Bayou Baby
The word Parish invokes feelings of holiness. A territorial entity of do-gooders, churchgoers and all things heavenly and chaste. Louisiana is comprised of parishes, 64 of them to be exact. I learned this along with many other interesting tidbits upon visiting the Southern state many moons ago. As that clunky old Greyhound from Jacksonville, Florida pulled into Baton Rouge station I was soon to find it was not quite a parish in the biblical sense.
I was traveling the East Coast of the United States by Greyhound from Austin, Texas to New York, making various stops along the way, and had arrived in Baton Rouge to visit a pair of madcap Louisianan boys who had been my neighbors in Guatemala (a story for another time). If their behavior whilst living next door to me was anything to go by this would be one wild ride. They welcomed me with open arms from the jump, and showed me what true Southern hospitality was all about.
My host — let’s call him A — was still working full-time when I arrived, so until then his little brother — let’s call him S — was to be my tour guide. It was clear S had me in his sights from day one, but being the ripe old age of 28 he was way too young for a seasoned woman of the world such as myself. Cruising around town with a boy 5 years your junior, drinking, smoking, and meeting live celebrity tigers named Mike, however, is not a bad way to spend your first few days in an unknown landscape. When my friend and host A did finally finish work for the week, he upped the ante on his little brother if you can believe it.
With great pride and in-depth knowledge only a teacher could possess, A reveled in showing me both historical and political parts of Baton Rouge. And seeing as he was now on semester vacation he threw a little bit of GHB into the mix just to keep things fresh and interesting. For those not in the know, GHB is a CNS depressant which is illegal to use recreationally, but when doing so produces states of euphoria, confidence, relaxation and sociability. Sounds ghastly, I know. Standing atop the Louisiana State Capitol looking over the vast expanse of Baton Rouge whilst on recreational drugs with one of its educational system’s up-and-coming superstars certainly did make learning, history and politics appear endlessly interesting!
There were also sporadic times of calm when I was left in A’s house to my own devices. Having a love for all kinds of food — and enduring many, many hangovers during my stay — I ventured forth one day a mere 2 blocks West of A’s abode, across a busy 4-lane highway to sample the delectable delights of a magical place called Sonics which I had just seen in an advert on the TV. I made it there safe and sound, tasted my first ever hush puppy amongst other deliciously processed things, and was forever changed.
Upon walking back to A’s house it did seem odd to me that there were no sidewalks to be seen on either side of his street, and as I wandered and pondered this very issue a car pulled up speedily next to me and demanded I get in. It sounds terrifying but fear not! It was merely my newest and closest Louisianan friend, T, housemate of A. Once in the car T balked at how ridiculous it was for me to have walked those 2 blocks, and that it was a pure and unadulterated miracle I hadn’t been stabbed, raped, kidnapped and/or killed. Apparently fate would have surely forsaken me had T not come along at that very moment.
I’m not sure how true any of T’s warnings were, but I was from then on known around town as ‘that funny Australian girl who walked by herself to Sonics!’. T also felt the need to impress upon me the uniquely American importance of self-defense, allowing me to see and hold one of his hand guns which happened to be safely stored under his driver’s seat. Being a 28-year-old from a virtually gunless nation, and having never even seen nor held a gun, I must admit this was a tad exciting. And though all the papers and permits for said firearm were completely in order I still felt quite the rebel. An outlaw. A gung-ho GI Jane. Primed and ready for anything should shit go down in A’s private, plush, suburban 2-bedroom home with large yard and 2-car garage. Side note: by choice, I have not seen nor held another gun since.
Having received the necessary details on where not to walk and where to find an available handgun at a moment’s notice, I was deemed ready for the mother of all Louisianan overnight trips — N’Orleans (the place we Australians gracefully pronounce Neew Orleeeeeenz)! As a guest at A’s Aunt’s federation mansion on the outskirts of town we started off very respectable and ventured into the heady night air. I was poured straight into Bourbon Street’s Pat O’brien’s where I was informed I must partake in a rite of passage and sample The Hurricane, a vicious island tipple tasting of nothing but tropical juice, yet hiding a hangover like no other. Plus I got to keep the oversized novelty glass! I think I had one Hurricane. Maybe I had two? There were also shots…
And after that my friends, there is nothing.
I know I was in N’Orleans. I know I walked the streets happy and carefree and loving life. I have photographic evidence of me being there, laughing and hugging my friends, drinking test tube shots from other girls’ mouths, even posing with Policemen with their squad car. Alas, if it weren’t for those photographs I would have no recollection of the experience whatsoever. I am told I got drunk, went crazy, and ended up passing out on A’s Aunt’s toilet. Whoops.
And the pièce de résistance dear reader? The icing on the King Cake? I carried that oversized Hurricane cocktail glass all night — drunk as hell — throughout the streets of N’Orleans. It toured the town with me and was my most prized possession. I guarded it with my life and whatever sense of responsibility I had left. Only to get it home, awaken in the morning, stumble blindly down the front steps to the car, and then drop it. Smashing it into a million pieces on my final trip down their lovely, tree-lined front steps.
We drove from N’Orleans back to Baton Rouge hungover as hell on what also happened to be Thanksgiving morning. We arrived at A’s sweet grandma’s house in a very sorry state to be blessed with the most amazing spread of food I have ever seen. Turkey, stuffing, collard greens, green bean casserole, pumpkin pie — you name it, she’d baked it. Could I eat any of it? Hardly a mouthful. My efforts from the previous night had slain my senses and stomach so that the mere smell of food made me weak at the knees and nauseous to my very core. Stemming from my pure people-pleasing need not to be rude, I eventually did it. I ate. And against all odds I drank alcohol again. I don’t know how, but I managed to behave like a normal, fully functioning human being, entertaining guests with tales of the land down under and charming them with my hilarious Antipodean wit. I watched a football game I understood none of and had absolutely no interest in, I sweet talked the relatives, I praised the amazing, delectable Southern cuisine. 10 hours after a self-inflicted liquid assault on my person I finally made it back to my bed to die a slow and pathetic death.
Yet cry not for me dear reader, as I was born again! The remainder of my time in Baton Rouge was a giddy and glorious haze of alcohol, crawfish, GHB, oysters, tailgating, more alcohol and more GHB. Right down to the final moments when T kindly offered to drive me back to N’Orleans to catch my Charleston-bound Greyhound. The whole car trip billowed in an endless haze of thick, face-melting blunt smoke which left me fuzzy-headed and bleary-eyed as I watched the impending, menacing storm clouds mimic the inside of the car and roll over the bayous.
It appears, even in the holy confines of a parish, the South is well and truly full of sin, seeking out an innocent tourist wandering her way through. It’s in the sweet, sticky smell of the balmy night air. The breezy shadows of the weeping willows. The smoke-filled back seats of the eye-high SUV’s. But as I’m sure you know my friends, it’s the sin which always draws you in.
