[Note: This discussion and review of the Ritz Carlton previously appeared at Hotel Chatter.]

When I asked the cabbie to take me to the Iberville Suites in the French Quarter he expressed confusion. Not with the location, but with the concept. Iberville Suites is located inside the Ritz-Carlton New Orleans. It is operated by the Ritz-Carlton. You can use all the facilities at the Ritz-Carlton. You can visit the bars or restaurant at the Ritz and charge it to your room. And yet, the rate at Iberville is typically half that of the Ritz (rack rate, anyway). My cabbie could not comprehend how such an economic imbalance could exist. (Of course, he didn't put it that way; he spoke exclusively in Nawlins English, which takes a minute to understand until you learn to disregard the "Itehyouwha" or "fatullyspeakin" at the beginning and end of each sentence.) It made no sense to me either, but never let it be said I passed up an opportunity for a good deal on luxury digs, so I planned to spend a couple of nights in the Iberville Suites to find out if it was actually Ritz on the cheap.

I can report that the lobby is very nice, but that's about it. When I arrived to check in and gave the desk clerk my name his brow furrowed and he adopted a dire countenance. "Damn," I thought. "They don't have my reservation. I'm going to be out on Bourbon Street begging some sleazy bead-waiver for a place to crash." I instinctively reached into my bag for my confirmation number, but he just looked up at me and said, "Well sir, it looks like you have been given a complimentary upgrade to the Ritz-Carlton."

Golly. I guess that will have to suffice.

For the record, despite what you may hear from scurrilous and unscrupulous rumormongers, I did not leap up on the bed and do a happy dance while chanting, "I'm at the Riiitz, I'm at the Riiitz." Nor did I come home after an evening on Bourbon Street and use my courtyard view to offer beads to he gentrified ladies sipping Sauvignon Blanc below my window if they would expose themselves. It was late; there was no one in the courtyard.

Actually, I can't think of a greater contrast in atmosphere than that between the Ritz-Carlton and the French Quarter madness just outside. For the sake of that isolation, getting to the lobby of the Ritz requires passing a uniformed doorman or two then locating an elevator to ride to the third floor. Your standard-issue Hurricane-snarfer in a green afro wig just won't go to the effort. Once in the lobby you are rewarded with quiet and sanity -- the main lobby lounge is the perfect place for a relaxed drink with friends to plan your evening's debauchery. The aforementioned courtyard is where the gentlefolk sit and sip tea in their stylish business casuals during nice weather. Then there is the Library Lounge, which is decorated to look like Thurston Howell III's den; put on your red velvet smoking jacket and you'll match the décor.

The fitness center is top notch as far as hotel fitness centers go. There is a very small indoor pool, but it has one of those devices that push a powerful jet of water from one side that offers enough resistance for you to essentially swim laps while staying in place. Clever.

I love Ritz-Carltons. I love the elegant dark woods and plush floral prints. I love the soft, fluffy beds. I love the little triplet serving bowls full of bar snacks you get in the lounge. I love the turn-down service -- two chocolates: one dark, one milk -- served in a little tray on your bed, along with the TV remote. I love that, while you won't get scolded, if you wander around in sweats and a tank top, you would have to be a complete barbarian not to feel out of place. I love that the waitress in the lounge remembered my standard drink order after only one visit. I love that when I went out for dinner leaving my jeans draped across the back of a chair, housekeeping took the time to hang them up before I returned. I love that they don't have little signs in the bathroom that implore me to save energy by re-using my damp towels.

I'm a hotel snob. So sue me.

I cannot tell you whether the Iberville Suites is Ritz on the cheap. I can state with unequivocal certainty that the Ritz-Carlton for the rate of the Iberville Suites very much is.

Speaking of Bourbon Street, it remains Bourbon Street. Even a couple of weeks post Mardi Gras, it is the most consistently insane place in the country, and absolutely worth a stroll from end to end. Bourbon Street is where you will find a sex toy store right next to a top quality seafood restaurant (Red Fish Grill, try the barbecued alligator) right next to a tourist crap shop, right next to a dirty strip club, right next to Galatoire's, right next to a clean strip club, right next to a pizza joint. You get the picture. Plus, out in the street women are lifting their shirts for beads.

As you may recall, my last time down The Quarter I stumbled (not literally) into a bar on Bourbon Street and watched a seriously deadly zydeco band kick out a killer set. Out of sheer exhaustion (not drunkenness) I neglected to note the name of the band or the bar they were playing in and when I awoke the next morning (not afternoon) I couldn't remember either. Within five minutes I heard that same sound again and this time I did get it down. The name of the bar is the Old Opera House and the name of the band is Zydeco Outrage. I tried to buy a CD but they were sold out. Oh well, I thought, I can just order one on-line. Nope. Allmusic.com has not heard of them; neither has Google for that matter. In fact, this page you are reading will likely be the only one to appear in a quoted search for "Zydeco Outrage" once Google discovers it. Guess I have to go back to get my CD.

