As we jammed along Interstate 10 towards our Mardi Gras destination, we were shocked to see so many car accidents. The road was beautiful, with long stretches of town-less concrete carving through unbelievable stands of green. The highway was completely divided, with no distracting billboards or overflowing quantities of automobiles. And yet, quick as they come, we'd see vehicles twined together and resting on the sloping, grassy shoulder. Luckily, there were no such accidents on the foreign ground of swamp territory, where the highway rose 30 feet above the wetlands and glassy dark water stretched peacefully underneath.
Crossing the Mighty Mississippi.
We made it into New Orleans in the early afternoon, with plenty of daylight to spare in the pursuit of Where To Park. As challenging as driving through San Francisco, New Orleans with her endless stretches of narrow, one-way streets was just a bit unfriendly to us. A, there were very few spots welcome to 40 feet of RV and mobile garage, and B, when we finally found a spot in a pay parking lot, the guy across the street assured us that unless the kayak was chained up like Houdini, it would be gone come nightfall. Our alarm system didn't reassure us enough to leave everything we own in an area where kayaks could grow legs, so we thought of alternatives.
I had been to New Orleans a year ago January, and had stayed at a hotel out of downtown that had a large Thrifty's parking lot next to it. I thought we should try there...we'd still be close to the action, but would be in a relatively safe spot and should have plenty of room to park. All I remembered from my stay was that the hotel, and therefore our prespecttive campsite, was on the street with the street car. Brant, from the passenger seat, kept singing with the voice of reason that we should just head to the RV park our atlas program had found. It would have security, he reasoned, and we could always hop on the bike to come back into town. We'd have a/c and water, he pleaded. I apparently was feeling pig-headed and insisted that we could find the Thrifty's and all would be well.
I pulled up alongside a Quickie Mart, where a local stood next to the pay phone scooping a taco salad out of a multi-colored plastic cup.
"Excuse me, sir. I'm trying to get to the street with the street car. Can you tell me how to get there?"
"Of course, daughter! Let me see....OK. You want to head out this way, over that bridge. Then you'll come to a stoplight. You just go right on through it. Then the road will veer off the left and turn into St. Claude. That's a one-way street and you don't want to go that way. Keep on straight and get to the other side of the bridge, and you'll see James, and then Louisa, and you just keep on going. Then you'll get to a stop sign called, well I don't remember what it's called but you just stop at that stop sign, and you can turn left there. But don't turn left. Go straight, like through five more lights, and then make your left. That'll lead you straight to St. Charles. That's where the street car goes."
"Um, OK. Is it pretty safe over there? For us to park this rig, I mean?"
After assuring us that it was safe, he blessed us on our way and the pighead who was driving started to follow his "precise" directions. We went over the bridge, and after that we were lost. The road was closed and blocked by those endearing orange cones, so we were compelled to drive down Martin Luther King Street. We looked a bit out of place, and it seemed like we were going opposite of where we wanted to be headed, but we continued on, and eventually it dumped us out onto St. Charles.
I drove down St. Charles, both ways, pointing out how cool the street car was, and looking dilligently for the Thrifty's. I never saw it, and before we knew it we were back at I-10, and I wasn't about to ask anybody else for directions. Our daylight was waning, too.
"OK, Brant, tell me how to get to your RV park," I said, defeated. I felt like I had the navigational skills of a mindless slug.
Unknowingly, he took the scepter of responsibility and donned the cloak of the compass-less slug. Even though he had the detail map pulled up on the screen right in front of him, the Map Retard Elf was sitting on his shoulder.
We traveled east on I-10, looking for an exit that didn't exist. When we noticed we were in a new county—excuse me, parish—I thought perhaps we had missed it. Tired of driving in the twilight to hidden destinations, I suggested we stop at a big shopping center off the highway and take up the compass in the morning. We settled in, ready to get some vittles and winks, when a security guard cruised up to the camper and warned us against staying past sundown. Apparently the area immediately surrounding this nice shopping area was home to five fatal shootings in the last two weeks. We thanked him and attacked the search for the RV park with new found vigor.
BP after the RV Quest.
Rather than look for the phantom exit off 10, Brant led us from the passenger seat along the surface streets, with Riverfront RV Park as the destination. It started out well, with large wide streets with stoplights and street names posted clearly. Then it turned into the forgotten ghetto town.
"OK, make a left at Deux, and head down till you get to Majestic Oak, then take a right," Brant confidently declared. "The RV park will be right at the end of that street."
Leaving the comfort of multiple-lane Downman, where lines painted on the road were still a reality, I turned down Deux. I had to hug the left side of the residential road to avoid the low-hanging trees on the right side of the street. I snaked down the quiet neighborhood lane, switching from U.S. to English-style driving as the foliage dictated. The road funneled narrower, and I glanced over at Brant, doubtful that this would be the recommended route printed on the RV park brochure.
"There it is...Majestic Oak is the next street." Brant had his owl-eyes on and could read the approaching street name sign. We both felt a ray of hope pierce our hearts.
Then, just a handful of feet from the intersection of salvation, the front left tire of the truck dropped a foot. The puddle on the street was not a harmless collection of rainwater resting in a slightly low spot in the road. It was a tiny lake filling the Pothole of Death.
I stayed on the gas, and one after another our four left tires visited the bottom of the lake and miraculously made it out the other shore. We made the Majestic Oak right, laughing deliriously at this point, imagining fifth wheels and Winnebago's and huge fancy motorhomes cruising down Majestic Oak. Yeah, right.
We finally made it, settling into spot #6. Welcome to New Orleans.
