Most people who know me, know that I am not a big fan of New Orleans. My first visit to the NO should have had me saying “hell no” to ever returning. Highlights from that first visit included going to a prominent drug dealer’s birthday party (we were told it was a house-party and technically it was) with a homicidal lunatic who later threatened to kill me, my friend and his male friends who were going to take us back to our hotel (according to homicidal lunatic, they were going to take us somewhere and rape us); barely escaping said high drama by attempting to leave with two women and a man (who was a New Orleans police officer – what was HE doing at the party?!); having homicidal lunatic being chauffeured to our hotel, sitting in the back seat of the police officer’s town car between me and my friend who were trying to escape him. Did you catch all of that? By virtue of the fact that I’m writing about this today, I was not killed (or maybe this is Blog Posts from the Other Side). Considering that misadventure to be an enormous one-off, a few months later, me and my friend were in New Orleans again. This time, I found myself standing on the sidewalk outside of a souvenir shop where I had purchased some souvenirs waiting for my friend to finish her purchase when a group of guys came walking up and proclaimed verbatim “bitch get the fuck out of my way.” Never mind that I wasn’t in the way. At that point, I figured that I had given the Big (Not) Easy enough attempts to welcome me with warm hospitality as opposed to brutality. Epic failure on its part. So, at the tender age of 19, I proclaimed that I would Never, EVER go to New Orleans again in this life nor any following lives. I didn’t even want to take a flight whose flight path would bring me over the state of New Orleans. There is something funny about making a declaration of never – sometimes there is an again. And in my case, again, again and again. Although to my credit, I waited another 19 years before the next again occurred. Yet again, the bad mojo returned. I was going to visit a friend I met in Luxembourg who was working at a law firm in New Orleans and was going to stay overnight and hang out in the French Quarter with a known person. Who doesn’t own a gun. And who would lead the way instead of commanding that I get out of the way. Yet, I found myself in the Quarter with someone who was compelled to get a beer at every place we passed. We ended up at a club in the middle of the afternoon that was jumping. After dancing for a few minutes, he got a table and four beers. I continued watching everyone dance from the side of the dancefloor. All of a sudden (that’s usually how things happen), I heard a loud PLIINNGG noise near me, looked down and saw that a glass bottle had been thrown right next to me and had broken. For a moment, my temper was about to get the best of me but then I remembered where I was. Instead of responding in the heat of the moment, I took a deep breath and used my foot to scoot the shards off to the side. However, a few minutes later, my ankle was itching. I reached down to scratch and first, felt moisture on my fingers and second, saw that the moisture was blood. Not good. When I informed my friend, he reached down and touched my open wound (who does that?!) and declared we couldn’t leave because he had not finished drinking his thousandth beer yet. We unfortunately went through a routing of are you done yet, no that had my head about to explode. In utter frustration, I finally left the club alone after having thrown the remainder of the last beer in the garbage with such birds-eye accuracy you would have thought I was a professional dart player instead of a near-sighted, non-athletic chick with non-existent hand-to-eye coordination. In anger, I walked straight back to the car although I had paid no attention to where we were going when we came because I was following him like a baby duck. After 19 years, I realized that the mojo had not changed at all. In spite of these horrendous experiences, I found myself two years later returning to New Orleans for a brief period of time because I booked a flight into New Orleans and then would drive to Florida. And that is when the mojo changed. I went to the more local part of the French Quarter and had the most laid-back, chill time ever. I was hanging out with a local resident who was responsible for my first sane experience in New Orleans and I greatly appreciated the reversal of fortune. I am now in New Orleans for a somewhat indefinite period of time and have had good experiences. I’ve returned to the French Quarter with the laid-back New Orleanian and again, nothing happened. I’ve been on the ferry at night (that thing moves pretty fast). I’ve meandered around some parts of the city during the day and have found my favorite local coffeeshop (I’m here right now). I’ve met normal, sane people – one even from Alabama. I’ve seen some neighborhoods that have allowed me to understand what makes people enjoy the beauty of New Orleans. In the grand scheme of things, I’ve now experienced a small part of the true New Orleans and it isn’t that bad. I’ve learned that not every rocky start leads to a rocky ending…