The Cajun Quick Step
There’s a rule I live by.
If you can’t laugh at yourself, you’ve got no business laughing at anybody else.
And every now and then, I give myself some pretty solid material to work with.
Jimmy and Lisa—go ahead and get comfortable. Because you already know where this is going, and I know what’s about to happen to your faces.
Early 90s. Six of us. New Orleans.
Two days. Three nights. A collective decision to treat moderation like sound advice… for somebody else.
We stayed at Le Meridian. Beautiful place.
The kind of hotel where the staff sizes you up the moment you walk in and quietly note exactly what sort of group they’re dealing with.
They gave us the once-over, and I could be wrong, but I think one of them made a phone call.
Anyway, we had dinner the first night at one of the legendary Cajun restaurants.
Now Cajun food is a love language.
Butter. Heat.
Sauces so good you wonder if they’ve got Marie Laveau back there in the kitchen.
We ate like there was no tomorrow—which, the way we were drinking, was a reasonable assumption.
Night one was a success by every measure.
Next morning, Jimmy and I decided to go for a run.
Three miles. Down the French Quarter streets and alleys.
I want to be clear—this made complete sense at the time.
What nobody tells you about Bourbon Street in the early morning is that it’s essentially a crime scene from the night before.
The dumpsters are full.
The smell in the alleys behind the French Quarter bars and restaurants is something else.
If a smell can have lumps, that one does.
There are people asleep in doorways who clearly took the night a few steps further than we did.
Jimmy and I made it about ten minutes before we reached a silent mutual agreement.
We’d walk to Café du Monde for beignets and café au lait and call it cardio.
Night two, we faced a decision.
We made the responsible choice.
Repeat night one.
More Cajun. More butter. More spice.
Then somebody suggested Pat O’Brien’s.
Everybody was on board. We were young, and why not?
Pat O’Brien’s is famous for the Hurricane. Big glass. Dangerously sweet. The kind of drink that goes down too easy. And you get to keep the glass.
Lisa decided she wanted twelve glasses. A full set.
There were six of us.
The math was easy to figure out. The consequences were too.
About halfway through Hurricane number three, my body called an emergency meeting.
Stomach. Lower gut. Regrettable choices. All present.
The vote was unanimous.
This is not sustainable. We are done.
This was not a situation I was going to handle in a public restroom at a bar on Bourbon Street.
That was simply not going to be my story.
I turned to the group and said three little words:
“I gotta go.”
No explanation. No debate. Just a man with a plan on a very tight timeline.
Jimmy told me later he had to jog to catch up.
When he pulled alongside me, he started asking questions—what’s wrong, are you okay, why are you walking like that—and I want you to understand, I could not answer him.
Not because I was being rude.
Because I had entered a mode where all physical and mental resources had to be focused on one goal.
Conversation was a luxury I could not afford.
We were a mile from that hotel.
It was the longest mile in human history.
I have walked that mile in my mind many times since then, and each time I am amazed—genuinely amazed—that a human being can move that fast while also being that careful.
You know that scene in the movies where someone’s carrying nitroglycerin across rough terrain and one wrong step and it’ll all be over?
That was me.
In the French Quarter.
In loafers.
Trying to look casual.
We beat the group back by twenty minutes.
That’s all the detail I’m going to share about what happened next.
Except this: I made it.
I still love New Orleans. Truly.
Beautiful city. Legendary food. The kind of place that gets into your system.
Though apparently not all of it stays there.
Jimmy still laughs about that walk. Honestly—so do I.
Because if you can’t laugh at yourself, life’s gonna be a long walk.
If you’ve ever done the Cajun Quick Step… like and subscribe.
But this time, I won’t ask you to leave a comment telling me about it.
I’ve walked that walk… Is that our mutual friend Lisa?
Hahahaha ….Scott I don’t think you can go to New Orleans without coming back with memories you wish didn’t happen …let’s go back to Pat O’Briens ..& hurricanes …..I had to crawl on my hands & knees UP STAIRS to the bathroom …I had to peeeeeeeee really bad …needless to say I didn’t make it ! I’m still laughing …….🥺