Mary's place is perhaps the purest airbnb out there. It is the epitome of how I imagine this idea began: a safe, comfortable place to crash while you're exploring someplace new. Was it fancy? No. Were there a lot of extra amenities? No. Did more than one of the kitchen drawer knobs fall off at one point or another? Maybe. BUT I ASK YOU THIS!! Did it feature A/C, a TV, a super comfy bed, and a working kitchen and bathroom? Yes it did.
THE NEIGHBORHOOD: don't worry about the neighborhood. If you're smart, quiet, and not an asshole, it will not be a problem. Any neighbors I ran into were friendly, even helping out with directions. Try to travel with a buddy after dark, but during the day I felt completely safe. Full disclosure: I am a big, tall man, so take this recommendation with a grain of salt, but I never felt unsafe here.
Mary's apartment, in its comfort and predictability, proved a sanctuary for my friend and me. We were in town for my birthday and Halloween, which are only a day apart. As a result, that weekend always ends up being a busy one for me. We were just a pair of patsies; a couple of wide-eyed yokels from the North; stupidly brazen and determined to spend as much money as we could as quickly as we could. In New Orleans, this is no great task. It is almost impossible to avoid.
We spent most of our first two days on Magazine St, and our first two nights in the Quarter, as one does. In the process, we became completely obliterated twice in a row, which is something that, now that we are no longer in college, is a vastly more punishing enterprise than it once was. Our first hangover was manageable; a wandering morning bookended by a trip to the World War II museum (worth the $30, if for no other reason than to marvel at the size and terror of the war planes) and creole-inspired tacos. A double flight of rum and a caipirinha on the house helped to put us on an even keel.
That night, we danced and drank and roared, tumbling in our boots from bar to bar, crashing house parties and listening to jazz. We had gumbo and tequila (and jazz) at Marigny Brasserie, beers and whisky (and music) at Maison, and fried chicken at--you guessed it--Willie's Chicken Shack. I took a triple shot at Favela Chic while my friend waited for our fried fowl. My friend shared a very loud joke with a stranger. We met many, many outstanding gay men. We got ripped off by a stranger for some really excellent marijuana. We met a bartender in a sparkly bikini who danced for us on the bar. She captured my attention when she began dancing on the beer cooler. I remember thinking "well, how high will she climb?" The light fixtures above the bar prevented her from standing up, so she stepped over to my corner, where there were no lights; only sound. We couldn't take our eyes off of her, except for when we took turns holding a chihuahua whose tongue was stuck lolling out of its mouth. We wondered aloud if something was wrong with the dog. In retrospect, I am glad its owner didn't hear us. The bar was very loud.
ANYWAY I am getting lost here. The next morning we were in an absolutely miserable state. We dragged our brains across the floor and walked to have breakfast at Willa Jean, and on the way my friend vomited into a storm drain while I tripped over a dead rat on the sidewalk. Blood pooled around its head, almost as if it had been shot. It was a deadly omen; foul stuff.
We ended up spending a good deal of the day at City Park (and getting nauseous on the streetcar that took us to City Park) , but when the hangover would let us go no further, Mary's apartment was a safe haven for us. We bought a 12 pack that we couldn't drink, and a pepperoni pizza that we couldn't eat. Anxious nausea had overtaken us. We had nothing. We resorted to watching Madagascar 2 on Mary's television. It was pretty damn funny.
I would stay here again, I guess. I would do some things differently. But I would stay here again.