that we knew when we had reached the centre of town. Fortunately a lady
travelling on the bus realized that we did not know where we were going,
perhaps she cunningly deduced this by the way we kept trying to read the
names of the streets that we passed, or perhaps because we had fixed
expressions of bemusement? I suppose it might also have been due to the
presence of the map we were clutching. She told us which stop to get off at,
and also where the bus would pick us up for the return journey.
Once off the bus we headed straight to the French Quarter, easy to find
by using the time honoured technique of ‘following the crowds’. My first
impression of New Orleans was that it had a nice, lively ambience. The busy
streets did feel like a party was going on, although walking home at night
through the quieter areas where it was less busy we both felt vulnerable -
shades of New York's meat-packing district seven weeks ago.
Emma had visited New Orleans with her parents when she was much
younger and remembered certain parts like the promenade by the river. I was
gratified to note that her memory of the bars and strip clubs on Bourbon Street
was hazier - presuming that this was because she had not visited them, rather
than being due to alcohol-induced memory loss because she had!
We spent a couple of hours wandering to and around the French
Quarter, getting our bearings and choosing somewhere for lunch. During this
time we spotted a crowd sitting on some stone steps near Jackson Square.
Sensing some free, or at least cheap, entertainment we walked over and saw
that there was a group of four youths limbering up to do a show. It was a little
early for lunch so we found a place to sit near the back of the audience and