.

If I told you Jost Van Dyke is Dutch for “incredibly tiny island,” you might believe me, given that this little island in the British Virgins is small enough to walk around in a day and is home to just a few hundred residents.

Actually, no one really knows where this island’s name comes from, although it is rumored to be named for a Dutch pirate who pillaged and plundered his way through the BVI.  This island is as obscure as its namesake, and it’s that obscurity that continues to draw me back.

This place isn’t off the beaten path.

There is no path.

Despite the fact that it was April, we were entering into what felt like the 19th month of what I will forever call “the winter that would never end” in East Tennessee. The heat was still on, I couldn’t unpack my open toed shoes, and I still had my winter fat.

What? Winter fat? Every woman knows what winter fat is. Winter fat is that extra weight you gain during winter because you are so bundled up in 27 layers of clothing that no one can tell you’ve packed on a little since fall and because there are far too many holiday eating opportunities. Like Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And New Year’s. And Benito Juarez’s birthday.

Hey, if it’s on my calendar, it deserves a cupcake.

As I sat in my office at work one day, my illegal portable heater buried under my desk so that the Public Building Authority wouldn’t find it and confiscate it, damning me to the level of teeth chattering cold that can only exist in a government office building, I received a call from a friend providing me an opportunity to spend a week on Jost Van Dyke.

At the Pink House.

I think I heard angels singing.

The Pink House.

You have to understand, while I dearly love the island of Jost Van Dyke, it's primarily regarded as a day trip destination. The few accommodations there are to choose from leave something to be desired. My previous options included a room with no view that was barely a step up from a Motel 6 for about $350 a night and an economy cabin that bore a striking resemblance to my dad’s plywood garden shed for $65 a night.

I thought back to my other 2 overnight trips to Jost.

On the first trip we slept in a cabin with a door that didn’t quite shut – allowing the mosquitoes ample access to my body while I slept covered in sweat due to the lack of air conditioning or a working ceiling fan. The walls were so thin that I could hear the goats eating the tree outside and I began to suspect that the walls were actually made out of discarded cereal boxes. We had to avoid drinking anything after 7:00 p.m. to prevent waking up in the middle of the night and having to make a mad dash with a flashlight in the dark, avoiding lizards, crabs, and all manner of nocturnal hazards, to the shared freestanding bathroom that was about 200 feet away and was out of toilet paper more often than not.

On the second trip, we splurged on a hotel room that cost us almost $400 a night for a very basic room, but one that had walls made out of actual construction materials. We found ourselves staying out as late as possible because, while air conditioned, the room had cement walls and no view from the small windows. It was a lot like being in my grandmother’s basement, except that she had video games and a big screen T.V. and a bar with a peanut machine.

A peanut machine would have gone a long way toward making up for the lack of view.

But….the Pink House.

I had seen it on every trip. A shining jewel of a thing at the end of White Bay.  A beautiful private villa right on the beach on an island where private villas are practically unheard of.

Multiple bedrooms with en suite baths. Air conditioning. Ceiling fans that really work. An actual kitchen. Doors that shut all the way. An ice machine. Satellite T.V. Wi-fi. It’s own beach.

I wiped the drool off my chin and booked 2 flights.

We were going to the Pink House, y'all.

===Saturday: Planes, trains boats, and automobiles.===

I won’t lie.

Jost Van Dyke is not easy to get to from Tennessee.

But the best and most worthwhile things in life take a little work, don’t they? Like my graduate school roommate’s dad used to tell us when we were grumbling about our dissertations, “If it was easy, they’d just throw one in your car window as you drove by.”

First there is the whole indignity of the airport experience. Once you’ve been sufficiently violated by TSA, you get to jockey for position with 200 other people in hopes that you are one of the lucky few that get to attempt to cram your obviously overpacked carry on into the plane before some flight attendant grabs it from you and informs you that you have to check your bag because there is no space left, leaving you to wonder if your bag will make it there before it’s time for you to return home.

After 2 flights and about 8 hours of your life that you’ll never get back, you land on St. Thomas. You then have to make a choice: taxi to Charlotte Amalie and get a ferry to West End, Tortola and then attempt to make another ferry from West End to Jost Van Dyke, or taxi to Red Hook and take one ferry from Red Hook, with a brief stop on St. John, then straight on to Jost.

Unfortunately, our early flight got us there about 20 minutes too late to catch the early ferry and about 3 hours too early for the next one. After studying the ferry schedules of 4 different ferry companies that leave from 2 separate places, I had the mind bending logistics worked out to determine the quickest way for us to arrive on Jost Van Dyke. I also had a medium sized headache. We would take the 45 minute taxi ride from the airport to Red Hook and wait a couple of hours for the ferry from Red Hook to Jost Van Dyke.

Besides, with a couple of hours to kill on St. Thomas, we’d no doubt be several rum punches into our afternoon by the time the ferry came, so getting on one boat and staying on it sounded like a safe plan anyway. That way there was no chance we’d end up on Anegada by the end of the day wondering how we got there.

I remember as a kid, there was a ride at Six Flags that I loved called Mo Mo the Monster. It was one of those giant beasts of a thing that had “arms” with little buckets on the ends, the entire ride resembling a giant spider. The arms would go up and down and my brothers and I would spin around violently in our buckets until we were crying for mercy, staggering off and vomiting like the family cat that time it ate an entire stick of butter that it secreted off the kitchen table.

Well, if you get in the right taxi, the ride to Red Hook is a lot like that.

And if it happens to be the last day of carnival, which it was, and there is a giant parade, which there was, it’s even better because it lasts longer.

After 45 minutes (which translated into car sickness time is about twelve years) of steep hills, ridiculous curves, passing on the wrong side of the road, and swerving to miss errant chickens, we finally arrived at the Red Hook ferry.

We had a couple of hours to kill and it was lunch time, so we had the taxi driver drop us off across the street at Duffy’s Love Shack.

Duffy’s is an awesome place, despite the fact that it sits in the parking lot of a strip mall. It’s so “over the top” kitschy tropical that it’s cool. The seats are covered in leopard print vinyl and everything is made out of bamboo.

The drinks are served in ridiculous tiki glasses and every time you get one, the waitresses cover you in plastic leis, necklaces, and stickers.

Needless to say, by the time I left, I had so many stickers that I resembled the back bumper of a 53 year old Volkswagen Beetle. 

When it was our time, we walked over to the ferry dock and located the Inter Island ferry to Jost. I watched as hundreds of people crammed onto the ferry to St. John and looked at the 4 people waiting for the Jost Van Dyke ferry and smiled.

It was 4:00 when we arrived on Jost. I had reserved a rental car, and despite having been through the rental car process numerous times on Jost Van Dyke, I was still certain no one was ever going to show up, even though they always did.

Why? Because when you rent a car on Jost, you call the office and say, “I’d like to rent a car please. I’ll arrive on such and such a date and I think I’ll be on the such and such ferry.”

They say, “Ok.”

That’s it.

Rental process over.

For the anal retentive type, this is difficult. I need a confirmation number. I need an email or computer generated piece of paper that PROVES I have a car. And I have nothing but….. “Ok.” How could I possibly expect someone to show up weeks or months after making that phone call at exactly the time my ferry arrives?

But someone always does.

Paradise Car Rental pulled in just as we arrived. Just like they always do. Like magic.

Jost Van Dyke magic.

Even though I had never been there, I knew exactly how to get to the Pink House. On an island that basically has one road and no town, it’s not really that hard to figure out where things are.

I have to admit, when I pulled onto that drive that said, “Private Drive – Pink House Villas,” I felt special. I felt like a V.I.P.

A Very Important Pink house guest.

The house was everything I hoped and more.

Perched on the hillside overlooking the entirety of White Bay, the view was something you can only dream of.

The decks, the grounds, the gorgeous landscaping….it was a feast for the eyes.

There are actually 2 Pink Houses - the original Pink House, Bougainvillea, and a newly constructed house, Oleander. We were in the original.

The house has a very cool set up – all the rooms have outdoor entrances. This is great for privacy if you have several couples. Each of the 3 bedrooms was large and airy, beautifully furnished, with cool a/c and views to White Bay.

I was like a kid in a candy store, running from room to room trying to decide which one I liked best. That’s when I walked into the Peach Room.

Suddenly, I was like one of those seagulls on Finding Nemo, jumping up and down, “Mine. MINE. MINE. Mine.”

I headed to the breezy living area, which housed the large den and the kitchen, to see if my grocery provisions had made it.

That’s another fun thing about coming to Jost. Groceries. While we eat out mostly, I do like to have breakfast, drinks, and snacks on hand, but the grocery options on Jost are severely limited so you have to plan ahead.

Imagine a cross between a gas station quick mart and a small-town 5 and dime from 1978 filled with an odd assortment of random food and beverage items with a few weird housewares thrown in for good measure. Give it a Dollar General ambiance but imagine that everything costs way more than a dollar. Now imagine that it is sandwiched into a space the size of your bathroom and imagine yourself walking into it an proceeding to shop in a manner that is a combination of that TV show, "Supermarket Sweep" from the 90's and a scavenger hunt. Finally, visualize yourself walking up to the register, hot and sweaty, with a toilet brush, some dusty beverage cozies, an 8 track tape, a dented can of peas, 4 boxes of Twinkies, a root beer, and a frozen Hungry Man dinner.

You now understand grocery shopping on a small island.

The best bet is to contact Bobby's Marketplace on Tortola. They have an extensive online selection allowing you to order and pay online. Typically, you tell them which West End ferry you'll be on and when you arrive for the ferry, your box is waiting for you. However, since we were on the Inter Island ferry and wouldn't be stopping in West End, Tortola, Bobby's actually put my groceries on the morning ferry and the caretakers of the Pink House picked them up, took them to the house, and put them away.

I had a kitchen full of food and all I had to do was unpack my suitcase and start enjoying my vacation.

It was that Jost Van Dyke magic again.

Within minutes, Matt and I had changed out of travel clothes and had a rum punch made with Callwood Spiced Rum in our hands and were walking down the beach watching the sun set.

Our Pink House adventure was ready to begin.

===Sunday: How To See Pirates, Jewels, and Dinosaurs in a Single Day.===

As we always do, we established a routine for the trip early on. It started off with coffee on the deck and breakfast with a view.

Because Matt tried to kill me on our last trip to Jost by forcing encouraging me to run up what I called "the hill of death" every day, I declared this a non-exercise vacation. That meant the next part of our daily routine was to choose which spot to call ours for the day.

White Bay is a magnificent beach, and it's so large you can pick a different section of it to spend your day on and feel like you are in an entirely different place every day. Each section has its own vibe.

There's the private end where the Pink House sits. No bars, no noise, just pristine quiet and a nice assortment of chairs that are shared by the Pink Houses and White Bay Villas, the houses that sit high up on the hillside above.

I will admit, every time I saw someone from White Bay Villas come walking down that excruciatingly long, steep path to the beach, sweating from the exertion by the time they arrived, I felt delighted to be right where I was. We barely had to step off our deck before our feet were buried in that soft sand.

