Day 1: New Orleans
I spent the entire day at work juggling the chaos of a new episode drop. The pressure was on, and I was determined to wrap things up before embarking on our adventure. With some assistance and my knack for speedy execution, I'm optimistic that Friday won't throw any unexpected hurdles our way… I hope.
Matt arrived home a tad early, and as he geared up for the journey, I hastily checked our bags, summoning a Lyft. A quick farewell to our pup Teagan, who always senses our departures, and we were en route to the airport. Surprisingly, the Thursday night crowd was bustling—maybe this is a regular occurrence? Attempting to join the line, we found only the Pre-Check line open, assuming it was the only queue for the night. It turns out that that was wishful thinking; we were redirected after reaching the front of the line to the regular line, which, oddly, turned out to be the shorter one.
As we navigated the security maze with bare socks, we pressed forward to the end of the worst part of travel. Post-security, our destination became the food court, where we had a quick dinner of fried rice and orange and bourbon chicken. You know, the one you’d always walk by to grab a free sample of at the local mall? Those were the days. Satisfied, we settled in, awaiting our boarding call. Front-row seats on Southwest flights offer extra legroom, a luxury. Something about the plane atmosphere amplifies my love for Matt and life—introspective, almost tear-jerking, as if each flight prepares for an existential moment, just in case it's my last. Perhaps not the healthiest mindset, but it's where I find myself.
Thankfully, I had one playlist downloaded on Spotify, my sister's 80s collection. The familiar songs stirred memories of her our younger life, a version of her I miss, being miles apart. My Virgo rising sign must play a role; she's a solid Virgo sun, and our connection has always been strong. I drifted in and out of sleep on the plane, unable to find a comfortable position. Opting for distraction, I tuned into "Past Lives," expecting a profound impact that fell slightly short. The descent into New Orleans was foggy and confusing, as many believed we were still in the clouds until the sudden slam of the plane’s tires hit the runway.
Exiting the cramped plane led us to a sea of people embellished in purple, gold, and green, each of them in search of a Lyft. Exhaustion had taken over by 11 pm, and after what felt like an eternity, a ride to our destination, Hi New Orleans Hostel, finally arrived. The hostel was charming and bustling even in the wee hours of a Thursday night. A part of me wanted to stick around and get to know the other patrons. Nevertheless, our actual hotel promised a more luxurious experience, with privacy and comfort. We took a hasty shower (no shower shoes—major faux-pas) and collapsed into our individual bunk beds. Good night, New Orleans.
