Hit the road again today with a relatively short hop to The Big Easy but at an inconvenient time of day, so I got in to New Orleans in the dark. I also got to lug my 25k pack the 4.5 miles to the bus station (I think that must be coming on for 60lb isn't it? I may have got that badly wrong, I'm not great at that sort of conversion) - which for a man of my advancing years was perfectly doable, but not entirely enjoyable. Actually, it would've been a lot less, but I got a bit carried away in the supermarket yesterday and had to hump a large pack of biscuits, some sort of sugar headache inducing cream filled soft cookies (which I should've left behind as I'm never going to finish them) a bag of apples, some bananas (both are sooo very welcome additions to my diet) and a half decent bottle of wine (hey, I'm a backpacker of above average sophistication). I was tempted by the cheese puffs, but ended up rejecting the idea on the basis of volume limitations. I stopped at a diner on the way out to the station and asked for a tea. Perhaps not surprisingly, there was a bit of a mad search for something resembling tea, that ended up with something that resembled nothing like tea. I appreciated the effort though, and was suitably thankful verbally - and equally disappointed mentally.
The hotel I originally booked cancelled on me for no good reason that I could discern (the dirty rotters) so I decided I have had more than enough of crappy motels and at the last minute booked into somewhere nice for a few days. Maison St Charles is, just for once, as nice as it sounds. Proper aircon that doesn't sound like a 747 taking off, a room service menu that runs to three volumes, and a bed that would comfortable accommodate a dozen Cuban hookers. Not that I'll be doing that sort of thing - just in case my mother is reading this. Actually, fuck it, why not? I might do that sort of thing, ...but I definitely won't be telling her about it if I do.
Adopting our family motto 'strap it on and get your arse moving'
The hotel I originally booked cancelled on me for no good reason that I could discern (the dirty rotters) so I decided I have had more than enough of crappy motels and at the last minute booked into somewhere nice for a few days. Maison St Charles is, just for once, as nice as it sounds. Proper aircon that doesn't sound like a 747 taking off, a room service menu that runs to three volumes, and a bed that would comfortable accommodate a dozen Cuban hookers. Not that I'll be doing that sort of thing - just in case my mother is reading this. Actually, fuck it, why not? I might do that sort of thing, ...but I definitely won't be telling her about it if I do.
Adopting our family motto 'strap it on and get your arse moving'
Faux cheesy goodness in football team size packs.
Your mother read this before me, only one comment: "he's done another one" so I guess you are safe for now?
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