Moving down the beach, you come to Ivan's next. Ivan's section of beach is scattered with mismatched chairs in various stages of decomposition, usually with an assortment of empty bottles, deflated rafts, and abandoned shoes tossed in. It's a little rough around the edges, but it has character. It also has Ivan's Stress Free Bar.

The middle section is natural and usually empty. Lined with shady seagrape trees and a few palms, this area has no bars, no chairs, but no people either. It's a great place to grab some privacy.

Likewise, after you climb the stairs and cross the goat path to the "other side," you find a long, pristine stretch of empty beach.

Walk far enough and you'll come to the center of all that is White Bay, the Soggy Dollar Bar.

Soggy's has plenty of chairs and hammocks that they let you use as long as you are patronizing their bar and grill. They also have one of the most famous bars in the Caribbean and one of the best bartenders in the known universe.

That would be Mic, of course.

If Soggy's is a little too lively for you, you can continue down the beach to Gertrude's. You can rent a chair from her for $5 or you can buy a rum punch for $6 and get the chair for free. Kind of a no-brainer if you ask me.

Past Gertrude's is an assortment of beach bars, each with their own unique personality: Jewel's snack shack, Coco Loco, and Seddy's One Love.

At the far end of White Bay it's feast or famine. By that, I mean it's either totally deserted or so covered with bodies that you do best to avoid it at all costs.

I believe the pavilion on that end is frequented by a giant party boat that shows up out of nowhere and dumps a plethora of life vested bodies, with their fanny packs and water shoes, onto the beach for about an hour or two. We only saw it in use once during our week on Jost. On a good day, it's a deserted slice of heaven.

For our first day, we chose to call Gertrude's section of beach home for the day. There are always fewer people in front of Gertrude's and we were looking for a little quiet before all the Sunday boats arrived.

Rather than spend $5 for a chair, we went inside to see Gertrude about some rum punch.

Gertrude's bar has a unique style. When you order your drink, she asks if you want the $6 or the $10 size. Well, duh. The $10 of course. Then she puts the bottles you need to make your drink on the counter and you proceed to make your own. The rum punch is my favorite: a bottle of dark spiced rum, a bottle of mango rum, and a jug of her secret rum punch mix. Mine is about 9 parts rum and 1 part punch. She even grates a little fresh nutmeg on the top when you're finished.

I love Gertrude.

We settled in to soak in the beauty of White Bay.

Gertrude's rum punch can only be appropriately followed by one thing: a bloody mary from the Soggy Dollar. It is, quite literally, the best bloody mary ever made.

When we started getting lounge chair butt, we headed to Jewel's Snack Shack for her amazing burger and special rum punch.

This is where we met Reginald who entertained us with his dinosaur while we waited.

Sure, that looks like a blade of grass to me too, but I assure you, it was a dinosaur. Reginald said so. After Gertrude's rum punch, a Soggy Dollar bloody mary, and Ms. Jewel's rum punch, I would have believed it was a purple unicorn with sparkly wings if Reginald had said so.

For those that have read my other adventures, does anyone remember the Pink Painkiller that my friend Kala and I accidentally concocted on our BVI sailing adventure by mixing leftover painkiller with some fruit punch and extra rum?

Well, I don't know about you, but I think the Rum Punch With a Touch of Class looks suspiciously like our Pink Painkiller. I think royalties are due. Maybe a free chair for life?

Just saying.

There aren't many things better than a grilled burger on the beach. Jewel's hamburger is thick and unbelievably juicy.

I can tell she puts something in the meat, too. It reminds me of the burgers my mom would make when I was a kid that she'd put a packet of french onion soup mix into. Except that my mom usually put it on slices of white bread that would get so soggy by the time you were halfway through the burger, you'd just have to peel them off and leave them on the plate.

The late afternoon was spent trying to keep the random beach dog off my chair, doing my best pirate imitation, and trying to figure out why this guy had on a headdress.

Once the beach part of the daily routine was over, the nap part came in. The nap part is necessary so that you can sleep off the rum and sun and wake up fresh and ready to go eat some lobster.

And go eat lobster we did.

We headed to Little Harbor for our favorite lobster dinner at Sydney's Peace & Love.

What I love about Sydney's: the pour your own bar, the waterfront setting, the fresh lobster, and the delicious side dishes. What I don't love: how Strawberry always talks me into buying a bunch of t-shirts in her shop that I don't need and will never wear while I wait for my food. I resolved that this time I would not buy another shirt, particularly since I already have about 6 at home.

After pouring our own drinks at the do-it-yourself bar and writing our drinks down by our name in the little spiral notebook, I succumbed to Strawberry's foolproof sales pitch and ended up with a tank top, a long sleeve t-shirt, and a sarong.

I don't even wear sarongs.

She gets me every time!

The lobster was clean and fresh. The cole slaw was sweet and tangy, just like my Granny makes. The potato salad, corn on the cob, and peas n' rice all competed for favorite side dish as I washed it all down with my version of the perfect painkiller.

Wow, what a day.

===Monday: How To Get Stress Free.===

With such an amazing curve of private beach just below the house, we decided to take advantage of it and spend the morning on "our beach."

Yes, I know. It wasn't "my beach," just like the Pink House wasn't "my house," and Mic wasn't "my bartender." But that's what we do on vacation, isn't it? Isn't that the whole point - to be transported? To be some place and some thing you aren't in your every day life?

Of course it is.

That's why I found myself, despite all good intentions to the contrary, fighting the urge to scowl at the couples that would wander too far from Ivan's and dare to pause too long on "my beach," wondering if it would be going too far to chase them back to Ivan's while waving a pool noodle menacingly at them.

We mixed up Vicki's rum punch and hit the beach. My rum punch does not have touch of class like Jewel's, but what it lacks in class, it makes up for in "you can be buzzed by 10:00 a.m." goodness.

You know you've had too much rum punch when you find yourself trying to balance a coconut on your head before lunch.

Because it was practically next door, we wandered over to Ivan's Stress Free Bar to see how the Stress Free Punch compared.

Ivan's is one of the most unique places on White Bay. Like everything on Jost, Ivan's is a meandering structure that seems more tossed together than built, more carefree than established, and more eclectic than fancy. There's nothing formal about Ivan's open-air structure, with a sand floor and walls covered with seashells. While the Soggy Dollar gets the notoriety and most of the White Bay visitors, Ivan's is frequented by those in the know, making you feel like you are in on a wonderful secret.

There's something about this place that makes adults feel like big kids. Maybe it's the sandy floor. Maybe it's the assortment of colorful chairs where you can spend a lazy afternoon sipping rum punch on a beautiful beach. Maybe it's the offbeat vibe.

Or maybe it's the tire swing.

Tip of the day: don't get on a tire swing in a white bikini. (You'll thank me for that)

It was hungry o'clock, so we made our way to the far end of White Bay. I'd love to be able to say the east end, west end, north…whatever…but, really, I have no idea which direction it is. I still haven't mastered the art of figuring out left from right without making that little "L" with my thumb and finger. I'm not a human compass, people.

Of all White Bay establishments, Seddy's One Love still gets my vote for best lunch. The food is seriously good and the view is unmatched.

They make a pretty good painkiller too.

Matt had the special of the day, grilled wahoo with the most amazing mystery sauce I have ever tasted. I am sure it wasn't really "mystery sauce," but at this point I was several punches into my day so I can't be expected to remember details like that. I only remember where I had lunch because I have a picture of it.

I had the lobster salad sandwich, which was jam packed with tender lobster, crunchy-crisp veggies, and creamy dressing with a touch of curry.

The only thing left to do was take a nap.

Sunset came and painted the sky in gold as we discussed dinner options.

Although we'd been to Little Harbor the night before for lobster, we settled on Harris' Place in Little Harbor because it was lobster night. I still have night sweats when I think of the great lobster famine that occurred while I was on Anguilla, so I decided to get more lobster while the getting was good.

But first, I insisted we visit the Beach Lounge.

I had seen this place as we passed through Great Harbor earlier in the trip. It might have been the most half-assed excuse for a bar that I have ever seen, if you don't count the time we tried to go to Dune Preserve to find that they only two bottles of liquor and cranberry juice that day and proceeded to make me what will forever go down in history as the worst drink known to man.

Matt had that look on his face that he gets when I ask him to do things that he really doesn't want to do on vacations and that are probably ill-advised by any guidebook and that usually result in us missing a boat, getting food poisoning, ending up stranded in an alley in the middle of Rome, or finding ourselves in the uncomfortable position of being the only patrons of the night in a really scary restaurant. It's the same look my dog gives me when I tell it to go to the laundry room. It doesn't really want to...but it's weighing it's desire not to go to the laundry room against having to deal with me if it doesn't.

But to his credit, he always goes along, because more often than not, these things end up in some of our greatest discoveries and most cherished vacation finds.

It was a bit of deja vu when we strolled up to the makeshift bar and asked what mixed drinks he could make and he responded, "I don't know. I only have a few bottles and I'm not sure what's in them."

While those Jagerbombs certainly were tempting...ahem.....I was really looking for something less, oh, "18-year-old-with-a-fake-ID-trying-to-get-smashed" drink. I immediately spotted a bottle of Cruzan Coconut Rum and said, "That. With Sprite."

And what the Beach Lounge lacked in fine furnishings (or an actual floor, walls, or indoor lighting of any kind), it more than made up for with the view.

Then it was on to Harris' Place for what I call the Lobster Death Match. It was me vs. the largest lobster in the known universe. When I told Cynthia I wanted the biggest lobster she had, I had no idea that she had a prehistoric beast lurking in the cage.

Halfway in, I called for a time out. I sat, trembling in my corner of the ring, hands shaking, forehead beaded with sweat, breath coming in rapid bursts.
Matt slapped me on the back and I went back in.

Forty-five minutes and one extremely bloated stomach later, I knew I had been bested.

I waved my white napkin, grimy with lobster parts, and surrendered. There was still lobster on my plate and I couldn't eat it.

I'm pretty sure that leaving uneaten lobster on your plate is nearly as bad as breaking a commandment or backing over a box of kittens with your car.

===Tuesday: How To Lose an Anchor in Four Hours or Less===

It was boat day. I had reserved a day trip with Jost Van Dyke scuba with the intention of going to Sandy Cay & Sandy Spit and then heading over to Norman Island for the afternoon.

We arrived early and had about 30 minutes to kill so we walked down "Main Street." Main Street on Jost is basically a sandy lane lined with every manner of structure. Some actual, some implied. The harbor is scattered with tables, hammocks, stools...any place a person can take a load off. And maybe grab one of those Jagerbombs.

Sandy Cay is pretty close to Jost, so it seemed like a great first stop. Despite the beautiful day, the sea was angry, my friends. The short boat ride over to Sandy Cay was 15 minutes of jaw rattling, tailbone busting, sea spray enduring hell.

Try to imagine you are on a mechanical bull in nothing but your underwear and instead of being padded, the seat is made out of fiberglass and while you ride, someone is dumping a bucket of salt water over your head. Now stay on for fifteen minutes.

