A Hot, Sweet, and Musical Trip to New Orleans
Before Andrea arrived in the U.S., she had long wanted to visit New Orleans in addition to Monument Valley and Antelope Canyon. Three wildly different destinations, but the logistics worked out surprisingly well, especially with the Big Easy being only a 2h40m flight from Denver.
Our first full day began with what I thought would be an easy morning run. I went out for exactly one hour—or 10.5 km (6.5 miles) but because of the heat and humidity, my heart rate climbed into the 150s (Zone 4 for me) even at that slow pace. In cooler temperatures, at that pace, my HR would have normally been in the 120s.
When I got back, I took the coldest shower the hotel could provide—really more of a “cold-ish” shower—and I was still sweating 15 minutes later with my shirt off. Suddenly the obesity statistics of New Orleans made sense; it’s practically impossible to do vigorous exercise outside without overheating even in September, and the infrastructure does not help much either. I tried to run along the Mississippi River, only to discover a 1-km esplanade and then nothing but car roads. Add in the constant need to drink fluids—which for the locals usually means alcohol or soda—and the lifestyle challenges become clear.
By the time I returned, Andrea was starving since we hadn’t eaten much the previous day, so we headed straight to Café du Monde, just three blocks away. The place was packed and filled with an overwhelming number of 49ers jerseys—maybe ten times more than Saints jerseys—which clued me in to the fact that San Francisco was playing New Orleans at noon.
Despite the crowds, we immediately lucked into a table as a couple happened to leave. It’s a cash-only place, so it was fortunate I had a $20 bill on me, which was just enough to cover the bill, taxes and tip. We each had an order of beignets (three per plate) plus café au lait.
For the rest of the day, we followed a Microsoft Copilot itinerary that turned out to be spot-on. We wandered around the French Quarter, taking in Jackson Square, Royal Street’s art galleries, and the riverfront. We also wandered inside Faulkner House Books—author William Faulker was a resident inside this very building—which had framed autographs by T.S. Elliot and Ernest Hemingway.
For lunch, we went to Napoleon House, where I ordered an Alligator Sausage Po’boy—only my second time having alligator, and honestly one of the juiciest, most flavorful sausages I’ve ever eaten. Andrea had creole jambalaya and loved it.
Right afterward, we stopped into a “Reflexology” massage parlor—there are several in the French Quarter. We got 30-minute foot massages. My therapist, a Chinese man, was too gentle, while Andrea’s—a large Chinese woman—was so strong the massage was painful. Even so, Andrea later suggested that we return the next day for neck and back massages, which I eagerly agreed to. Ultimately and unfortunately, we didn’t have time.
After the Reflexology place, we hopped on the historic St. Charles streetcar to the Garden District, where many mansions were already fully decorated for Halloween more than six weeks early. Andrea loved the homes and tried imagining living there someday, but I wasn’t as convinced. Many homes lacked garages, meaning cars cluttered the curbs or narrow driveways. The sidewalks and streets were uneven or cracked, the houses sat close to the road, and electrical lines were strung overhead rather than buried. Architecture aside, the combination of poor infrastructure, no views, and suffocating weather made it a hard sell. The only major perk was being about a mile from the French Quarter and serviced by the streetcar line. Otherwise, I’d choose Fort Collins any day—even without considering cost.
Later in the afternoon, we browsed Magazine Street’s boutiques and art shops. Andrea picked up a Celsius flavored sparkling water and immediately wished Spain carried it, saying that Spaniards would drink less beer or Diet Coke if there was that option at home.
Before dinner, we stopped at the elegant Carousel Bar & Lounge inside the Hotel Monteleone, which was buzzing with 49ers fans. Our waitress was charming, and the whole atmosphere felt very old-world and glamorous.
Dinner was at nearby Sylvain, where Andrea ordered a chicken sandwich and fries, and I had a salad with shrimp. The waitress joked, “I love the role reversal.” The food was good, but the wait was so long that she eventually offered us a free dessert, which we appreciated but declined.
Afterward, we made our way to Frenchmen Street for live music. We ultimately wandered into Bamboula’s, a no-cover venue where the band played jazz-influenced versions of familiar songs—including “Brown-Eyed Girl,” which Andrea loved since she, of course, has brown eyes.
I wasn’t sure I’d stay awake after such a long day, so I ordered a Diet Coke for the caffeine, but I ended up lasting just fine. The walk back to Hotel Provincial didn’t feel particularly unsafe, though it’s not the kind of area I’d want to wander late at night on a regular basis.
The next morning, I went out for a short 15-minute run, and since I kept the pace even easier than the day before, I managed not to overheat this time. We then walked about a mile—hot but manageable—to Elizabeth’s Restaurant in the Bywater neighborhood for breakfast. Elizabeth’s is credited with popularizing praline bacon on their menu, so we had to try it. It was tasty: imagine thick-cut bacon, carefully cooked until crisp and then glazed with a sweet-pecan praline coating that gives it both a caramelized crunch and a salty–sweet punch.
In addition to that, Andrea ordered Elizabeth Eggs on toast. The waitress asked if she wanted potatoes or grits, and not knowing what the latter was, we tried to explain it to her. She ultimately chose the diced potatoes, but later on, the waitress voluntarily came out with a small bowl of grits so that Andrea could try them for the first time. That was super nice of her. Meanwhile, I had baked beans, rice, and sausage.
We walked back to the French Quarter afterward through Crescent Park, which had great views of the New Orleans skyline and the Crescent City Connection Bridge.
While we were in the French Quarter, I expressed interest in finding a daiquiri—they were being advertised all over the place—but one the was non-alcoholic. The first two bars said no, but the third bartender enthusiastically said he could make one and gave me three options. I opted for a piña colada, which was excellent. Combined with Andrea’s Bud Light, the total was only $10, likely a happy hour 2-for-1 deal. I left an outsized tip for the bartender since he was friendly and helpful.
From there we headed to Spanish Plaza, a gift from Spain to New Orleans in 1963, which had tilework for each of Spain’s provinces. We took photos by the mention of Pontevedra.
Then we visited the nearby Outlet Shops. We went into a Levi’s store. As usual, I had problems finding jeans that would fit me well: their tops would be too loose around my skinny waist even if the pants themselves would be too tight around my cyclist thighs.
But that’s when I made a surprising discovery. “Try these,” Andrea directed in the dressing room, handing me women’s Levi’s 501 that she had grabbed in her size. They fit me perfectly! I wouldn’t buy the 501s due to the time-consuming button fly and non-tapered legs, but the waist and thigh fit were ideal. Meanwhile, the men’s 541 Athletic Taper in 29/30 were hilariously oversized. It reminded me of an article I once read about a cyclist who had to order “28-inch” jeans despite having a 32-inch waist because vanity sizing had gotten so extreme.
That evening, we flew back to Denver. In the end, I concluded that while New Orleans is a very fun place to visit, it’s not somewhere I’d want to live—especially because of the heat and humidity. Andrea, meanwhile, could imagine it. For me, two days were enough to appreciate the culture, food, music, and quirks of the city… and to know I’m much happier living (and running) somewhere far less tropical.
