Day 2 -- to New Orleans

I visited Las Vegas for the first time in August. And while I was dazzled by the sheer spectacle of it all, I don't think I need to go back there anytime soon. It is defintely an adult playground, and the extravagance and excess on display there is simultaneously captivating and creepy. As I strolled the Strip with my girlfriends, I had fleeting moments where I thought, "Oh! I wish I could show that to my kids!" (when we saw the Chihuly glass in the Bellagio, for example, or when we took in a Cirque du Soliel show). But most of the time, I was convinced that Vegas is no place for children. I'd see young families gawking at the Vegas version of the Eifel Tower while standing in the shadow of an 11-story Sin City Strippers billlboard and I'd think, "Jeez, what kind of parents are you?"

Well, turns out that we are those parents.

After a 300-mile drive from Grenada, Miss., we arrived in NOLA this afternoon. We ditched the trailer and the car-top carrier at a RV park in an industrial area on Lake Pontachatrain before venturing into the crowded city and easily found our way to the Hyatt French Quarter, on the corner of Iberville and Bourbon streets, where we have a gigantic suite with huge windows, 14-foot ceilings and enough square-footage for an aerobics class. I don't know how I managed to swing that.




We walked around the corner to Mr. B's Bistro for dinner, where we enjoyed fried oysters, sausage gumbo and crawfish ravioli. (And by "we," I think you know I mean "Keith and I." Other adventurous eaters in our family tried out the chicken strips.)




On the way back to the hotel, we turned onto Bourbon Street -- just to see what it's all about. Just for a little bit. Just for a block. But it's 9:30 on a Saturday night. And the place is hopping. "Just for a block"? In just one linear block on Bourbon Street, there are roughly 400 bars -- all of them wide open to the street, and all of them overflowing with really happy, really drunk people.

Silly me, I thought the craziness happened only during Mardi Gras. I realized how wrong I was as we passed a group of men standing on a second-floor balcony tossing beads to the passers-by below, and as I instictively reached up with my one free hand to catch a purple strand. My other hand was still clutching the hand of my seven-year-old daughter.

What kind of parent am I?

So, I caught the beads, and the guys on the balcony started cheering and throwing more beads. And when Charlie got beaned in the head with a necklace and started crying, we made a 180 and headed straight back to the hotel.

It was on our way back, that I noticed that the bead-throwers were standing on the second-floor balcony of Larry Flynt's Hustler Bar, and that the front windows were decorated with centerfolds.
Kids, it's time to go.

So, Charlie was in tears, but the girls were mesmerized. They didn't notice the centerfolds and the debauchery as much as the festive atmosphere and the happy people. As we bee-lined back to the hotel, Clare said, "Mommy, when I'm older and I live on Bourbon Street, I'm going to get A LOT of necklaces. I'm going to get one in every color."

God, help us.