There's No Place Like Home

It is with some hubris that I re-read my posting from last month about my anticipation for my trip to New Orleans. It's like the surgery that was a success but the patient died - I had a great vacation but the relationship with the Postman is a non-starter.

Why you may ask? First off, when I arrived he was crawfish red from head to toe. This was not a vacation tan. This was a "I don't believe in sunscreen so I'm just going to get a base tan first" ignoramus sunburn. This was a sunburn so awful even strangers gasped and asked in horror what happened. He took each opportunity to regale the shocked Louisiana native with his bizzaro theories on how sunscreen causes cancer. Then I got to hang out with him 24/7 as he peeled the dead skin off every square inch of exposed flesh. Yum!

Secondly, there was no transaction too small that he paid for (and I mean, like, for bus fare) that he did not then turn to me and say "you can pay it the next time." Don't get me wrong - I paid my own way and did not expect a free ride. But I guess I should've expected this from someone who put in his dating profile that "he didn't believe in giving gifts for holidays and birthdays as he'd rather give surprise gifts on occasion." In other words, don't expect anything and you won't be disappointed!

Another transgression - when in the deep south, and you are a chubby postman from northern New Hampshire, do not attempt to affect the local's pronunciation of regional terms. For instance, New Orleans is "New Or-leens" or perhaps, if you are feeling rakish, "New Or-lins." Do not under ANY circumstances attempt "N'awlins" with a straight face. Even the locals don't call it that. And definitely not white guys. Or fat white guys with peeling red flesh.

So what was I thinking, planning a TEN DAY trip with someone I had not even gone away with for the weekend? It seemed like a fun, spontaneous thing to do. Something out a Hollywood movie, starring, say, Sandra Bullock and John Cusask. I could pretend this was so, as long as I didn't make eye contact and pretended I was by myself. And New Orleans is as good a town as any to do that. I lost myself in the crowd at the Jazz Fest and at the casino, the French Quarter but unfortunately NOT the small hotel room we shared. So I cut the trip short and paid $200 to fly home 3 days early.

As I settled in on my couch the day of my early flight home, with my cat in my lap, a glass of wine in hand and Martin nearby, I thought it was money well spent.