🕯️ Travel Thursday: New Orleans

Arrival & Mild Disasters

We left early on December 8, 2021—water bottles in hand, bags barely zipped, and that quiet, practiced calm that comes from knowing the airport routine a little too well. It was our first time flying out of the Detroit airport since they’d rearranged everything, and of course, that meant chaos. We had to take a shuttle to another terminal, which felt like an unnecessary side quest before sunrise.

While waiting, I ran to the bathroom and discovered I had a yeast infection. My first one ever. And not a mild one, either—the kind that instantly humbles you. So there I was, in an airport bathroom stall, realizing I’d be spending the next four days walking through the French Quarter with fire between my thighs. ✨Iconic✨.

We finally landed in New Orleans, found our Airbnb, and just as I started to exhale, my ex-husband realized he’d lost his COVID vaccine card—something a lot of places still required at the time. My heart sank. I was the only one fully vaccinated with proof. Luke and Lori still had their cards, but they’d only received their first doses, and we weren’t sure how that would fly in Louisiana. We fought (of course), then I switched into crisis-management mode and found salvation through the Michigan Immunization Record website. Turns out, if you got vaccinated through the health department, it shows up online. I grabbed screenshots like my life depended on it, and that little digital miracle saved our trip.

Once the panic subsided, we headed to Pier 424 Seafood Market for our first New Orleans meal where I tried calamari for the first time (surprisingly good!). Sitting along Bourbon Street, the restaurant’s name nods to the city’s old port heritage. I got brave—ordered oysters and a wedge salad, knowing Luke would eat whatever I couldn’t. I tried one…then another. They weren’t bad! Briny, weirdly satisfying, and way less terrifying than expected. Luke polished off the rest, of course.

From there, we wandered into Pat O’Brien’s for our first round of hurricanes. The trip officially began. Afterward, my ex-husband and I split off to catch a jazz set at Preservation Hall, while Luke and Lori hit another bar or two. When we regrouped, Luke had apparently made a new best friend—the bartender—and both of them were gloriously slurred and red-faced. We ended our night in the beautiful courtyard of Pat O’Brien’s having laughs and deep talks.

Getting Luke to an Uber pickup spot was an Olympic sport. We eventually succeeded, and all made it back to the Airbnb in one piece—barely—but it set the tone for what would be a beautifully chaotic trip.

Swamps, Jazz, and the Fiery Mistake

I woke up hungover, but that doesn’t stop vacation Nicki. I got up, got ready, then got my ex-husband up and moving. When I checked on Luke and Lori, they were dead to the world—hydration and recovery day for them.

So, my ex-husband and I grabbed an Uber to Honey Island Swamp, one of the last protected wetland ecosystems in Louisiana. The name comes from the wild honeybees once found there, though we were more interested in spotting alligators and “swamp kitties” (raccoons, for the uninitiated). The guide tossed marshmallows into the water, and sure enough, a few scaly heads surfaced, unbothered and ancient, like they’d seen it all before.

After the swamp tour, we headed to the Audubon Zoo—a do-over from our first New Orleans trip, where we’d only managed a train ride before my ex-husband lost his crown to taffy. This time, we actually got to explore it properly—elephants, white tigers, and all.

By evening, Luke and Lori had rejoined the land of the living and met us at The Jazz Playhouse to see the Brass-A-Holics, a go-go brass band blending New Orleans soul with D.C. funk. Somewhere between cocktails and trumpet solos, I finally found a pharmacy and bought Monistat. Big mistake.

We ended the night back at the Airbnb with DoorDash and comfort food—jambalaya, gumbo, and red beans and rice. I went to the bathroom, applied the Monistat, and spent the rest of the night crying in the tub from the burn. Peachy, right?

Bananas, Burlesque, and Better Than Sax

The next morning, we went to Brennan’s for breakfast—home of the world-famous Bananas Foster, created there in 1951 when New Orleans was a major banana import port. The dish is flambéed tableside with butter, brown sugar, and rum, and it’s as theatrical as it is delicious.

After breakfast, we decided to divide and conquer. Luke and Lori took a horse and carriage ride through the French Quarter—an old-world tradition dating back to when carriages were the only way to navigate its narrow cobblestone streets—while my ex-husband and I visited The Presbytère and The Cabildo beside Jackson Square. The Cabildo once served as the seat of the Spanish colonial government and is where the Louisiana Purchase transfer ceremony took place in 1803. The Presbytère, built to mirror it, now houses exhibits on Mardi Gras and Hurricane Katrina.

After our history fix, we grabbed beignets at Café Du Monde (because…obviously) and daydreamed about starting a jazz band called Better Than Sax.

We wandered around Jackson Square, where local artists still display their work on the wrought-iron fences, and I picked up a cute skirt at Roadkill (see skirt below). At the French Market—the oldest public market in the U.S., dating back to 1791—I bought handmade steampunk jewelry and an overpriced umbrella I absolutely did not need but obviously bought anyway.

We drifted down Frenchmen Street, lined with live-music bars and glowing neon, dined at Coterie. I got brave—ordered oysters and a wedge salad, knowing Luke would eat whatever I couldn’t. I tried one…then another. They weren’t bad! Briny, weirdly satisfying, and way less terrifying than expected. Luke polished off the rest, of course. After, my ex-husband and I caught a burlesque show at The Jazz Playhouse—Trixie Minx, if you’re reading this, I adore you.

Before heading back, we swung into Pat O’Brien’s one last time for merch, grabbed Fat Boy’s Pizza, and capped the night off in an Uber complete with a mini bar and flashing party lights. The perfect chaotic full-circle moment to end our trip’s nightlife streak.

From the Bayou to the Big Stage

Our final morning came way too soon. My ex-husband and I left early, abandoning Luke and Lori to sleep in while we caught our flight back to Detroit. We had VIP tickets to see Evanescence at Little Caesars Arena that night—because apparently, I can’t just end a trip like a normal person.

If you told twelve-year-old me that someday I’d get VIP tickets to meet her favorite band, she would have screamed. Then cried. Then immediately asked what I was going to wear. But if I told her it would be during the tail end of a global pandemic, she’d probably lose a little of that sparkle. The “meet and greet” ended up being a socially distanced Q&A session with goodie bags instead of hugs and selfies. 💀

Still, there’s something poetic about closing out a New Orleans trip—a city built on rhythm, chaos, and resilience—with Amy Lee singing “My Immortal” live. Even twelve-year-old me would’ve understood that kind of full-circle magic.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler (Until Next Time)

New Orleans will always have a hold on me. There’s just something about that city—the way it hums, how every corner feels alive, how history and heartbreak sit shoulder to shoulder over a plate of beignets. It’s equal parts haunted and holy, chaos and comfort. I’ve been twice now, and each time feels like meeting an old friend who insists on feeding you gumbo and sending you home with glitter on your shoes.

Someday, I can’t wait to take my girls. I want them to see the street performers in Jackson Square, smell the pralines, hear the brass bands, and feel that spark that makes you want to dance even when your feet hurt. I want them to know this place that’s messy and magical and entirely itself—because that’s the kind of energy I hope they grow up with, too.

Until next time, NOLA. You’re forever one of my favorite destinations.

Nicki Bratton