It was worth the ride when I saw Sandy Cay like a jewel sitting in the azure water. Sandy Cay is just a dollop of sand dropped into the ocean, a scrumptious little cake floating in the sea frosted with a few waving palm trees.

We swam in and located the interior paths, taking our time to walk through the dense foliage and gawking with wonder at the sea views that surrounded the tiny speck of an island.

If Sandy Cay is a dollop, then Sandy Spit is a sprinkle. Sandy Spit was a repeat, except that it was a fraction of the size, allowing us to walk all the way around it in about 3 minutes flat.

When we managed to arrive at Sandy Cay without losing any teeth or requiring a spinal adjustment, we imagined what the long boat ride to Norman Island would be like and made the quick, and wise, decision to abort the mission and head to Tortola instead.

After Sandy Cay and Sandy Spit, we made a quick run over to Smuggler's Cove on Tortola. This kept us in moderately protected waters and didn't require a long boat ride.

Once I saw Smuggler's Cove, I couldn't have been happier we made a detour.

I have been to Norman Island. I have snorkeled the Indians. I have dug my toes in the sand at Pirate's Bight. I have sucked down a ski shot at the Willy T.

Smuggler's Cove was not only something new…it was perfection.

This gorgeous crescent of perfect beach was littered with leaning palm trees and had almost no one on it. We swam over and spent some delicious time on the beach.

On the way back to the boat, Matt pointed out a rare sight: a good sized octopus swimming in the open. We watched it for a long time until it finally found a hidey-hole and disappeared.

It was remarkable.

Coming to this beach was the best decision ever.

Until we lost the anchor.

So, um, yeah. The captain was trying to pull up the anchor and the rope broke.

It was not awesome.

Since he was the only boat operator, he would have typically left the anchor and come back for it later, but Matt knows how to operate a boat, and it would be nearly impossible to find that anchor after leaving and coming back. So Matt powered the boat while the captain dove repeatedly, looking for the anchor.

I sat with a bag of chips and watched the whole thing like I was watching a movie. Well, it wasn't like I could do anything to help.

After a half hour of diving, drifting, rotating the boat, and chip munching - the anchor was found!

We decided to make our last stop of the day Cane Garden Bay for a late lunch. The captain recommended Myett's for lunch, so we headed that way.

Myett's was great, like a giant, tropical treehouse on the beach. The food was good and was served with an incredible view.

When the boat brought us back to Great Harbor, we checked out Corsair's and decided to return later for dinner.

Before dinner, we strolled "our beach" (I was beginning to like the sound of that) with some pre-dinner cocktails and watched the sunset over White Bay.

I had heard good things about the pizza at Corsair's, but I am really picky about my pizza. Good pizza on an island usually means that it doesn't taste like one of those frozen pizzas that you can buy 3 for $10 at Kroger. It doesn't usually mean "good" good.

Corsair's was good good.

===Wednesday: How to Waste An(other) Entire Day Doing Absolutely Nothing===

You know how, after a few days of laying in the sun, eating too much, taking too many naps, and drinking an abundance of rum, you just get plain lazy?

You start to wonder how you ever lived a life where you got up at 6 a.m. and worked all day just to come home and clean house, make dinner, go to the gym, buy groceries, and do some laundry when just walking from the bed to the dresser to get a tank top seems like such a great effort you seriously wonder if you could just wear your nightshirt all day without anyone at the beach noticing.

It was Day Four and the lazy haze had started to settle onto us.

We decided to grab a couple of Mic's bloody marys (because early morning alcohol certainly helps with lethargy) and do nothing more ambitious than try to find a lounge chair before we collapsed in the sand.

It was a good day for people watching. White Bay is home to some of the best people watching ever. It's like people watching at the airport if everyone at the airport was half naked and drunk.

The morning hours on White Bay are quiet. You mostly have the beach to yourselves, shared only with the few other souls lucky enough to be staying on the island.

Around 9:00, a few people show up that came over from a neighboring island on the ferry for the day. You know them by their giant backpacks and Keens and by the way they look around nervously at the chairs before plopping down in the sand, unaware that the chairs are not off limits.

The next group in are usually the sailing people - the ones that spent the previous night in the harbor on a sailboat. They pull their dinghies up on short and provide tons of entertainment as they try to fight the waves and climb out of the inflatable without falling in the water, a feat which is easier said than done.

The last group to arrive are the most fun to watch: the party boats. The charters start showing up from Tortola, St. John, and St. Thomas loaded with people. They stagger off in their Kenny Chesney cowboy hats, clutching their ziploc bags that contain a camera, a chopstick, and some dollar bills and hoping that they will 1) see a celebrity, 2) get on the webcam at the Soggy Dollar bar, 3) not be the one that ends up face down in the sand before the boat has to leave, and 4) spend the next hour like they are in a country music video.

We saw everything from the great grandmother who waded off the boat fully dressed in a caftan and pants clutching her oversized leather handbag over her head to the bikini clad woman wearing a beauty pageant sash who was 70 if she was a day. There were several guys, so blindingly white that I feared I would go blind if I looked straight at them, and every one of them somehow managed to have a perfectly lobster red back, like sunscreen was only necessary on the parts they could see. There was the old dude in the too small swim trunks, holding his ample belly in so forcefully that I was pretty sure he was going to rip an abdominal muscle and groups of bikini clad girls with Coronas sitting in beach chairs at the water's edge until they were so pickled, their boyfriends/husbands/friends had to carry them back to the boat.

There was even one girl doing a perfect handstand on a paddle board out in the water.

Showoff.

I could do that if I wanted to.

Okay, no I can't. I can barely walk across the room without tripping over my own feet.

Showoff.

Yes, White Bay can be a party, but even on a crowded day, it's a laid back kind of party. The kind of party where someone's boat is always pumping out tunes just loud enough for everyone to hear but not so loud it's annoying, and where people sit in chairs at the water's edge laughing with their friends. It's the kind of party where you can smell ribs on the grill and a sea of Soggy Dollar cups waves in the air above pool floats where people splash about in the water.

Eventually, we had to pry ourselves up and go in search of sustenance. A liquid diet can only carry you so long.

Having never eaten at Coco Loco's, we decided we'd give it a shot.

Yes, apparently, at this point in the day, Matt was double cupping it. What is double cupping? When you get another drink before finishing the first one and you just dump them together and put the empty cup on the bottom.

Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

Do you know what you get when one of you orders the BBQ baby back ribs and the other orders the catch of the day sandwich?

Lunch perfection.

We then spent the afternoon doing nothing more strenuous than this:

For dinner, we thought we'd make the drive out to Diamond Cay and eat at Taboo. It takes about 15 minutes to drive out there from White Bay, which, on an island where you can get to everything in a minute or less, is the equivalent of traveling to a different country, so we stopped at Foxy's in Great Harbor for a drink to break up the exceptionally long, arduous trip out to Taboo.

Foxy's was cranking. The music was playing and people were dancing.

I wish I knew how to dance. Like an actual dance that is recognized by other people and is, in reality, awesome and not just awesome in my head. In my head, I look like this when I dance:

In reality, I look like this:

And it's a toss up if Matt dances as badly as me or worse.

It was getting dark and we still had that cross-country drive to make that would require a white knuckle trip of at least 10 minutes trying to avoid making roadkill of a mongoose or running into a goat, so we headed on, leaving the dancing to the people that didn't look like they were having a grand mal seizure.

Taboo is probably the nicest restaurant on Jost. Not only do they serve your food on actual plates made of something other than paper, styrofoam or plastic, they have some selections that don't include fried food, the staples of most fast food restaurants, or sides the include double carbohydrates.

They have an appetizer that I love: a savory cheesecake made with herbs and garlic and topped with marina sauce. My only problem with it is that they need to serve it with some warm bread so that I don't have to pick up the plate and lick it to get to the last of that marinara sauce.

For our entrees, Matt had the grilled fish and I opted for a coconut shrimp linguine. I'm not sure what possessed me to order shrimp on an island where shrimp are not a fresh food, but to Taboo's credit, the shrimp were plump and firm and didn't remind me of something that had been in the bottom of the freezer since 1994.

===Thursday: How to Get to the Bubbly Pool===

I read a couple of months ago that a man had died at the Bubbly Pool when he was hit by a rough wave and was carried out to sea.

This made me nervous.

You have to understand, I am the kind of person that rides my bike with the breaks on, even if I'm not going downhill. When I snorkel, I am constantly looking for sharks as the JAWS theme plays in my head. I will never bungee jump. Dangerous things make me nervous.

So when Matt suggested we go to the Bubbly Pool, I felt my stomach clench a little in nervous anticipation, but the Bubbly Pool is a Jost Van Dyke institution and the last time we had tried to go, there were so many people in it that I felt like I was in a frat house hot tub during pledge week. We had to give it another shot.

The Bubbly Pool is at the end of the road. Literally.

The only way to get there is to drive your small, slightly abused SUV up and down crazy steep hills next to vertical cliffs on badly paved roads that are narrower than Giselle Bundchen's hips while avoiding obstacles like goat herds, small children, and boulders that have fallen from the cliffs above the road. Go as far as the road will go (east? west? south?) and when it stops, park and walk to the Bubbly Pool.

We were early and we had the place to ourselves.

Under the right circumstances, the Bubbly Pool is pretty fantastic. Anything in nature can be dangerous. Just be smart. Use common sense. Don't go in drunk. Don't try to climb up on the slippery rocks where the waves come in. Don't get in when the swells are up. Don't swim too close to the opening.

The natural swimming pool is calm and clear until a wave washes in, and then it is instantly transformed into a fizzy delight.

Before heading back to White Bay, we stopped and oohed and aaahed at the colors of the water from every view point.

The weather had been perfect every day so far, but by the time we got back to the Pink House, the floodgates of heaven literally opened up onto White Bay. The rain was so heavy that you couldn't even see the boats in the harbor.

We made lunch at the house and enjoyed the rain for an hour or two, knowing it was filling the cisterns and providing some much needed water.

The rain left as abruptly as it had come, and by early afternoon, the sun was smiling on White Bay again. We were able to enjoy a few hours of beach time.

It was Thursday and Ivan's was hosting its beach BBQ. We've never been and I was eager to check it out.

We walked down to Ivan's early and grabbed a couple of Stress Free punches to sip while we watched the sunset.

I was tempted to lick the outlet, but since they have a policy against it, I chose not to.

As the sun set in glorious form, the smells of grilled meat drifted out of the kitchen. Tables were set up all higgled piggledy on the beach and everyone just found a seat and made it theirs. Thankfully, we didn't choose the seat that was apparently covered in fire ants. Another couple wasn't so lucky and within seconds, they were running to the water, twitching and flailing, their hands swatting at every part of their body they could reach.

Actually, they looked a lot like I do when I am dancing.

The food was laid out on a long table and was served buffet style. Unlike Foxy's buffet, it's literally all-you-can-eat, not all-you-can-eat-in-one-trip.

There were grilled ribs and all manner of islandy side dishes. The food was plentiful and delicious, the atmosphere relaxed, and the conversation friendly.

We dined under the stars on the beach, everyone enjoying themselves late into the night.