Even someone as innocent and reticent as I (no, seriously) will have an interesting experience or two on Bourbon Street. After trolling around for a while I needed to use the facilities. So I ducked into this packed-to-the-gills bar and pushed my way back to the men's room. Strangely, this rest room had no door and the urinals were in fairly easy view of anyone who looked in that direction. Awkward, but what the heck. I picked the most secluded one and hoped no girls were looking in and giggling.

I needn't have worried. On my way out I saw two men kissing. "Oh," I says to myself. "It's a gay bar." Then, after a beat, as they say in screenplays, I get the urinals open to public view thing. I'm pretty sure a light bulb didn't actually go on over my head, but who knows. Apparently, gay men are pigs.

Another thing I discovered: There is a real, perceptible, and probably legal difference between bottomless and nude below the waist. Live and learn.

You can indulge most vices in New Orleans, including gambling, and I had hoped to get in an afternoon of Texas Hold 'Em at Harrah's. Unfortunately, poker has become so popular -- primarily because so many clowns like me fancy themselves big gamblers -- that even on Monday afternoon the tables are full. I was about sixth on the list to get into a low stakes game. I could have gone over to play blackjack or craps for a while and hope I didn't lose my stake, but if you are an odds player like me -- meaning you play to minimize the house advantage instead of following hunches and chasing streaks -- there is very little strategy involved in those games. They are only fun if you can find a lively group around the table. I didn't see any on that afternoon. I contemplated passing the time in the bar, but who knows what kind of shape I would be in by the time a seat at the poker table opened up.

I decided to sack it altogether. There are few things that can make me lose interest in something faster than just waiting around for it. And frankly, if you're not gambling with enthusiasm, you really should be able to find something better and cheaper to do. For me that was a short walk down to the Mississippi and a hop on to a paddlewheel riverboat that was heading down to the Chalmette Battlefield, locale of the historically important battle described at that site. From about the instant the boat left dock to the instant it returned we experienced a driving rainstorm. It takes about an hour to get to and from the battfield. There are not a whole lot of interesting things to see along the riverside and everyone was pretty much packed into the interior of the boat because of the storm. I'm sure in good weather the battlefield area is a pleasant place to wander about. But there is much to be desired. The park ranger guiding the tour felt the need to place all historic events in the context of fashionably modern politics. (Why can we leave nothing in this world untouched by contemporary socio-political dogma?) The house you see in pictures is pretty much an unfurnished empty shell. The tower is challenge to walk up, but I did it hoping to get some high-level pictures of the grounds. Once on top you discover the windows are screened in making photography impossible. Plus, we only had about 45 minutes before the boat was to head back -- many people never even left the boat. All in all, I should have been playing blackjack.

On the other hand, rain is the only thing that causes folks to leave Bourbon Street. I took the opportunity to get a quick dinner of peel and eats and some a glass of Abita at Desire, a fine raw bar. There are few things more appealing than peel and eat shrimp and cold beer in the open air, and the lack of a crowd on Bourbon Street was a rare treat. As I went from drenched to merely soggy, I realized that leaving The Quarter in New Orleans is a lot like leaving The Strip in Vegas or leaving Manhattan in NYC. If you've got a lot of time, pursue your curiosity. But for the most part, why bother? There is a reason those are the areas everyone gravitates to.

While at the New Orleans airport there came an announcement that my connecting flight from Atlanta to Detroit had been cancelled because "no qualified flight crew was available." Strange that Delta wouldn't have arranged ahead of time for a pilot or two to be available what with the flight being regularly scheduled and all. So I had a choice of either dragging my sorry self to an airport hotel in New Orleans and getting up before the sun for a 6 AM flight to Atlanta to subsequently catch a 9:30 flight back to Detroit, or I could fly on to Altlanta that evening, drag my sorry self to an airport hotel there and get up at a reasonable hour to make the 9:30 flight. A no-brainer really. So my trip ended with a stay in the Atlanta airport Crowne Plaza, which was pretty much unprepared for the onslaught of visitors with overnight vouchers from Delta airlines. There were extended lines for check-in, lines for using the one of the two internet terminals to email home about my delay, and lines at the bar for both drinks and nauseating snacks. Lines of loud salarymen, throw together in uncomfortable circumstances, laughing too loud and having strained conversations to pass the time. My how far I had come from the Ritz.

As Louis Armstrong sang: Do you know what it means, to miss New Orleans?