It can’t always be suites at The Four Seasons and cruise ship state rooms. Sometimes, it’s an dilapadated room at an airport hotel in Biloxi, MS that was surely once the scene of a homicide. That’s where our day started and it just got better from there. Like this.
Yesterday, within two miles of crossing the Mississippi state line, I saw three mattresses on the interstate. Like, just laying there in the middle of the interstate. One might have been a box spring. Hard to say.
Realizing that there was no food at our hotel, I googled “restaurants near me” and the first search result was, “Sam’s Club Cafe”. Two hot dogs for $1.50 coming right up.
Some guy driving through the parking lot leaned out his window and hollered, “Hey, looks like your dog is taking you for a walk. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” As if I haven’t heard that one before.
This morning, I waited 27 minutes for an iced coffee at the Starbucks in Gulfport. While I was there, a lady told me that Lyle needs his legs trimmed and I should take him to the groomer. I hadn’t had my coffee yet so I didn’t have the energy to argue or I might have punched her.
After I got my coffee, I thought Lyle and I would enjoy the Biloxi Beachfront but sometimes I am wrong. And this was one of those times.
Side-stepping trash and traffic on Jefferson Davis highway (how it that still a thing?) to approach the shoreline, we were stopped by a man who asked if I was a runner (this happens remarkably often, by the way). He then informed me that if it weren’t for “some lady in the 1976 Olympics” he would still hold the world record in the 1500 meters. I have fact-checked this and it is fake news.
He then informed me that he is a direct descendant of a Confederate General Richard Taylor. I reminded him that the south lost the war and he seemed surprised and probably thought it was fake news.
Valet is the only parking option at our hotel in New Orleans. When I approached the valet stand, I was informed that valet parking costs $46 but they round it up to $50. So I responded, “Ok, so it’s $50.” And the valet said, “No. It’s $46 but we round it up.”
Then he asked me, “Would you like to park your car or would you like me to do it?” And I said, “It’s $50 to valet but I have to park my own car?” And he said, “ No, it’s $46 but we round up.” I’ll likely never see my car again.
Bourbon Street in the New Orleans French Quarter is the worst place I have ever been. I know I’ve said that before on this blog (first about Reno, NV and then about El Paso, TX) but I really mean it this time. Bourbon Street is the very worst place I have ever ever been, ever.
While walking, from deep within the filthy, smelly, lawless melee, someone threw a dozen chicken wings at Lyle and got sauce all over his fur. If the lady at Starbucks was wrong this morning, she’s right now. Lyle needs a groomer.
While we were trying to clean him up, a guy jumped out of the crowd, kneeled down, and yelled, “Yeah Bitch!”right in his face. Just like Jesse Pinkman from Breaking Bad.
Nervous and confused, Lyle backed into the nearest open doorway, right into Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club, where he was immediately swarmed by Hustler Honey (and because he was on a waist leash and we were attached, I was surrounded too).
Unlike Lyle, I was not nervous or confused, but I felt overdressed in my yoga pants and wish I had been wearing something more appropriate for my debut as a Hustler Honey.
So I hustled us right out of there just in time to witness a man throwing up in the street as his pants fell down while a panhandling toddler, wielding drum sticks, tapped out a tune on the tray of his highchair, precariously perched on the curb of Bourbon and Toulouse.
If this is how the good times roll, we’re rolling out of here first thing in the morning and never coming back. That is, if the valet can find my car.