===Friday: How To Go Out With a Bang (or a Whimper, Depending on How You Look At It)===

It was our last day, so we decided to spend it with sun, sand, and the Soggy Dollar in true Jost Van Dyke style.

And we did just that.

It was a day of beach burgers and painkillers, music and fun, chairs by the water and hammocks in the shade. It was a perfect day.

By the end of the day, I was a bit pickled, opting to do nothing more than lay in a chair I had dragged to the water's edge.

I don't think Matt realized how much rum I'd had, nor did I, when he mixed us up some rum punches at the house before dinner and I proceeded to drink mine.

I really felt okay.

I did.

We headed toward Abe's by the Sea, the 3rd lobster restaurant on Little Harbor and the only one we had never eaten at.

When we arrived, we were the only customers, but that was okay. That's not uncommon. We asked if they were cooking and they said, "yes," so we ordered 2 lobster dinners and had a seat at the table on the dock, overlooking the water.

That's when I went from 60 to zero in 2 seconds flat.

One minute, I was fine. The next, I was this:

(I still can't believe Matt took my picture....)

"What's wrong with you?" Matt asked.

"I….I….I don't feel so good all of a sudden," I said. I had hit the rum wall. I peered between my fingers and gave Matt a look that said, "If you don't put that camera down and get me out of here in less than a minute, you'll spend the rest of your life sleeping on a futon."

He read me loud and clear.

That's how we paid $100 for a lobster dinner that was still in the kitchen being prepared. He handed the money to the waitress, said, "I'm sorry," and we bolted.

Remember when I described the ride across Jost Van Dyke? The twists, the turns, the narrow roads, the hills, the cliffs, the bumps? Now imagine doing that after spinning for about 45 minutes on Mo Mo the Monster. My insides were upside down and I am pretty sure my face was grey by the time we got back to the Pink House.

Even in paradise, too much of a good thing is…..well……too much of a good thing.

===Saturday: All's Well That Ends Well===

I was elated when I woke up.

Elated because I wasn't dead.

The night before, I am pretty sure I prayed to be dead. Or at least to slip peacefully into a coma.

I actually felt reasonably okay. My mouth tasted like I had been sucking on a toilet brush and I was moving a little slow, but I was okay.

Matt made me some eggs and toast and by the time I'd eaten breakfast, I was reasonably recovered.

We were taking a water taxi back to St. Thomas at the gracious invitation of the family staying in Pink House Oleander, whose flight home was at the same time as ours. The boat was leaving at 1:00, which left us plenty of time to do some final sightseeing and grab some lunch before heading out.

We followed the road from White Bay as far as we felt comfortable, even after it turned to a dirt road, littered with loose rock and so steep that I was worried I would get a nosebleed. Eventually, it became too rough for even our comfort and we turned to take the side road back into Great Harbor. But, WOW, did we get to see some incredible views before we had to turn back.

We strolled through Great Harbor, and it took all of my will power to resist that final chance at one of those Jagerbombs. I bet King Cockroach has had a Jagerbomb.

We stopped at Foxy's for our final meal and the man himself was holding court.

Foxy asked me where I was from and when I told him Tennessee, he proceeded to tell me a politically incorrect joke about picking cotton in Memphis and left me unsure whether I was supposed to laugh or act offended, but that's Foxy for you. The first time I met Foxy, he asked me if I knew how to tell that his dog, Taboo, was an Island dog.

If you ever meet Foxy, ask him to tell you that joke. Then you, too, can share in my discomfort.

You gotta' love Foxy.

I had waited all week for a roti and it was time. Foxy's is my favorite, stuffed with tender chicken a potatoes and served with a sweet chutney on the side.

Before we knew it, it was time for one last beer (or a Diet Coke if you had a headache the size of Texas…) and then all that was left was a wave good-bye.

Our week in paradise had come to an end.

I hope yours is just beginning.

Hold onto your seats, folks....next stop is the Pink House on Jost Van Dyke!

It's snowing in Tennessee today...but sunshine soon come. Summer is just around the corner.....

The first time I went to New Orleans I was 19. I was working my way through college and I had been living on chicken leg quarters and Ramen noodles for over a year. We made the drive in my dove gray 1981 Pontiac T1000 and my muscles were sore by the time we got there, because the car had no power steering or power brakes. Four of us shared a cheap room at the Holiday Inn. I was young and poor, and the only food I splurged on while in New Orleans was a savory bowl of gumbo at the Gumbo Shop.

Laugh if you will, but in 1989 a bowl of seafood okra gumbo cost the equivalent of two 10-lb. bags of chicken leg quarters, and I could survive on those leg quarters for weeks.

The memory of that steaming bowl of gumbo still makes my mouth water. It was worth every penny.

I may not be 19 anymore, but heading to New Orleans is still as exciting to me as it was on that first trip.

Many people associate New Orleans with nothing more than the debauchery of Bourbon Street. They feel the only reason to go there is to be clad in beads while carrying a 28 ounce Big Gulp cocktail down the street. To think New Orleans is nothing but Bourbon Street is like saying New York City is nothing but Times Square. Bourbon Street is essential, don't get me wrong, but a quick stroll will show you a neon blazed circus filled with hard working transvestites that will let you take their picture for a dollar, strippers trying to lure you in with fish net tights and neon lipstick, and an overabundance of cheap frozen drinks in tacky souvenir cups that are strong enough to eat the chrome off Grandma Laverne's 1978 Lincoln Continental.

Don't see Bourbon Street at all and you'll wonder what you missed, but spend more than 5 minutes and you’ll have wasted valuable time better spent elsewhere.

New Orleans has so much more to offer than Bourbon Street. Let’s start with the architectural wonders that present themselves on every block. The place simply oozes history. You feel like a ghost or a pirate is lurking behind every gated door or in every shadowy courtyard. And what about the music? This city is so musical that you literally can’t walk a full block without hearing live music. Whether it’s pouring out the doors of a jazz club or being pumped through a tinny amp on the street corner next to a cardboard box reading, “Big Tips Only,” there is literally music everywhere.

You also can’t walk a block without running into original art. Turn your head for a moment while walking and you’ll no doubt run head-first into some guy offering to paint your dog from an iPhone picture or lining up original paintings against a fence that rival anything you’ve seen in your local gallery. And the shopping…..you can find everything from estate antiques to vintage war pistols, from colorful designer dresses to size 12 heels in glitter green.

Above all, though, I head to New Orleans for the food. Still taunted by that first cheap date with New Orleans, where she flaunted her goods but only let me hold her hand, is it any wonder that when I return to New Orleans today, all I want to do is eat? New Orleans is a wonderland of sublime eating experiences.

I had three days and planned to see just how much damage I could do.

Friday: Laissez les bons temps rouler!

When you fly your own plane, it’s hard to predict exactly when you are going to arrive in a place. We aren’t Delta and we can’t pinpoint our arrival to the minute. Oh wait, neither can Delta. Regardless, this makes it difficult for a compulsive planner like myself to know exactly what time to make a lunch reservation. Because compulsive planners can’t imagine NOT having a lunch reservation.

That’s why, at approximately 12:23, I began twitching like a 4 year old with ADHD that had just sucked down a 2 liter of Mountain Dew. I had a 12:30 lunch reservation and our wonderful hosts were still showing us around our rental for the weekend. While I was enjoying getting a thorough tour of what I am pretty sure is the most perfect historic townhouse in the French Quarter…I HAD LUNCH PLANS!

Like an idiot, I had worn high heeled boots on the way down, with every intention of changing into flats before walking to lunch. Because we were now in an extreme hurry, changing shoes was out of the question. Expecting a very clumsy person to walk in a hurry on ancient, uneven sidewalks in a pair of high heeled boots is a very, very bad idea. About halfway there, I started sweating, whether it was from the worry of doing a face plant on Chartres Street, from the heavy sweater that I had needed when we left cold TN but that was excessively warm in Louisiana, or from the fear that the possibility of a missed meal instills in my heart, I am still not certain.

We made it to SoBou before they crossed our names of the list. I was only moderately sweaty and both heels were intact, so we’ll call that a success story. Hot Jambalaya! We had made it to the Twenty Five Cent Martini Lunch.

You heard that right. Twenty-five cent martinis. You can choose a vodka or gin martini, pink gin, commander’s palace cha cha, or a pink elephant’s on parade for a quarter, with the purchase of an entrée. They do, however, limit you to 3 because, as the menu states, “that’s enough.”

A two bit martini later, everyone forgot that they were mad at me.

SoBou is located inside the sleek W Hotel, but it’s no hotel restaurant. An offshoot of the Commander’s Palace family of restaurants, SoBou (South of Bourbon) aims to create a stylish restaurant where the cocktails are inventive and the menu is filled with snacks that encourage sharing.

We chose to share The Fries, which were deliciously salted skin-on fries served with your choice of cayenne ketchup, pimento cheese fondue, or pickled okra mayo. I’ll have the pimento cheese fondue, please.

Because hearing the words “share” and “food” in the same sentence causes me to have immediate heart palpitations, I drew the line at sharing the appetizer and told everyone to get their own entrée. I had the crispy chicken on the bone: four adorable little Tanglewood Farms drummies with crispy skin and a Crystal hot sauce sweet soy glaze. Matt had the juicy SoBou Burger.

We couldn’t end the meal without dessert. I mean, I had run 4 blocks in heels. I deserved something, right? The chocolate coma bar was calling to me. It was a flourless dark chocolate torte layered with white chocolate mousse, topped with candied pecans and sea salt caramel covered in milk chocolate. Apparently, the pastry chef did not feel this was enough decadence and also added a shot of chicory coffee milkshake.

Oh sweet little plastic baby Jesus buried in a king cake. This was beyond good. This was pure happiness.

We shopped our way back to the townhouse, stopping in at some great little clothing boutiques and one amazing store filled with designer markdowns. Shopping thrown on top of martinis and lunch? We were definitely off to a good start.

I love walking the streets of New Orleans. You never know what you are going to see and everything from the artistic to the downright weird takes on a level of "okay-ness" that it just wouldn't have anywhere else. Anything goes, and it's all cool.

Even the tuba....that lonely fat guy of the marching band instruments...takes on a level of cool in New Orleans.

We found our way back to the the townhouse and enjoyed a little down time.

I hadn’t stopped long enough to fully appreciate the place during the earlier tour. A two story townhouse with a rooftop balcony and secret backdoor courtyard, this place was smack dab in the center of the French Quarter. This place was FANTASTIC.

Thanks to blog reader, Twolittlebirds, I knew about Luke restaurant's 50 cent happy hour. Matt couldn't wait to get his oyster happy hour on, so when the magic hour rolled around, we made our way to Luke, on Saint Charles just outside the madness of the French Quarter. The more casual restaurant offering of chef John Besh, Luke offers platters of huge ice cold oysters for just 50 cents from 4:00 - 6:00. We were all over it.

