Okay, so before I start, I want to point out that I rarely smoke pot. In fact, I probably smoke a total of 3 joints a year. Possibly because even one toke renders me slightly brain dead. I don’t know whether it’s poor tolerance or I’m just a lightweight, I have never been high and functional.
However, something about drinking alcohol aids in poor decision making (SPREAD THE WORD). So sometime between 4 and 5 in the morning, I chowed through an entire hash cookie we bought for $5 from a total stranger off the street. I was already drunk… and I had the whole cookie by myself.
Let me start from the beginning.
It was the 10th of February and one of our fellow travellers was celebrating his 28th birthday. Ready to hit the town, we pinned a dollar bill to his shirt and set off to Frenchman Street, recommended to us by an Uber driver.
We passed through Bourbon Street and having bypassed the flying bead necklaces being launched off someone’s balcony, topless girls bouncing their junk through the streets and the masses of drunk-since-11 am tourists, we ended up at a club featuring a live jazz band. The doorman wore a bandanna over his face and barely acknowledged our existence as we paid the $5 cover fee. Inside was dimly lit, crowded and a sweltering change from the crippling cold outside.
We waited too long at the bar and paid $12 for a cocktail that came in a little plastic cup and all took turns pissing in a unisex disabled bathroom which looked like it had stopped flushing about 15 shits ago. We then crammed ourselves into a corner, complained about how hot it was, drank the unregulated cocktail and then drank another one and the rest is history.
By that, I mean we all got really fucking hammered and I ended up taking 200 selfies with a nomad named Jak who looked homeless but wasn’t.
Turns out, people in New Orleans really love birthdays and if you’re looking to score on Frenchman Street, you either need to look like a huge tourist (which isn’t hard if you’re normal looking) or have a dollar bill pinned to your shirt. My friend was approached almost immediately with offers of weed, which he took up straight away (1 gram for $20 USD).
As the night wore on, we found ourselves in and out of every bar we stumbled upon on Frenchman, until me and the birthday boy withdrew from our group and went out for a cigarette. In what felt like the span of 5 seconds, a tall guy wearing a scarf as a head piece, a back velvet suit and leather Italian shoes whispered in our ear, ‘Do you want edibles?’
The birthday boy excitedly bought several off him without any questions asked and handed one to me and one to my two other friends. From what I was told the following day, my friends shared one, birthday boy had half of his BUT NOT ME – I had the whole, fucking thing.
Feeling absolutely fine, we checked the time and realising we had a flight to catch at 1pm the next day, we started to make our way home. The walk took about 30 mins, which is all the time my body needed to give in to what I had just put into it.
Needless to say, I was fucked beyond belief. I couldn’t feel my mouth when it moved and I sent all but 50 snapchats to my sister, all of which she states were illegible ramblings.
The night ended with two girls the boys picked up and brought back into their hotel room. One of the girls jumped on me and pinned me to the bed despite my cries for help and the boys watched in joy until my friend burst through the door and pried her off me.
I can confirm, everything you’ve heard about New Orleans is 100% true.