Hit the Road, Jack
What do you get when you combine three awesome people, a road trip to New Orleans, and softball? An Outlander full of awesome. That's what!
Last weekend Lindsey and I threw our gear and our favorite bear, texwriterbear , into Sister Autoimmaculata and hit the road to NOLA to play in the inaugural Bourbon Street Classic. Things we knew:
I'm a fairly anal packer. Pardon me while I giggle like a 13-year-old boy and wish I'd phrased that differently. It wasn't cold when we packed the car, and I knew I'd need my jacket Sunday, so I put my jacket in a spot I'd be sure to see it when we packed the car. At some point, I saw something shiny, overlooked my jacket and got into the car. New plan: Buy a jacket somewhere in NOLA on Friday.
Because we're spontaneous, and not at all because I had too much coffee and needed a bathroom, we pulled off the interstate in Baton Rouge. At midnight. Intending to find a gas station. What we found was a beautiful welcoming glow on College St that we were drawn to like mosquitoes to a bug zapper. It was a 24-hour Walmart! (cue angels singing) It had a bathroom. Also? Jackets. Lindsey and I left texwriterbear in the warm fuzzy car while we ran around Walmart looking for a jacket, which was surprisingly hard to find. We stood in the checkout line forever, behind a woman buying a nightie, a bottle of wine and a scented candle in a jar. Oooh, someone's gettin' a night of passion after the night shift in Baton Rouge! My last minute, midnight special jacket? Nine whopping dollars and worth every penny for the people watching alone!
We checked into our hotel at about 1:00 a.m. Our second-floor room at the St. Louis Hotel was small and cozy and opened to a courtyard. Our window overlooked Rue Bienville. Nice. We completely crashed, oblivious to whatever noise was in the street.
When we woke up, promptly at the buttcrack of 11 a.m., we noticed something about our room's shower. Specifically, the term "hot water" was a little misleading. It should have just been called "water." Also misleading? The tub's drain. Which didn't. Despite repeated empty promises from the front desk staff, who acted as if our need for hot showers in which we weren't standing shin deep in our own cast-off dirt were personal affronts to them, Maintenance never even took a look at the issue. Also, a hearty "screw you too," to the doorman and valet who felt it more necessary to snootily correct us on certain things than provide us with the information we politely requested. So, if any of my readership of eight is still around, and if any of you feels the need to visit New Orleans and stay in the French Quarter, allow me to narrow down your hotel search. The St. Louis Hotel is as familiar with the term "customer service" as, say, The Soup Nazi. "No hot water for you!" May I say to them, "No business for you!" Seriously, y'all. Don't stay there. Ever.
Hotel issues aside, we had a blast! We spent the next three days traipsing around the city eating and shopping and playing softball. Lots of softball. That cold front came through with a vengeance. And, by "vengeance," I mean "20-30 MPH winds that made it seem like it was 32 degrees outside." Luckily, I had my Midnight Special, courtesy of the Baton Rouge Walmart. Also, we totally lucked out on a cheap comforter at the Dollar Store near the fields and sat in the stands wrapped up tighter than the bums under the Pierce Elevated. In the end, the Sons of Pitches took third place in the tournament. We promptly changed clothes in the parking lot and left town...before the authorities could be called.
Last weekend Lindsey and I threw our gear and our favorite bear, texwriterbear , into Sister Autoimmaculata and hit the road to NOLA to play in the inaugural Bourbon Street Classic. Things we knew:
- We'd get to NOLA after midnight
- No one in NOLA would care
- Because it's NOLA
- Sunday's weather would be cold
I'm a fairly anal packer. Pardon me while I giggle like a 13-year-old boy and wish I'd phrased that differently. It wasn't cold when we packed the car, and I knew I'd need my jacket Sunday, so I put my jacket in a spot I'd be sure to see it when we packed the car. At some point, I saw something shiny, overlooked my jacket and got into the car. New plan: Buy a jacket somewhere in NOLA on Friday.
Because we're spontaneous, and not at all because I had too much coffee and needed a bathroom, we pulled off the interstate in Baton Rouge. At midnight. Intending to find a gas station. What we found was a beautiful welcoming glow on College St that we were drawn to like mosquitoes to a bug zapper. It was a 24-hour Walmart! (cue angels singing) It had a bathroom. Also? Jackets. Lindsey and I left texwriterbear in the warm fuzzy car while we ran around Walmart looking for a jacket, which was surprisingly hard to find. We stood in the checkout line forever, behind a woman buying a nightie, a bottle of wine and a scented candle in a jar. Oooh, someone's gettin' a night of passion after the night shift in Baton Rouge! My last minute, midnight special jacket? Nine whopping dollars and worth every penny for the people watching alone!
We checked into our hotel at about 1:00 a.m. Our second-floor room at the St. Louis Hotel was small and cozy and opened to a courtyard. Our window overlooked Rue Bienville. Nice. We completely crashed, oblivious to whatever noise was in the street.
When we woke up, promptly at the buttcrack of 11 a.m., we noticed something about our room's shower. Specifically, the term "hot water" was a little misleading. It should have just been called "water." Also misleading? The tub's drain. Which didn't. Despite repeated empty promises from the front desk staff, who acted as if our need for hot showers in which we weren't standing shin deep in our own cast-off dirt were personal affronts to them, Maintenance never even took a look at the issue. Also, a hearty "screw you too," to the doorman and valet who felt it more necessary to snootily correct us on certain things than provide us with the information we politely requested. So, if any of my readership of eight is still around, and if any of you feels the need to visit New Orleans and stay in the French Quarter, allow me to narrow down your hotel search. The St. Louis Hotel is as familiar with the term "customer service" as, say, The Soup Nazi. "No hot water for you!" May I say to them, "No business for you!" Seriously, y'all. Don't stay there. Ever.
Hotel issues aside, we had a blast! We spent the next three days traipsing around the city eating and shopping and playing softball. Lots of softball. That cold front came through with a vengeance. And, by "vengeance," I mean "20-30 MPH winds that made it seem like it was 32 degrees outside." Luckily, I had my Midnight Special, courtesy of the Baton Rouge Walmart. Also, we totally lucked out on a cheap comforter at the Dollar Store near the fields and sat in the stands wrapped up tighter than the bums under the Pierce Elevated. In the end, the Sons of Pitches took third place in the tournament. We promptly changed clothes in the parking lot and left town...before the authorities could be called.