Luke was all polished brass and wood paneling, crisp dish towel napkins and formal waiters, with an upscale atmosphere that somehow managed to still exude a warmth that let you picture yourself with a burger and beer at the gleaming bar and knowing you'd feel right at home. In addition to cheap oysters, you can sample some of Luke's signature cocktails for half price. The Riverbend, a refreshing blend of vodka, basil syrup, lemon juice, blueberries, and ginger ale went down as smooth as a Gulf Coast oyster during happy hour.

When Matt had his fill, we walked a short distance to Bellocq, a dark and mysterious bar that serves as a tribute to the bordello era of New Orleans and is dedicated to the art of the 19th century cocktail. I loved the dim interior, filled with lush velvet drapes and plush sofas, it was like taking a step back in time. The bar takes its name from E.J. Bellocq, the famous photographer who secretly documented the prostitutes of the Storyville district — arguably the most famous Red Light District ever.

A whole section of the menu is devoted to cobblers, a throwback cocktail that consists of a base spirit, sugar, fresh fruit, and ice — a lot of ice. Cobblers are lower in alcohol than many other cocktails and are meant to be refreshing, smooth, and cold. Just holding one in an ornate wing back chair, you can imagine that you live in the bayou, with the high sun and even higher humidity, and just need a refreshing beverage to soothe your over-heated body. With one sip, I was instantly transported to the veranda of some huge plantation on a sticky, summer day.

I could have stayed in there all night, sipping cobblers and milk punches and pretending I was the southern belle and this was my decadent parlor, but we had dinner reservations at Cochon.

The restaurant’s name is French for pig, and one goal of this restaurant that seems to show up on every top NOLA restaurant list is to honor a Cajun tradition of producing cured, smoked, pressed and shredded pork delicacies. My goal? To find a dinner that didn't involve any of the too abundant Cajun tourist traps that churn out the same predictable menu.

We started off with the crawfish pie, a delicate buttery crust hiding a smoky crawfish etouffee inside.

Matt went for the oyster and bacon sandwich. A good choice if you like oysters, since Cochon makes its own bacon, deep fries the oysters, and throws some mayo into the equation. Even to an avowed non-oyster eater, that sandwich looked mighty fine.

I, however, went for the signature dish: the Cochon: listed on the menu as “Louisiana cochon with turnips, cabbage, pickled turnips and cracklins.” It may as well have been deep fried, covered in bacon and slathered with mayo, what with the way that slow-stewed meat was molded and packed into a golden, crisp-edged, savory chunk, laying atop a pile of cabbage and turnips that were almost as magical as the pork itself, with a velvety rich texture and loaded with the perfect balance of salt, sugar and vinegar. All of this delciousness was topped with the world's largest (and most delicious) pork rind.

Cochon has a big reputation to live up to. Did it live up to all the hype? One bite of that crispy pork cracklin and I was nodding a delicious, "Yes."

Saturday: Peench da Tails, Suck da Heads and Squeeze da Tip.

Matt and I woke up early, and as our friends slept in, we made the short walk over to Cafe du Monde. Yes, Cafe du Monde, that French Quarter establishment so heavily touristed it makes Graceland feel quaint.

I don't go here for the hype. I go here because I genuinely think they have the most delicious coffee and beignets to be had. Anywhere. Ever. Period.

I like to go early in the morning, when the wait staff are drawing slips for their table assignments and the green vinyl chairs are still piled up on the tables. The sidewalks smell of water and bleach and the tables aren't yet covered with the sticky mess of 13 previous customers. It's quiet and still and there isn't a line of people outside staring at you, willing you with their eyes to stop eating and leave already.

At that time of day, Cafe du Monde is just a wonderful little cafe with delicious hot coffee and tasty treats.

Ahhhh....beignets. Those crispy golden pillows of dough piled high like a deep fried masterpiece. Moist and chewy inside, toasty brown, and buried in a pile of powdered sugar so deep that by the time you leave, you look like the clumsiest member of the Medellín Cocaine Cartel. Bags of powdered sugar beg for the honor of giving their lives this way...... the only honor higher than getting to play a bag of drugs in a movie.

By the way, never wear black to Cafe du Monde.

We headed to Stanley! for breakfast because I heard they served their pancakes with vanilla ice cream. Pancakes with vanilla ice cream turned out to be exactly what I wanted on a Saturday morning.

Although Matt's fried oyster benedict looked mighty tasty.

It was a beautiful day, so we spent the rest of the morning just walking through the streets of the French Quarter, taking in the buildings, the musicians, and the art.

There is more entertainment to be had on Royal Street on a Saturday afternoon than most cities see in a month.

We even caught a couple of weddings, an absolutely spectacular affair in the French Quarter.

Where else can you get this much entertainment for free?

Well.....mostly free.

We did some sampling for lunch. Our first stop was unplanned. As we walked past the Jagerhaus, we couldn't help but notice the grill filled with sausages and the cooler filled with crawfish, potatoes, and corn. They were working up a crawfish boil! Apparently, after a couple of lean years, 2013 brought a bumper crop of mudbugs to NOLA and we were here right at the start of the season.

Matt might like crawfish as much as he likes oysters.

Me....I think they are an awful lot of work for a mighty small reward. And they are messy. There is no way to look attractive while eating crawfish. You end up with crap on your face and ooze on your hands, probably a severed leg or two near your elbow, you'll smell like sea water for at least an hour, and all you'll have to show for it is a little bit of tail meat (if you are a lazy eater like me...you won't find me sucking on the heads or trying to dig those microscopic little bits of meat out of their tiny little claws, no sir).

So, I sat politely by, working up my own appetite, while Matt had his fill. We were practically next door to the Erin Rose, so I grabbed Matt's hand and ducked inside.

"What are we doing here?" he asked as he looked around the smoky, dark little bar lined with old bar stools and a few video poker machines. It was loud and crowded and was a total dive.

"Trust me," I said as I dragged him through the main bar to the tiny back room.

There we found Killer Po Boys, the new Po Boy on the block. Who knew that behind the Erin Rose, you can find chef driven sandwiches with unique ingredients like Moroccan-spiced lamb sausage, shrimp with coriander and lime, and beef tongue finished with cream, plantain and pickled okra? Cam Boudreaux and April Bellow turn out inspired Po Boys at a tiny food window hidden behind a smoky little bar. And I was in on the secret.

I ordered up the special of the day: local, wild-caught catfish piled with pickled slaw made on their crusty, light-crumb banh mi-style loaf. Matt grabbed us a couple of bloody mary's from Erin Rose and we were in Po Boy heaven. I took one bite and melted into my barstool.

Sure, it's located in the back of a bar, seating was limited, it's cash only and you have to be at least 21 to enter, and it goes without saying that you must have at least a small tolerance for cigarette smoke and the ring of a poker machine, but with a po-boy like this coming in around $7 or so, this place was hard to beat.

We spent the afternoon with a fist full of dollar bills, wandering from one Royal Street act to another. There was swing dancing. There were trombones and acoustic guitars and bottle-capped tap shoes floating their way down the streets of the French Quarter.

We decided to take things in a different direction for dinner. Our first stop was supposed to be Bar Tonique. I had read about this cozy, craft cocktail bar that took pride in its fresh squeezed juices and house made syrups, and thought it might just be the perfect remedy for the noise of Bourbon Street. It seemed like just the place to hang our hat long enough to forget the screaming hordes that were throwing up on the sidewalk just a few blocks away.

That was, until we walked in and were slammed with a wall of cigarette smoke.

Sorry, Bar Tonique. No matter how quaint your establishment is and no matter how amazing your cocktails, it's not worth losing 10% of my lung capacity to second hand smoke and coming out with my hair smelling like Grandad's old ashtray for the rest of the night.

We walked right back out the door and headed toward Frenchmen Street, where I had heard some great music could be found.

Just past the edge of the Quarter, across Esplanade, you'll find historic Frenchmen Street where music pours out of every doorway and the sidewalks are lined with characters as colorful as the artwork that's painted on the buildings. You won't find shiny beads, frozen daiquiri stands, or t-shirt shops here. What you will find is an eclectic mix of jazz clubs and up and coming restaurants with a bit of art sprinkled in the mix. It's a unique and thriving bohemian neighborhood just a block from the French Quarter.

We put our names on the list at Three Muses, a relative new comer on Frenchmen's Restaurant Row housed inside a tiny storefront. When we were finally called inside, I marveled at the small space that was so incredibly warm and vibrant, with bold artwork, twinkling lights, and a bustling staff. And it was smoke free.

"You typically order at the bar," a waitress shouted to us as she passed by, handing us a napkin with the number 14 written on it, "You're table 14. If you catch me as I pass by, I'm happy to take your order to the bar. If not, just run up there."

The menu was made up of an assortment of tapas and small plates that made my head spin. Every time I settled on a few, a waiter carried a tray by that made me rethink my entire plan.

Matt says I order every meal like it's my last.

I finally settled and basically ended up ordering several plates of carbohydrates. That's what happens when I let myself get too hungry.

There were marinated olives, deep fried pickle chips, mac n cheese with brussels sprouts, french fries with feta, and smoked quail on top of savory turnip greens. There was strawberry shortcake for dessert.

It was lively and cozy all at the same time. The music played as people managed to dance in the few tiny spaces that existed between tables. The crowd buzzed and the band passed a hat from table to table for tips in between sets. I'm still not sure whether 3 Muses was a great restaurant with fabulous live music, or a music club with amazing food and cocktails, or a cocktail bar with great bands and terrific food. Whatever it was, it was a great place to spend a few hours on a Saturday night.

Sunday: Where y'at? Da Vieux Carre, Boo!

EAT restaurant was just a block away and with a BYOB Sunday Brunch, it seemed like just the place to start the day.

As we were seated at a bright and sunny table inside the quaint little restaurant, the water saw my champagne bottle and immediately brought a carafe of juice.

The day started with mimosas and sugary banana fritters dipped in peanut butter.

Then it was on to the Big Breakfast, a plump and juicy fried chicken breast, grits, fried eggs, and a giant fluffy biscuit. I truly believe most of the ills in the world can be cured with a really good biscuit.

A good way to ward off an impending biscuit coma is to walk and the French Quarter is a great place to do it.

Our friends wanted to see a New Orleans cemetery, so we made the short walk over to the Saint Louis Cemetery Number One. Established in the late 1700's, this is the oldest cemetery that still exists in New Orleans. It's an absolute maze of tombs and alleys that holds the remains of pirates, politicians, heroes of the Battle of New Orleans, an international chess champion, victims of the Yellow Fever epidemics and even a voodoo queen within its walls.

I noticed a tomb that was covered with triple x's and had an odd assortment of random items laid in front of it.

This tomb is the reputed burial place of Marie Laveau, the most powerful voodooienne to live in New Orleans. Apparently, the markings and items are offerings that people regularly leave for Marie in hope of receiving a wish or good fortune from her.

I am certainly not an expert in voodoo wish fulfillment, but if I sincerely believed that leaving some random junk beside the tomb of a dead voodoo queen would bring me a wish, I'd certainly think carefully about what I left. I mean, voodoo Marie might look favorably upon the guy that left her the bottle of Jamison or the the pretty scarf, but I'd hate to be the dumbass that left her that half used Chapstick or that soggy Sweet and Low packet.

