By the time we make it to the Quarter the heat is unbearable. A shopkeeper bemoans summer in New Orleans: the streets are empty and cabin fever is rife. If autumn ever comes, it sure as hell feels a long way off. St. Louis Cathedral is a cool relief from the furious heat and jazz of Jackson Square. I wonder aimlessly through town, stopping twice for iced coffee. Good timing. I watch as a brief thunderstorm calms the city for half an hour.
We find the most incredible Mexican restaurant for dinner. There are vegetables! So many vegetables! A vegan burrito might be sacrilege, but I’m at the point where Twinkies are, quite literally, plaguing my dreams. This is probably a sign. When night falls we embark on a ghost tour of the French Quarter. In a city where hotels can often be seen with an encouraging, ‘Not Haunted’ sign above the door, one can’t help but be curious. Our tour guide is utterly convinced that this place is a magnet for the occult, Hattie agrees. As our guide winds up the tour, a drunk stumbles towards the group. She directs him away and cheerily wraps everything up, “In this city don’t worry a bit about the dead, it’s the living you gotta look out for”. Truer words were never spoken.
To The Table 