Last week JR took me on a surprise birthday trip to New Orleans. With no chance to indulge my researching impulses, I knew nothing about the city on arrival other than what I had osmotically absorbed over the years through bad headlines and old blues songs.
And so we just stepped outside our French Quarter hotel and started walking. And it was a pleasure not to look for anything and not to know what was around the next corner. And to have questions that are surely answered in every guidebook pop into my head as little mysteries. (What’s with all the beads? Why isn’t it called the Spanish Quarter? Where is my hotel?) To walk into a bar with no particular expectation and be blown away by, say, the tiles, because nobody told me in advance how great the tiles would be.
I had underrated ignorant travel.