We did some shopping in the French Market and decided to snack our way through the afternoon.

Snack stop #1: More beignets. Yum. Powdered sugar goodness.

Snack stop #2: Verti Marte Muffaletta. Olive salad + Zapp's Chips = supreme happiness.

Snack stop #3: Domenica's 1/2 price pizza happy hour. $6 wood fired pies and half price wine. Oh, and free cookies. Enough said.

Snack stop #4: (Are you feeling queasy yet?) Bourbon House for Oysters on the Half Shell.

It was our last night and so far, we had avoided Bourbon Street like it was a radioactive pit of nuclear waste. I'd rather spend an 8 hour flight trapped inside an airplane bathroom with the entire cast of Jersey Shore than spend more than 3 minutes on Bourbon Street. But, in fairness, this was our friends' first trip to New Orleans. How could we not let them have the Bourbon Street experience?

So, Bourbon Street it was.

My friend bought two wigs for $20 and really, really wanted to wear them. Hell. As long as I was going to be subjected to the torture of hand grenade drinks, pizza by the slice, and 32 ounce beers, I may as well do it in plastic green hair.

New Orleans isn't just a walking city, it's a walking-with-a-drink city, so we needed to get started with one of Bourbon Street's delightfully tacky frozen drinks to go. We ducked into Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop for a Voodoo Daiquiri. Hey, just because we were about to get our drink on along the boozy debauchery of Bourbon Street...don't think I was about to go into one of those places with blinking signs that pump gallons of industrial alcohol, food coloring, and bottom-shelf booze out of a slushee machine and into a 24 inch tall neon green plastic glass shaped suspiciously like a bong. I was going to try to keep it semi classy. Well....as classy as one can in a plastic green wig.

If you have to visit a Bourbon Street bar, well, this is as good a place as any. The tavern is one of the oldest buildings in the French Quarter and was reputedly once used by the privateer Jean Lafitte. The pub's dark, plain, authentic decor is made complete with wooden beams and walls, a long, plain bar area, and stark wooden tables and chairs. There is not a light bulb in sight...... candles are used during the late night hours. Many say Jean Lafitte still haunts this place. Not only one of the oldest buildings in the Quarter, it's reputedly one of the oldest bars in Americaes......or so we heard every time a mule-drawn carriage full of tourists passed by.

Sitting in the gloom of Lafitte’s with a drink in front of you, it’s entirely possible to believe that somehow the calendar has come unstuck and the streets are thronged with dark-eyed Creoles and fine gentleman and you are a runaway damsel looking for adventure.

Although, reality slaps you quickly when a frozen purple drink arrives in a giant styrofoam cup. Ah well....it was Bourbon Street after all.

The Voodoo Daiquiri is a simple combination of bourbon, everclear, and grape soda with crushed ice. It's tacky, but even I can admit it's delicious. You can't do New Orleans without at least one tacky frozen drink, so you may as well have it with a pirate. Right?

Drink cups in hand, we walked out onto Bourbon Street and took it all in. We saw a lot of Tacky Tourist Shops, Pizza By the Slice, drunk college kids with a string of beads in one hand and a sweaty pile of hope in the other, strip clubs, Frozen Drink Bars, and dudes passed out on the sidewalk while their friends took their picture with their iPhones. The smell was one of overflowing garbage mixed with vomit, mule piss, and the slight stench of sewage. It was lewd and stanky, filled with cheap baubles and plastic turtles.

We did, however, meet this very nice transvestite who told me where I could find size 12 zebra print platforms with goldfish in the heels, just in case I needed a pair.

And there was this guy. And his tiger. At a bar. Yes, those are whiskers on his face. I'd really like to know the story there.

Our cups were empty, so we took our friends inside Pat O'Brien's...most touristy place in New Orleans, but one we knew they would love. Why? Because there is a big courtyard, and a fountain, and giant red drinks. It's an obligatory rite of passage to drink at least one hurricane at Pat O'Brien's on your first trip to New Orleans and I didn't want our friends to miss the experience.

What's not to love?

Next, we wiggled into some seats at the Funky Pirate and ordered drinks that did not contain Red Dye 40 or enough sugar to make an entire day care hyperactive for a week. True, this place is the home of the Hand Grenade drink, but they also have a good old fashioned bar and a pretty fine house blues band.

Another first timer experience I didn't want them to miss was a 45 minute jazz set at Preservation Hall. The Hall is a ramshakle old building that has seen better days. After wandering through the sensory overload that is Bourbon Street, the Hall could easily be missed thanks to its understated subtlety. It's plain and old, free of neon and blinking lights. The building's face has been faded by time, now just a dingy gray facade fronted by simple shutters.

During its life, it has been a tavern, an inn, a photo studio and an art gallery. Since 1961 it has been a music hall dedicated to the preservation and honor of New Orleans jazz. On any given night, people line up outside and wait hours to pay their $15, filling the place to standing room only capacity, just to hear true New Orleans jazz.

Not a fan of lines, or of waiting, I had paid the few extra bucks for the "VIP" pass - only a handful of advance entry passes are available to each show, but for about $10 extra, you can bypass the line and get the front row seat. That was $10 well spent, in my opinion. Besides, I got to wear a big tag that said, "BIG SHOT." I thought it complimented my plastic green hair and mardi gras beads quite nicely. If you are going for tasteless, you should go all the way.

As the Preservation Hall Jazz Band played its mightiest, the room sat enraptured....some standing in the back, some sitting on plain wooden benches, others sitting cross legged on threadbare cushions tossed in the floor....everyone entranced by the lively show and the very history that the room seemed to throw you into as you listened. The single room's worn floorboards reverberated with the boom of the bass drum as dust and time and the steamy air of New Orleans swirled against the peeling walls and the smoky paintings of musicians long since passed.

For 45 minutes, we were able to be a part of something timeless and purely New Orleans.

It was late, and at our age, staying out until one of us passed out on the sidewalk wasn't really an attractive prospect. Besides, it just seemed wrong to follow Preservation Hall with a plastic monkey full of banana daiquiri and a glow necklace, so we decided to grab some late night eats and leave the bar hopping to those that were still young enough to recover the next day.

As we walked by a young girl whose friends were holding her hair back from her sweaty face as she clutched a giant plastic cup and vomited on her shoes, pausing in between gags to look up at them and tell them how much she loved them...I didn't envy their youth one bit.

Instead we walked over to Esplanade and into Port of Call. Two years ago, on our last trip to NOLA, I had spent the weekend dreaming of a juicy burger from Port of Call, but that burger was jerked mercilessly out of my clutching hands as we had to make a mad dash home half a day early because of a brewing storm front.

I was going to have that burger.

It was nearly 11:00 p.m. and I did not expect the wall of people that blocked my entrance to this tiny, understated restaurant. Undeterred, I pushed and shoved my way through the crowd until I found the girl with the pencil and notepad.

"How many?" she asked over the roar.

"Four," I said, trying to sound hungry and pathetic.

"The wait's just under an hour," she said.

I wimpered. I looked back at my grumpy crew, who was already mad at me for making them walk the extra 4 blocks in the cold when there were plenty of "Pizza by the Slice" places on the way to our townhouse. If one of them tried to pry that cheaply laminated Port of Call menu out of my hands at that moment, it would have been much like the time my mom forgot her wallet at the TG&Y in 1976 and they refused to take her check, leaving her no choice but the pry the box of Cracker Jacks out of my hands that I had been carrying around inside the store for thirty minutes.

I walked back over to where they were crammed against the wall by the door, sticky laminated menu firmly in my hands.

"Twenty minutes, tops." I said. Hey, all's fair when late night burgers are on the line.

Port of Call is the best kind of dive. If you didn't know it was there, you'd walk right past it without giving it a second glance. It has a cheap sign. It's filled with locals. It has a limited menu. It's dark and loud and crowded inside.

But I knew to go there for two things: A grilled burger topped with shredded Cheddar cheese and a loaded baked potato on the side. I wouldn't leave until I had them.

We were finally seated and I scanned my menu.

BURGERS

All our burgers are half pound ground fresh daily, and come with baked potato with butter. Lettuce, tomatoes, onion and pickles on side. Sour cream, cheddar cheese, or mushrooms on potato extra. Chives and Bacon Bits by request—no charge.

I wiped the drool off my chin.

When these showed up, no one was mad at me any more. They were too busy eating.

Yeah, it was worth the wait.

Monday: Bonjou, Y'all.

The sun was shining bright on Jackson Square. Cafe du Monde was setting up their chairs, busy city workers were spraying off the previous night's fun from the sidewalks with soapy water, and the tarot card readers were setting up their colorful tables along the iron fence.

Our time in the French Quarter had come and gone. Ah, New Orleans. Where else can you buy vampire teeth, get your palm read, dance in a parade, pay $1 to have your picture taken with a guy painted silver, eat a gourmet meal and walk next door for a sandwich in a bag, and hear an original song played by what might be the world's best trombone player all on the same street corner? You'll be asked asked fifteen times in a day, "Bet I can tell you where you got dem shoes!" and everywhere you look someone has a bucket or a box or a hat stuck out trying to earn a dollar. You can buy a voodoo doll, a homemade prailine, and a lottery ticket in the same place and chances are you'll see at least one thing that makes you laugh out loud and another that makes you want to cry on each city block.

It's as rich as it is dingy, as refined as it is ecclectic. It's full of hope and promise and color. You don't even have to look very hard for it. Just show up, have a dollar or two in your hand, and the magic of New Orleans will find you.

Bonjour Mes Amis!

Day Three: Coming Uncorked

I woke up for the second day in a row with a hangover. Wow. This might be a record. Or an all time low. I wasn't sure which category to place it in.

I was going to have to get myself in order. Today was Duval Uncorked....a mile long extravaganza of wine and food tastings. I did the only thing I could: I popped some Advil, drank some water, and powered on. There was food to eat! There was wine to drink! I might need a liver transplant at the end of this trip, but I would not be stopped.

A freakishly early riser, even after staying out all night drinking champagne, I was wide awake while the rest of my gang tried to sleep off the last of their bubbles. It was another gorgeous morning, so I grabbed my bike and took a ride.

Drawn by the smell of freshly baking bread, I found myself at the Old Town Bakery.

As long as I was there, I figured I may as well start carb loading for the day. I grabbed a bag full of pastries and some hot coffee and pedaled them back to the house to see if anyone else was awake, secretly hoping no one was so that I could eat all of it by myself.

Since Duval Uncorked started at 3:30, we opted to do an early brunch at Louie's. Hangovers are for sissies, so we started off with Bloody Marys and house made Sangria.

That was followed by the crab cake Caesar salad for me and the jerk grilled shrimp and plantains for Matt.

While my salad was phenomenal, I have to admit I was a little jealous when I saw John's hangover burger.

I received a text from TraceyG inviting us to do Duval Uncorked with her group because 1) they had a couple of locals with them who knew the best stops and 2) she thought it might be nice for us to meet when we were not in ridiculous costumes chugging champagne from the bottle.

We met up with them at the Southernmost Cafe where the Duval Uncorked check-in tables were set up.

