Thursday May 25 (Day 5)

This morning started as I was beginning to imagine every morning would, which consisted of a gas station sink shower. Then it was back in the Dodge and on down the road.

I was getting pretty excited the closer we got to New Orleans; a city I had many fond memories of. I had bought a beer from a bar back when I was just a sophomore in high school.

Apart from nostalgia, I also hadn’t seen the city since Hurricane Katrina hit and I was curious to see what it had become in her aftermath.

Telltale signs of a hurricane-ravaged land became evident as our mini-caravan rolled in to town. Street signs leaned to the left and makeshift trailers filled parking lots that seemed to be providing temporary housing. Before I could truly reflect on what I was seeing Josh pulled off the industrial road we’d been traveling and parked at the cup warehouse.

Josh went in leaving me and Tomo out back to get the trailer ready. It didn't really require much work though, just opening up the back.

“Are you guys looking for something?” a tall black guy wanted to know who had just walked out of the warehouse.

“No we’re with the guy inside,” Tomo answered. “We’re picking up some cups.”

Moments later Josh came out followed by a short black dude who sidled up next to the curious tall guy. They both stood, hand on hips surveying the trailer space that already appeared to be filled to the rim with kayaks, surfboards and lemonade paraphernalia.

The short guy spoke first. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to fit all this in there?”

“Sure, mate. It’s just like Tetris,” Tomo said, as he began sliding the boxes in to the left and to the right...some to the side and some upside down.

The Louisiana cup-dudes spoke in unison. “Where are you guys from?”

Clearly they had come to the conclusion that we weren’t local.

“Well I’m from New Zealand, she’s from California and Josh is from Colorado,” Tomo explained.

What did he say? ‘I’m from New Zealand?’ Oh my God! I laughed out loud.

“What’s wrong with her?” asked the short cup dude.

“I thought you were Australian,” I said.

The tall cup dude asked. “Is there a difference?”

“Get off the grass!” Tomo exclaimed. “Yeah there’s a difference! We don’t have big hairy spiders and we play rugby better than Aussies.”

“So you’re a Kiwi?” I asked, shaking my head.

“Ki-What?” the cup brothers asked.

“Hey will you guys take a picture of us?” I asked, pulling Tomo over to where I was standing on the trailer door.

“I sure will,” the big guy answered, taking my digital camera in hand.

“That’s a real nice picture,” he said, after snapping the shot. “You should take a look.”

I did take a look and I had to admit that Tomo and I didn’t look bad standing next to each other. A fleeting thought entered my mind that we’d make a cute couple. But that was followed with the firm reminder that he was from New Zealand—and I’m American. It could never work.

After all the picture taking and Tetris box packing our business was done at the cup warehouse; and it was time for our caravan to barrel on towards Bourbon Street.

We took the Euclid Street exit, drove down to Decatur and found a space to park out front of The Old Mint. Hunger was calling so we set out on a hunt for good Cajun food.
We found an old historic hotel called Pierre Anthony’s with a menu out front boasting all the basics: red beans and rice, jambalaya and etouffee. The hostess led us over to a square table against the wall that happened to be at just the right angle for Tomo to get a good view of the sidewalk outside...and wouldn’t you know, there was a group of cops standing in a circle at the corner of the street.

“Look at them just sitting there talking. They should be out fighting crime or something,” Tomo scowled. “Filth.”

“How much crime do you think there is to fight at three in the afternoon?” Josh countered.

“A lot,” Tomo shot back.

“It really bothers you to see cops not working, huh?” I asked, remembering his disgust with the gang-o-cops outside Chevron the night before.

“I dunno, I guess. Why do you say that?”

“Well you said the same thing about the cops we saw last night at the Chevron in Lafayette.”

“Yeah because they were checking you out when you walked by. You didn’t see what I saw,” Tomo answered. “It’s not right. The city of New Orleans doesn’t pay for them to sit around and check out pretty girls.”

He paused to look at me for a reaction and probably confirmation. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“I don’t know, not really. I guess you just get used to it. Cat calls and honking--it sort of comes with the territory of being a reasonably attractive girl.”

But Tomo wasn’t satisfied. He kept shifting an anxious eye out at the sidewalk throughout the length of our lunch.

“Watch,” Tomo said as Josh paid our tab. “I bet you if I go out there with the camera and record them as you walk by...you’ll see.”

“No! Are you really going to do that?” I exclaimed.

“Of course I am!”

“I want to see this,” Josh chortled as he stood up dusting bread crumbs off his lap. “How are we going to pull it off?”

Josh and I stayed behind in the foyer to give Tomo a head start. He snuck out the restaurant and took his position on the corner of the street, camera in hand ready to catch the so-called peeping Toms on camera.

“All right, here we go,” Josh said, as we set off down Bourbon Street in an attempt to appear as natural as possible.

Tomo didn’t end up capturing any photos that would incriminate the fine officers of Louisiana but suddenly it was as if I could feel the eyes of every male passerby on me. Thanks Tomo.

We were back on the road headed north out of Creole country when we heard an unpleasant noise emanating from the back end of the trailer. Josh pulled over to the side and Tomo jumped out to help. After a few idle moments spent in the cab I got out of the truck and walked around to see what was up. A flat tire. Flat like my hair. Flat like Texas. Flat like the long stretch of highway between us and Atlanta.