We're baaack!

Long time, no blog, right? I bet you’re wondering why I’m restarting it after such a lengthy hiatus. First, Ayk and I have done a lot of traveling since our big road trip. It’d be a shame not to share those stories. Second, it’s been roughly two years to the date since Ayk and I went on this trip. (January 20, 2011, to be precise.) I’m a sucker for anniversaries. Finally, let’s face it: I love writing, and you love wasting time at work. It’s a match made in heaven. 

Let’s catch you up to speed. I got a job at Girls’ Life magazine as an online editor in March 2011. There I send out e-newsletters, write fashion articles, and answer guy problems for our tweener audience. It’s a fun job, except for those fleeting moments when you relive those awkward middle-school years. Ah, who am I kidding? I’m still awkward, but I’d like to think I’ve upgraded to “quirky.”

Two months after I got my gig, Ayk got a job geeking out as a certification engineer in Arlington. Poor guy commuted from Baltimore to Arlington—that’s an hour and a half each way, every day—for a year and a half. Oouf. No wonder he wanted to move to DC.

This past weekend Ayk and I left our beloved Baltimore, rather begrudgingly so, might I add, and moved to Washington, DC. Yup, the weekend when the Ravens triumphantly secured a spot to the Super Bowl. There couldn’t be a worse time to move. Charm City is purple all over, from the lit up buildings to the riled up fans. We felt homesick the minute we got on 95 South. Don’t worry—we’ll be sporting Ravens gear in Skins Nation.

But back to what you’re really here for: traveling. Initially our lack of jobs inspired us to travel. Now it’s Ayk’s current job that gives us an excuse to travel. (Man, oh man, did he luck out when he got laid off.) And while the work trips are by no means a one-month, wind-at-your-back, Jack Kerouac-worthy excursion, there have been stellar moments. So, join us (again) as we relive our favorite travels together since our big road trip.

Key West: Bahia Honda

If we had known to make camping reservations a day in advance, this is where we would have stayed: an idyllic, hillbilly-free spot on the water. Camping or no camping, we still deserved a day at the beach before we headed back to Ft. Lauderdale.

Fried hogfish sandwich for lunch.

Aside from a few visitors comparing the beach to Ocean City, the beach was peaceful. 

“Is that a koala in the water?” – Ayk without his glasses

Pelicans diving in the water for fish. 

Walking along the defunct bridge, ruined by a hurricane.

It runs parallel to Route 1.

New Orleans: Brunch, Market and Bourbon Street

A festive house in the Garden District

Croquette

The friend who told us to go to Jacques Imo’s also recommended brunch at the Commander’s Palace in the Garden District.  We should’ve known better than to go without making a reservation on a Saturday, but thankfully the maitre d’ suggested another restaurant close by for brunch:  Croquette.  We got the three-course brunch option that was a little pricey, but still absolutely delicious.

Bloody Mary with pickled okra and a Hannah Montana –- lemonade with blueberry juice.  Salvia not included.

Scrumptious salad with pig ears, which is just a crunchier bacon.  Ayk wasn't a fan of the pig's ear hair still on there.  Meh.  Adds to the crunchiness.

Creole classic shrimp and grits.  This was our favorite dish at brunch.

Veal meatballs with black truffle grits.  The grits were phenomenal, but the veal was too heavy and greasy.

Blood orange panne cotta.  I LOVE blood orange, and this did not disappoint.

Beignets with chocolate mousse and caramel sauces.  Fancier doesn't necessarily mean better, and that was true when compared to Café Du Monde's beignets.

French Market

After brunch we went to the French Market, jam-packed vendors selling oodles of jewelry and Mardi Gras trinkets.  We even saw a few gator heads.  I regret not getting one for my dad to match the crocodile skin in his house.

A friend recommended getting some cheap sunglasses there.  Not a bad idea, considering we were headed to the Sunshine State next.

Bourbon Street

We walked up to Bourbon Street after perusing the French Market.  Bourbon Street was not actually signed on the intersection we came upon, but we somehow knew we had arrived due to the sudden increase in public drinking.  Once we started walking down Rue Bourbon, there was no mistaking it thanks to the cacophony of loud music and revelers.

I guess Chinese New Year decorations can double as Mardi Gras decorations, too.

New Orleans is FABULOUS!

Less than a month before Mardi Gras, Bourbon Street was crawling with party-goers.

New Orleans: Frenchmen Street

Jazz is a genre of music that’s much better live than recorded.  As Ayk pointed out, when is any music not better live, other than heavily auto-tuned pop singers?  Touché.  Be that as it may, there’s nothing more captivating than listening to truly talented jazz performers on stage.  And there’s no place better to find the best jazz acts than our favorite place in New Orleans -- Frenchmen Street.

Maision, our favorite bar.

There’s a part of me that wants to sing praises about this low-key jazz haven only steps away from the French Quarter, but there’s another part of me that dreads outing the city’s best kept secret.  As one Nawlins native put it, “Bourbon Street is where we quarantine the tourists, so they don't [expletive] up the city."  (I’m assuming CNN censored “fuck,” in case you were wondering).

Booty Trove, a 12-man brass band, playing at Maison.

As much as it pains me to admit this as an out-of-towner, it’s true:  most tourists are obnoxious.  And the tourists who visit New Orleans generally want to get shitfaced.  Far be it for me to judge.  If I were in college, I’d giddily roam Bourbon Street with a drink in both hands.  So by all means, get sloshed; just stay on Bourbon Street and keep Frenchmen Street sane for those whose livers can no longer handle excessive drinking.  We come for the jazz, not the hangover.

A bartender wearing the colors of the Egyptian flag to celebrate Mubarak's resignation.

What makes Frenchmen Street so amazing is you can go into any bar and listen to the best performances without having to pay any cover (don’t be a stingy bastard; tip!).  Some bars do charge cover, but most don’t.  Hell, you can wander the street and find an amazing brass band playing on the corner with people dancing in the street.  Anything goes here.

A band playing in the street.

Even white people started dancing.  Though I wouldn't encourage it.

This guy's cheek puffed out like Dizzy Gillespie's.

The sidewalk is filled with artists other than musicians and singers trying to earn a buck.  There are painters and even poets.  We chatted with Tristan, a former music teacher turned street poet.  He didn’t much care for his boss’s teaching method, so he quit.  Now he’s his own boss, using a typewriter to crank out verses for poetry patrons, passersby, or just piss-ass drunk tourists who lost their way from Bourbon Street.  Poems range from 5 to 20 bucks.  Considering our state of employment, we went with the $5 poem.  Scribbling down a few notes, he asked us what we wanted our personalized poem to be about, and we picked – what else – our road trip.  Cherry on top of the best night of the trip: 

Tristan the Street Poet

The best $5 we spent on the trip.  Actually $10.  Ayk tipped him an extra $5 for booze money.