While Tracey and her group slipped up to the VIP line, we stood in the regular line with the common folk. I might have to get me one of those VIP passes next year! Although, I will admit, the line wasn't that bad and the KWFWF staff kept it moving along nicely.

It was a gorgeous day for a drunken stumble classy wine stroll down Duval Street.

Upon check-in, we were each given a sipping glass on a lanyard that we could wear around our necks. Like a little wino necklace. How cute was that?

Then it was time to let the tastings begin!

Duval Uncorked starts on one end of Duval Street. You are given a map of stops, with each stop representing a participating business that is offering wine, food, or in many cases, both. There were about 40 stops in all and we had 4 hours. Sounds very do-able, doesn't it? You try herding a group of semi-inebriated adults through a maze of food, people, and wine.

Our fearless leader seemed up to the task. The Captain, husband of Key West blogger, Prissy in Paradise (aka the beautiful Donna), did his best to keep us moving and get us to the best stops of the tour.

Have you ever heard the phrase, "herding chickens?" Poor man never had a chance.

I'll do my best to recall where we were and what we had, but as we neared the Mallory Square end...things got less clear.

We started off at Pearl's Patio, a ladies-only hotel that offered us bacon wrapped dates. Coming from Tennessee, these were what I would call gussied-up pigs in a blanket. Tasty nonetheless. There was also music by the pool.

Our next stop was the Cork & Stogie, a cigar and wine bar in case the name didn't make that obvious. I believe we had some type of brie and raspberry puffs. We enjoyed them on the breezy patio.

Next up was the Alan S. Maltz gallery, not only filled with beautiful photography, but they also had a cupcake tower from Key West Cakes. Next door we sampled wine at Archeo Gallery, a gallery of expensive rugs. I had to wonder about the person who decided to serve red wine to strangers in the back of a densely packed showroom filled with beautiful rugs....

We then returned to the scene of our current hangovers...the Lush Bar and the Green Pineapple. They treated us to smoked fish dip and crab bisque from the Stoned Crab. They also had a sweet orange wine...Orange Columbo apertif wine.

After stuffing ourselves with delicately sampling that amazing fish dip, we wandered over to the Rum Bar at the Speakeasy Inn. Can you believe they were giving away painkillers? Because we certainly needed some hard liquor to put on top of all that wine.

Sweet nectar of the Gods. They were delicious.

The next samplings were mini key lime pies (either standard or chocolate covered) from Key West Key Lime Pie and a wine laden sorbet from Flamingo Crossing. Sorry...there are no photos of that sorbet. I sucked it down so fast I got a brain freeze.

There was more wine at Grand Vin, champagne ....somewhere.....(things were starting to become fuzzy at this point....thank God we had the Captain or I'd probably still be sitting in an alley somewhere trying to figure out where the hell I was....)

Blackfin Bistro offered more wine and a nice cheese platter.

Then it was on to La Petit Paris. I was not thrilled to find out they were offering calamari....and it wasn't even fried. Not a fan of the squid, I can typically choke it down if it's deep fried and slathered in marinara sauce. No, this was sauteed. All nice and squishy chewy.

I gave it a go. Why not? When in Paris, right? Or was that Rome? Besides, I was in Key West, so it really didn't apply....whatever. The wine haze was settling in.

This is the face of someone not very keen on squid sucking a nice mouthful out of a plastic cup and attempting to swallow it without chewing:

I was proud of myself for trying something new. I ate about half of it, to give it a fair shake. The flavor was actually quite nice, but I simply couldn't make it past the texture. Like boiled worms. And I definitely couldn't eat this guy. Even after 19.5 glasses of wine, that was simply asking too much...where I come from, we call that bait.

With the Captain leading our motley crew, we powered on. The next stop was Croissants de France, who had a little mini-buffet of curried chicken salad puffs, bruschetta, and fruit set up in their lovely garden patio. Then it was on to Vino's on Duval for an exceptional wine tasting.

We were having a ball. It only became more fun when we were ushered into 801 Bourbon by a drag queen offering jello shots. Donna was surprised when she got more than a jello shot.

Sometimes you get a jello shot. Sometimes you get licked across the chest by a drag queen. 801 Bourbon is like a box of chocolates...you never know what you're going to get.

Despite the HUGE line outside DJ's Clam Shack, we piled in because everyone was coming out with little cups of chowder saying it was worth the line. Besides, we got to wait with this little guy:

The chowder was exceptional. And yes, it was worth the line.

After that...there were more galleries....more wine....my brain growing fuzzier by the minute....

We arrived at what had to be the most interesting stop of the day....Leather Master of Key West. They had things in there I didn't even understand....but they definitely got my vote for best server. Of course I meant the lady in the green shirt. What did you think I meant? I barely even noticed the guy with the chiseled abs and bare ass.

Then there were lobster pizzettes at Island Style, chocolate covered pineapple at Kilwin's, more wine at Wet Paint Gallery, a unique coconut wine at the Key West Cigar Club, and chocolate mousse at the Hard Rock Cafe.

We finished strong with conch fritters at Caroline's Cafe.

Duval Uncorked was definitely a fun time. I had seen a lot of shops and galleries I might not have gone into otherwise, and the food and wine were sampling heaven.

In need of some substance, someone suggested we head over to Mangia Mangia. It wasn't far away, they could accommodate our giant group, and a giant plate of carbohydrates might just keep me from having a third hangover, so we headed that way.

I could smell the garlic from the sidewalk. I had visions of a platter of perfect al dente pasta with a savory sauce loaded with meatballs, and maybe a handful of shredded parmesan tossed in for good measure. I couldn't have been more disappointed when there were no meatballs on the menu.

So what did I do? I went in an entirely different direction.

Note: it's not a good idea to do some creative ordering when you have had 37 glasses of wine, no matter how small the glass is.

I am not sure WHAT I was thinking when I ordered THIS.

Actually, I'm not even sure what Mangia Mangia was thinking when they came up with that dish. What...was the chef just sitting there one day and said, "Hmmm....I think I'll take some huge rigatoni and throw in a little shrimp. Well...that doesn't look very good...maybe if I toss some half cooked tomatoes on it, that will liven things up. Nope. Still needs something. I know, I'll dump a salad on top."

Seriously. What was that? It only made it worse when I looked across the table at Matt's plate. I think I had to wipe the drool off my chin. There might not be anything I hate more than a misorder.

Day Four: Last Call

I was so happy when I woke up without a hangover the next day that I celebrated by riding my bike over to Glazed Donuts while waiting for everyone else to wake up.

I expected doughnuts. I did not expect fried dough perfection. This place had the most amazing looking doughnuts I think I have ever laid eyes on. With flavors like Blood Orange Bullseye, Key Lime, Pina Colada, and Maple Glazed Bourbon Bacon, I didn't even know where to start.

I started by ordering a key lime, banana dulce de leche, chocolate lovers, and a maple glazed bourbon bacon.

If you don't think happiness can come in a cardboard box, then you have never been to Glazed Donuts.

It was an overcast morning and the guys were moving slow, so I talked Teresa into going to see some birds.

Days before, while eating lunch at the New York Pasta Garden, one of the waiters noticed my fascination with the parrots and told me I should visit Nancy Forrester's Secret Garden. Well, when I noticed that it was less than a block from our house, I was in.

I will admit that we had to go around the block twice before we figured out where the entrance was. That just gave us more time to look at all the wonderful houses. I think Key West has the best porches in the entire United States.

We put our $20 in the jar on the table and stepped through the gate. I'm glad we did. Nancy is an artist and environmental activist who has been rescuing abused and orphaned birds for 25 years. The birds were sweet, funny, and entertaining. At 10 a.m. each day, you can learn about the birds and even hold some of them.

I literally could have stayed in there all day. Teresa finally reminded me that the guys were waiting and it was getting dangerously close to lunchtime.

Apparently, they hadn't all eaten 4 doughnuts that morning.

We grabbed sandwiches at the Eaton Street Seafood Market before riding our bikes over to the KWFWF's outdoor wine market. Not a restaurant, but an actual seafood market, Eaton Street will literally take your seafood out of the cooler and cook it for you for lunch. The softshell crab sandwich was fantastic.

Then it was on to the outdoor wine market where we could sample more wine (if we hadn't managed to get enough already) and peruse a varied assortment of farm fresh goodies and handmade wares that had been crafted by local artisans.

I laughed when we arrived just as TraceyG and her husband were pulling up. I assured them we were not stalking them...and I think she believed me. Thank goodness she never found that GPS tracker I put on her bike.

After that, it was back to the house for cocktails and downtime with the girls. All this eating and drinking was exhausting!

Matt had discovered another great oyster deal, 50 cent oysters all day at the White Tarpon. I told him to count me in because I had heard that they had a mind blowing key lime martini and god knew I needed another drink!

Expecting something creamy, which was the only experience I'd had with key lime martinis, this was a pleasant surprise: not creamy at all, shaken tableside, not overly sweet, and poured so heavy that we couldn't even pick the glasses up.

John and Teresa wanted to do some shopping, so Matt and I sauntered over to Santigo's Bodega for some snacks and sangria.

I had wanted to try Santiago's on previous trips, but we just never got around to it. It was an overcast afternoon with just the perfect amount of breeze, and it just seemed like a great day to sit outside on their patio with a glass of sangria.

The food was GOOD. We tried the empanadas, shrimp and chorizo skewers, and saganaki (flaming haloumi cheese sprinkled with oregano) with warm pita bread. I also ordered the angel hair with meatballs, because the disastrous meatball denial and subsequent misorder at Mangia Mangia was still stinging my psyche.

The meatballs definitely helped.

John and Teresa didn't feel like getting back out, so Matt and I wrapped up the day with a late night trek to Taco Night at 2 Cent Gastropub. What a good idea! We loved this place. Twinkling lights, live music, great wine, and $5 tacos!

Departure Day

It's always the day I hate, but I think my liver and digestive system were looking forward to some down time.

I made a final pastry run to Old Town Cafe and grabbed coffee at Cuban Coffee Queen.

Before I knew it, we were wheels up and headed into the great blue yonder.

I have my calendar marked though. Looks like I have just 346 days to get myself ready for the 5th annual Key West Food and Wine Festival. Who knows, maybe I'll see you there.

Arrival Day: Just in Time for Sunset

It was cold in Tennessee. It had been snowing. Things were icing over. My car door was frozen shut when I tried to go to work. It was definitely time to head somewhere warm.

When we arrived in Key West, it was in the 70s and the sun was just beginning to set. I think the Key West sunset I saw from our plane might be the most beautiful Key West sunset I have seen yet.

It was late and we were famished, so we headed to the closest place where we knew Matt would be able to find some ice cold oysters, Half Shell Raw Bar.

Despite having been here on multiple trips, this was actually the first time we had ever really eaten here, our previous visits being relegated to the bar while Matt mercilessly sucked down platters of 50 cent Happy Hour oysters. The first thing he noticed was that the HH oysters were off the menu. Looks like we'd have to look elsewhere for cheap oysters.

