My Intrepid Travelling Companion and I completed our voyage along the route of Amtrak’s City of New Orleans and rolled into the Big Easy, NOLA, the Crescent City, the City That Care Forgot, or whatever your preferred sobriquet du jour for New Orleans might be. We arrived mid-afternoon, amid a sweltering heat wave.

Here, at the Center of the Universe, we have endured heat and humidity, staunchly suffering through it for a few damp and sticky weeks in July and/or August. It is a shock to our systems, especially for those of us that have become accustomed to the terms “polar vortex,” “wind chill factor” and “lake effect.” That is the reason for air conditioning and the question, “Remember back in February?” However, in New Orleans, they have a term for heat, humidity, and the accompanying need to shower three times a day — “today’s weather.”

Our base of operations for this phase of our expedition was the Prince Conti Hotel in New Orleans’ historic French Quarter. In 1718, at an oxbow bend in the Mississippi River, on a (barely) three-foot rise of land (the highest point around), the 76 blocks of, what is now known as the French Quarter, gave rise to the city of New Orleans. That three-foot upsurge in altitude saved the Quarter from the ravages of Hurricane Katrina in 2005.

Here, old buildings are not torn down and replaced with new, glistening, and historically insignificant edifices. Most of what one sees from the street has been standing since the late 1700s. As time and needs have progressed, only the interiors have been altered.  In 1914, several centuries-old structures housing a furniture factory, a mortuary, a brothel and a mansion (an interesting combination), were combined to create the Prince Conti Hotel. The original mortuary carriage-way still runs through the middle of the “structure,” allowing cars a slow and cautious access to a cramped interior parking courtyard (an invaluable commodity in the very compact French Quarter).

We were wandering Bourbon Street within 15 minutes of checking into the hotel. In the relative calm of the afternoon, things seemed tame. Folks were strolling up and down the narrow sidewalks that confined the equally narrow thoroughfare. A few vehicles slowly made their way along the brick and cobblestone. No big deal — actually kinda boring.

However, one lackadaisical afternoon rolled into several bodacious evenings. Barricades went up, and the street morphed into a river of inebriated humanity, slowly flowing downstream in both directions. In February, during Mardi Gras, all the news outlets feature stories about the drunken debauchery that fills Bourbon Street. News Flash: It is just like that in July — including the world-renown “flashing for beads” (thank you very much).

Bourbon Street panhandlers have a very nonchalant business model, when compared to their counter parts in other places. I am more prone to “donate” to a laid-back guy with a sign that reads, “Ain’t Going To Lie — Just Want a Drink.”

Street entertainers were everywhere. Flamboyantly dressed street artists of unknown gender, age and species joined parading jazz bands, followed by alcohol powered tourists (of equally unknown species). A dog played dead for tips by laying on its back in the middle of the street, surrounded by empty Hurricane glasses (what a gig). A beautiful, barely dressed, young lady read tarot cards and told me something — I have no idea what…because…well…she was beautiful and barely dressed.

There were times I felt like a salmon swimming upstream with a cocktail in my hand. By the way, if (for whatever reason) you are trying to hydrate, do not expect actual ice in your ice water — they save it for the afore-mentioned Hurricanes, a rum-soaked Bourbon Street tradition that purportedly hurts a lot in the morning (just ask the afore-mentioned dog).

The downside to all of this depravity is a lingering aroma that a local politely described as, “A combination of urine and strip clubs,” followed by, “But you get used to it.” Heeding that advice, we got used to it — and partied like it was 1999.

However, after three days of history and hysteria, my Intrepid Travelling Companion and I felt inclined to board the north bound train and bid a fond adieu to the constant party that is New Orleans (because it sure ain’t 1999, anymore).