. I’m lucky she respects this.

When I lived in New Hampshire, he sent me fake, tacky flowers and a Finding Nemo balloon for my birthday. I always knew he could theoretically come to my apartment but knew he’d never do that. One of the best parts about moving to New York is that he wouldn’t have my address. Unfortunately, my Grandma has it, and I assume she gave it to him. A few weeks ago, he sent me a card and two Ganesha idols from India where he was for a business trip, another bizarre gift. The worst part about receiving it was knowing that he had my address.

I never thought he would actually go to my apartment and could not have been happier to be on vacation. Imagine if I was home and had to leave for work or something! What a creepy move. It just shows that he still is unable to think outside of himself about what his daughter actually wants. From a persuasion perspective, how would showing up to my home unannounced be something that would make me want to talk to him? This just further validates my refusal to speak to him. Someone must have told him about the bagel shop selling out (or most of? I don’t remember) their test bake, and his subconscious wish to be part of that success manifested in this desperate plea for attention from the one person who won’t concede in any way.

Meera is asleep next to me, and no one in the house is up. I text my mom, but our Airbnb wifi isn’t working and the signal in this room sucks, so I keep holding my phone in the air to grab better signal, which sometimes works. She is appalled and writes out a diplomatic, informative, and actually kind message to him. I told her to add in the word threatening before sending.

Soon after, John sends me an email saying he wasn’t trying to threaten me, he’s been in therapy (clearly working great for him), and he tried rationalizing some of his actions from years ago. He must have forgotten there’s a word out there called Sorry. Even in his stale, unnecessary explanations, he never gets to one of the most important reasons why I don’t speak to him, which is that he lied to us for years. John has been talking in circles about the same things for years and mainly discusses how me not talking to him makes him sad. Although this was obviously a rude wakeup, my overwhelming feeling was not anger or sadness like it would have been if this happened a few years ago — it was something closer to pity. I can’t say how he’ll be in the future, but he’s shown no growth in these past four years in how he deals with our relationship.

This was unsurprisingly a late wakeup for the group, except for Gabby, who went to a free French Quarter walking tour at 10, and we didn’t see her for most of the day. Clara wanted to go to the Tulane area, so we got breakfast at an old diner called Camellia Grill. New Orleans loves having ornate uniforms for their old-timey restaurant workers. Everyone sat at a long diner table. Sweet tea and a patty melt.

We walked for a while over to Tulane, a residential route through the most gorgeous mansions (many on sale). A great quote from Allie from earlier in the trip when she was loving on the city: It’s upsetting to learn that everyone who went to Tulane was right. We waltzed around campus and peed in the bathroom of a building that looks like it could be on any campus, but the rest of the school was cute. Their Thanksgiving break already started, so it was desolate.

We crossed the street over to Audubon Park, my favorite park of the trip. Hundreds of ducks in the stream, some standing on low tree branches, very few looking like the mallards we know and love. The long park is flanked by mansions, and tons of people walk down its promenade. We took a breather at a gazebo. Just a beautiful, tranquil place!

Time for our next park on the other side of town. Our Uber to City Park was yet another Christmas music player, which was starting to get annoying; however, I couldn’t help but love hearing “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” driving down a mansion street. City Park included an art museum we avoided and a free sculpture garden we adored. It featured a sculpture of a dog in a style I knew from my childhood but couldn’t place where. When I got back to Pittsburgh, my mom asked if I ever saw any George Rodrigue dogs (the dog in question, which I learned about in a childhood fave book, Blue Dog).

We sat on a dock for a while and stared at little turtles popping their heads out of a park pond. What a tranquil scene. After walking around long enough that we all had to pee, we called our Uber home. Our driver (who I’ll add was missing teeth) started going on about how unsafe the city is and how much crime there is.

Maybe this is one of my more woke, annoying opinions, but 90% of the time someone says an area is dangerous, they’re probably being racist. So many old people in Pittsburgh since the pandemic have been railing on and on about how dangerous downtown is. Manchester, NH gets the same treatment, as do many downtowns across the country. Part of this is a fear of our homeless and/or addict populations, most of whom (in my experience as a human and journalist) don’t cause harm. I will say that I feel much safer in New York than I did in Manchester, and a big part of that is having safety in numbers. And some places, crime actually is bad, right? What’s the spectrum of valid to invalid, rational to racist? Maybe that’s another entry. Anyway, I think people just aren’t used to keeping their wits about them in cities and are too afraid to leave their homes.

We arrive home and reunite with Gabby, who rattles off facts she learned in her day. (Did you know the cemeteries are above the ground because of the swamp? And that Nicolas Cage a huge mausoleum there?) While some of the crew needs time to rest, Marley, Allie, and I start our night early. An older woman with a kind face saw us walking down the block and told us to be careful because this area is dangerous. I trusted her more than our Uber driver.

The one thing I regret missing while in town was not taking one of the many cute streetcars from the oldest streetcar line in the world. We usually had to cross over the line to enter the French Quarter, and I realized how drastically the neighborhood changed once I made the leap. The three of us chatted on the way to a bookstore where Marley would try to find a gift for her boyfriend. We tried one that was a bust before another that seemed better but proved just as unhelpful.

