Playing tourist

New Orleans is the perfect place to be a tourist, even – no, especially – when you've already been a local. 

We're close enough, and at last the kids are old enough, to make simple day-trips practical and worthwhile.

Last weekend we went over for the first time since Nathan came back from Afghanistan. We wandered the end of Magazine Street that we don't usually wander (closer to Washington Ave) and found plenty to come back for.

I'm actually making a list (surprise! Helen + list = so standard) of places we want to visit, or revisit.  Z'Otz and La Divina are on there, because we've never been, and Sucré is, because we just did.

 

We have to go back to Napoleon House for the Pimm's Cups, and the Carousel Bar at the Monteleone, and breakfast at Croissant D'Or, and I might break my White Russians ban just to relive old times at The Chart Room. 

We have to go back and play Frogger at the Gold Mine (I am dismal, inspiring both pity and ridicule) and I know The Cabildo needs another look. At least one more night at The Roosevelt, and one more swim in their rooftop pool (this time minus the two-year-old prone to throwing up from the excitement of it all). And dinner at Domenica and MiLa, and Herbsaint because Sarah will kill me if I don't ever make it there.

And I could go on and on and on, but here's where I realise I can't finish my list. I won't finish my list. I'll deliberately leave it unfinished, because wherever we move, for however long, I know I'll always come back.

. . .