Crawfish, Jack and Illegalities.

We got into New Orleans last night after a short six- or seven-hour drive, just in time to check into the hostel, change and head out into the bayou night.
One of the hostel guys told us to go to Coop's Place for dinner. Unbelievable. Marinated lamb ribs with red pepper jelly, gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice and something else amazing. Eleni told the bartender to fix us up something "fun," and we watched as he poured two glasses near full of whiskey, then Disaronno, then a little splash of grenadine. He called them red-headed sluts, then remembered they're red snappers. Must have gotten confused when looking at us.
Then to Frenchmen Street, which, said our American Spirit-smoking bartender, was the place to be. Much better than Bourbon Street, he said, which turned out to be very true.
We went to the Apple Barrel, a tiny little bar with an incredible band -- the lead singer chick played a washboard -- and lots of locals. One of whom, dressed in overalls (only one strap fastened) and a bandana with Swarovski crystals (certainly not, as I had said, rhinestones), gave us his card.
He's a fine arts dealer.
Once the band finished, and we realized that in N'Orleans we can carry plastic cups of Jack and coke around on the street, we went outside. Swarovski and some others stopped us and got us talking, maybe we did some drugs on the street, I listened to a dog rape story.
And onward, before Swarovski pulled us into a cab bound for a Bourbon Street titty bar. Another bar, this time on Decatur, where we drank more Jack and made more friends, this time the transplant bartenders, one from Syracuse, one from ... somewhere ... who've been living in the city for years.
And so on.
We made it to Bourbon Street, but it wasn't our scene. I did get my Tarot cards read. Apparently, I'm in the training stages of my profession and am scared of making mistakes. Oh, and a relationship died in the last eight months.
Two for three, and who'd'a thunk it?
Also heard one man's Southern accent that completely vindicated mine, which Miss I'm-from-the-South-even-though-my-state-didn't-pick-a-side Himaras says isn't real. So ... ha!
Speaking of the Civil War, ran into a guy who proclaimed the South would rise again, just us wait, and things about the Confederacy, he hates yankees, blah blah blah. I had to pull Eleni away before she or I threw punches.
It seems feelings still run deep on both sides. Or was that just the Jack?
And now, for breakfast and Nashville, an easy eight or nine hours from here. Then New England calls.