The train waits, grey and strong and noble, at the platform. We stow our bags on the lower deck and climb to a lounge with panoramic windows. The Amtrak ploughs for eight hours through the swamps of Mississippi. Trailer parks and clusters of weather-beaten shacks break up the swathes of lurid green water; at one point a woman on her porch covers her ears as we rumble past. Then the Mississippi River folds out from underneath us in murky reels and we know that New Orleans is close.
The hostel is tucked away among the shotgun houses of The Garden District. A couple of meth addicts slump to the side of the local grocery store as we wait for the bus. Fifteen minutes later and we’re lost in the tangle of streets in the French Quarter. Boutiques, galleries, cobbled streets and tall, shuttered windows: it’s easy to forget where we are. Then we reach the strip clubs and $5 Hurricanes of the infamous Bourbon Street.
To The Table 