I had no patience to look for books. Instead, I eavesdropped on a millennial British gay couple chatting up the girl with dyed hair and a face tattoo working the register. She was very well spoken. The gays talked about how they were tourists (obviously) and just visited Nashville, which they think is far less enchanting than New Orleans. The cashier declared, Nashville is selling its music to an audience who isn’t sure if it wants it. New Orleans is selling its history and its authenticity. I was agreeing with her after thinking of every bachelorette party Instagram post I’ve ever seen from Nashville. The Brits were just as charmed by her as I was, asking about her experience growing up here. On her pride being a New Orleans native that works amongst tourists: It’s in our best interest to be as ourselves as possible.

I enjoyed being a fly on the wall of this quite loud conversation. When Marley decided this hunt was a bust, we left and immediately started talking about this woman — who Allie (and Marley to a slightly lesser extent) hated! I was floored! Wow, what a gullible person I am. I definitely trust their radars, and I’m usually the first person to be judgmental or suspicious of someone. Maybe it’s harder for me when that someone is a pretty lady. I adored hearing their frustration with this woman saying words just to say them, insisting upon herself. They were probably right, and I’m just in vacation mode. I promise that I’m still good to walk around “dangerous” neighborhoods!

Our trio hit the last oft-recommended bar I wanted to go to: Carousel Bar. It’s in the lobby of the Hotel Monteleone and has a literal carousel and bar that spins ever so slowly. We ended up sitting in a cozy corner off to the side, which is actually the right move (no slight nausea from the spin, plus you can see the ornate top of the carousel).

I had been waiting for a particular moment in the trip to feel like Marley was my friend and not just Allie’s friend that I’m curious of, and this night was definitely it. We had such a great conversation about all the things I love talking about (love, family, growing up (which some people call aging)), and I think all three of us cried! I had my first and only sazerac of the trip (not my kind of drink, but this was the cat’s pajamas), while Marley got this subtle, smoky mezcal elixir called the Oaxacan Midnight. Definitely one of the best cocktails I had all year! I ended up getting one for myself.

We had to come back to reality so we could get dinner with the remainder of our group, ending up at a touristy but actually good restaurant, according to Gabby’s tour guide, called Gumbo Shop. I had a huge daiquiri, a fantastic roast chicken, and some gorgeous collared greens. Touristy but actually good. Our table was right next to the two dudes we sat next to on the boat tour, hilariously enough.

Marley was really into going back to Bywater for a jazz show, but I wanted to check off the last major food item on my bucket list: Drip Affogato Bar. The group left, but Meera and I used this as an opportunity to have a mini-date on a trip that we’ve (in my opinion) slayed at being very platonic on. At this point, I haven’t even seen Bourbon Street yet, so I wanted to make it our route to the dessert shop.

My expectations were low. When I think of Bourbon Street, I think of the Dance Moms moms fighting or dancing on balconies with beads on. I’ve heard mixed reviews, but I knew that I needed to just see it. I wanted to start at gay bar Oz, which apparently gets crazy. It was relatively early on a Sunday night, though, so we grabbed high noons and took bathroom breaks (wow, so much of this trip is about finding places to pee!) while a sparse crowd played drag bingo on the dance floor. It was nice to be around visible queers again.

My second time taking advantage of the open container law was tamely walking down Bourbon with my lil’ seltzer. So many loud bars and clubs, a smattering of plastic-y late-night takeout spots, and plenty of drunk people walking around. All of this adorned with neon reminded me of my least favorite street in New York: MacDougal Street. The surprisingly high concentration of 40–60-year-olds reminded me of my least favorite party destination in the world: Atlantic City, New Jersey. The street felt very different from the rest of the city. Happy to see it, then never again! People who come here and hate it probably just go here and nowhere else.

We made it out of the French Quarter and got a table at Drip. The place had a distinct early-2010s quality about it, from the soundtrack to the bastardized Warholian prints in gaudy frames. I welcomed the cheuginess because the menu was so enticing; you could either get these sundae creations with coffee or alcohol. Meera and I shared the basic vanilla, fudgey goo fest with coffee poured over. It was refreshing and reenergizing, necessary so I wouldn’t be the party pooper going home first again. Other than bed that night, it would be Meera and I’s last moment alone before our respective Thanksgiving breaks, so we’re clearly two people going off to war and never to be seen again.

So much Ubering! This guy had the best playlist of the trip because it was all great songs that happened to have viral moments on TikTok. “Hell N Back,” then Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams,” then “Telepatia?” I gushed at the non-Christmas line up. We drove past a Habana Outpost, a restaurant I thought only existed in Brooklyn but apparently has one here, too. Once we hit BJ’s, we happened upon our cozy friends sipping beers with another band playing in the background. We were eventually offered mac n cheese that we didn’t take because we left shortly after, but BJ’s was a great bar.

Our final bar of the journey was 30/90, one of many live music joints on Frenchmen Street, and watching these performers felt like a privilege. Such incredible, natural talents. They’d sing anything, from old favorites to stuff I’d never head before on mics whose stands had cupholders built in. Our group was dancing in the front, but the singer eventually called us out for not getting any drinks. I went to the back to grab a beer, and we left soon after. We ran down the block a few times but decided it was time to head home a short walk away.

Hey, it’s Syd from the future. Turns out this post is too long for my newsletter platform I switched to in early 2025. The second part of this entry shows the trip’s end, my mom’s bagel shop opening, my struggle to write concisely about myself (lol), and three whole weeks of current fixations. Read it here.