Feeling sorry for Matt's loss, I consoled myself by eating a whole lobster with crab stuffing, an order of Key West pinks, and a slice of key lime pie.

I'm not sure if Matt felt better, but I certainly did.

Day One: Let the Eating Begin.

I hadn't properly conditioned myself before the trip by eating ridiculous amounts of food and consuming absurd volumes of wine, and I was worried that my stomach and liver were not ready for the assault that was at hand. So, much like the fool who has never run before and decides to start her first marathon at a full on sprint, I thought I'd start things off with a giant boozy breakfast at Pepe's.

Worried that the mimosas, 2 eggs, and giant slab of banana bread wouldn't be enough to start the much needed stomach stretching, I also opted for the fried mashed potato patty special.

It was a good call.

After sufficient carb-loading, we got our bikes at Eaton's and spent the morning shopping and looking at all the wonderful little houses that Key West seems to have hidden in every nook and cranny. I can literally spend all day in Key West doing nothing more than riding my bike and gawking at stuff.

My original lunch plans got shot to hell when we found ourselves on the opposite end of town from our original destination and RAVENOUS (the stomach stretching and carb loading were apparently starting to work).

I surprised everyone by not throwing a tantrum and launching myself onto the sidewalk in a fit of hysterics, which is what I typically do when things don't go exactly according to my plans, and walked into a restaurant I had never heard of and knew nothing about (apparently the early a.m. alcohol consumption was also working - if nothing else, it made me significantly more accommodating).

Besides, this restaurant had parrots.

And glasses of wine that were bigger than my head for $7.

That is not just an illusion of perspective. That was a seriously huge glass of wine.

They also had gargantuan sandwiches. Apparently, the New York Pasta Garden is the Texas of Key West - everything is bigger.

With it being our first KWFWF, we had not opted for the VIP passes that included almost all events, we had only chosen one event per day. Since our daily event wasn't until later that evening, we made it a leisurely trip back to the house, doing plenty of gawking along the way.

So a dog walks into a bar...........(by the way, that guy was drinking tequila).

Having realized there were no 50 cent oysters to be had on this trip at Half Shell, Matt had spent the previous night tossing and turning, in a restless fit of desperation. He was soothed at breakfast, however, when he saw that Pepe's had 60 cent oysters during happy hour. I was happy because I saw that Pepe's had happy hour margaritas made with their house squeezed juice. We headed that way.

After we did the happy hour thing at Pepe's, we realized we had time to make it to Mallory Square for sunset, something I never get tired of seeing.

I guess when you have a boat this big, you don't care if you are being an asshole by parking it in the one EXACT SPOT where it will block the view that hundreds of people have been waiting an hour to see. I guess if I had a yacht with a helicopter on it, I might not care either.

It was finally time for our first official KWFWF event. We had tickets to one of the neighborhood strolls. We had chosen the Petronia Street stroll because the event guide just made it sound like the one I didn't want to miss: "On Thursday evening you can board the Old Town Trolley and ride through Key West's Historic old town to take a stroll to some of Key West’s most famous and unique neighborhoods and sample food & wine from our one-of-a-kind restaurants. Petronia Street is the historic entrance to Bahama Village. Stops include can't-miss Santiago's Bodega's selection of Spanish-style tapas, world famous and perennial favorite Blue Heaven, sweet and savory crepe favorites fron Brittany, France at La Creperie Key West and Sugaree Shack, the most recent addition to a fabulous restaurant row."

It might have been overzealous to have 2 of Pepe's margaritas before heading out on a wine stroll that included 5 glasses of wine....but that thought didn't cross my mind until the next morning.

We boarded the trolley that would take us to our first stop - Santiago's Bodega. We were each given an etched wine glass that was ours to refill along the way and to keep once the night was over. Each glass was filled with a New Age White White Cocktail, one of Argentina's hottest wines, often served on the rocks with a slice of lime, referred to as a "Tincho," named after the boyhood nickname of the cocktail's creator, Valentin Eduardo Bianchi, third-generation owner of the winery. Despite the exotic nature of our first wine, the trolley ride was quiet and uneventful. Our group wasn't (yet) a rowdy one and everyone was simply looking forward to seeing what the night had to offer.

We were dropped off at Santiago's Bodega, an intimate tapas restaurant that I had been itching to try on each trip to Key West due to its consistently high marks from diners. I felt sorry for the patrons who were dining there that night, possibly unaware that this rambling horde of people was about to descend upon their quiet dinner, glasses in hand, ready to line up and see what bite Santiago's had prepared for us.

We were given a Crostini topped with manchego cheese, roasted sweet peppers, and prosciutto and finished with a white balsamic reduction. Small, but tasty. It was paired with a glass of 2010 Matchbook Dunnigan Hills Chardonnay.

As we all stood around, glasses in hand, one small crostini to two glasses of wine, everyone started to get more colorful. Or maybe it was just me.

We "strolled" toward Blue Heaven, the next stop on our tour. We were shown back into the courtyard where we found pork tenderloin medallions with a curry butter sauce and mango chutney. It was quite delicious. It was paired with a glass of 2010 Shooting Star Pinot Noir.

For those of you who have not been keeping up, I had now had 2 Pepe's margaritas, 3 glasses of wine, and 3 bites of food.

That's probably what made me think I could hula hoop. And ride a stationary carousel horse.

At this point, I was fuzzy. The wine to food ratio had been extremely disproportionate and I was in need of some food with substance.

God bless La Creperie. When we walked in, they had an assembly line of crepes going that made my head spin. Or was that the wine? Whatever. It was OUTSTANDING. They were cheerful, they were fast, and they were churning out fresh, hot delicious crepes that were not only delicious but were BIG.

Oh thank you dear sweet lord.

We even had a choice: red velvet, key lime, or Nutella. I promptly got into the red velvet line and patiently waited my turn. I received my crepe and a glass of Pillar Box Red Blend from Australia. I really can't tell you about the wine....I was devouring that crepe like a woman who had just gotten out of prison.

We had come to the last stop on our tour: the Sugaree Shack who loaded us down with cupcakes and a glass of Cigar Box Reserve Malbec.

There is nothing that makes a drunk girl happier than a cupcake.

Unless it's two cupcakes.

Day Two: Take Two Aspirin and Call Me In the Morning

It could have been worse. Yes, I had a bit of a headache and I was moving a little slowly, but all things considered, I was doing pretty good considering that I had been clutching my wine glass with two hands by the end of the night, licking frosting off my fingers.

I was in search of strong coffee and I found it a short stroll from the house at 5 Brothers.

We had the girls with us and 5 Brothers seemed to be the doggie place to go. These guys told us so:

Seriously, is there anything cuter than a giant pack of Corgis?

One cafe con leche with sugar and one egg sandwich on Cuban bread later, I was feeling pretty okay. The girls gave 5 Brothers two paws up.

Our KWFWF events for the day weren't until late that evening. I had opted for special dinner being offered at Southernmost Cafe followed by the much anticipated "Let Them Eat Cake" party.

I was tempted by the Grand Tasting, but at $130 a ticket, I just couldn't convince my group to go. Besides, with my unsophisticated palate, if I paid $130 for a wine tasting I'd be like the fat kid at the buffet, trying to get my money's worth by consuming in bulk, no doubt ending up like an unwanted poor relation that shows up at a country club wedding, gets drunk on boxed wine, and winds up on stage singing "Love Stinks" while everyone pretends not to watch.

Looking for a new Key West experience, I had booked us a charter boat for half a day. We weren't looking for a day at the beach. We wanted to do something new, see things from the water, and get the girls out for the day. "Take Me There Charters" advertised itself as "dog friendly," so that sealed the deal.

We were going on a boat day!

Cpt. Tommy was incredibly easy going. We just told him that we simply wanted to ride and see some sights...maybe a dolphin, maybe a cool beach, whatever he recommended. We weren't looking to swim or snorkel, we were just out for some air.

Although it was beautiful, it was windy. Despite the challenges, Cpt. Tommy gave us a great day.

We first went to an area he called the mud keys, about 15 miles northeast of Key West. These were small mangrove islands that were highly dissected by navigable creeks. As we approached the area, the colors of the water were striking.

What was usually clear blue water was sort of a cloudy greenish, due to the time of year and the wind, but wow, it was still beautiful.

Then we went looking for dolphins. We knew we were in the right place when we saw this boat. It had a very sophisticated dolphin tracker.

Laugh, but that dog spots dolphins. It would bark and point when it saw one. Apparently, as a puppy, it got so excited the first time it saw dolphins that it jumped in the water in the middle of a pod. No one knew what to do....or what would happen. Apparently, the dolphins checked the puppy out and then moved on their way, leaving it alone. The dog grew up and learned not to jump in the water, but it never lost its love for the little creatures and now spends its days on a boat, happily watching for them in the waves.

The boat dog looked. We looked.

And what do you know....we found dolphins!

Cpt. Tommy pointed out a mother and baby. I truly don't think I have ever seen anything cuter than a baby dolphin.

Unless maybe it was that pack of Corgis. Or that pug drinking tequila at the bar.

When we'd had our fill of frolicking sea creatures, Cpt. Tommy asked if we'd like to go to a deserted island called Boca Grande and let the pups get out to stretch their legs.

We pulled up to a long stretch of white sand. I made a mental note, "MUST COME BACK IN SUMMER."

Not only was it peaceful and gorgeous, it sure made for some happy dogs!

Cpt. Tommy brought out some chairs and we just took a load off for a while. We could have stayed longer, he had already kept us out past our charter time and made it clear we could stay out as long as we wanted, but we hadn't packed a lunch, not anticipating more than a half day, and stomachs were starting to growl.

We packed up the pups and headed back to the marina.

When we got back we were STARVING. We passed by Paseo on our way back to the house and I knew in an instant what I wanted.

Paseo bills itself as "Caribbean" fare and serves it up in a simple shop with a counter and a few outdoor tables.

I wanted to try their famous fire roasted corn: a perfectly charred corn on the cob slathered in butter, salt, lime, cheese, and cilantro.

I also got the Caribbean bowl: jasmine rice smothered in black beans, warm salsa, shredded cheese, sour cream, jalepenos, and one unbelievably divine chicken thigh....all served with love, peace, and a handful of tortilla chips.

Oh. My. Goodness.

I practically needed to smoke a cigarette after eating that meal.

Our dinner plans were at 7:00, so we took it easy for the rest of the day.

I had made reservations that night at Southernmost Cafe when I saw they had a special KWFWF dinner featuring lobster.

Southernmost Cafe has a great location right on the ocean, so we had been several times for lunch, but we had never been for dinner. I couldn't imagine a better setting.

The dinner started off with a lobster bisque, which I expected to be heavy on the bisque and light on the lobster. I was pleasantly surprised to find it filled with huge chunks of tender Maine lobster. This was paired with a glass of Round Hill Chardonnay. Next up was a grilled half tail on served on top of lobster mac & cheese topped with a chili lime buerre blanc paired with a glass of Mark West Pinot Noir. When I thought it couldn't get any better, I was brought a key lime mousse with a glass of Zenin Winemakers Moscato.

Heaven.

It was time for "Let Them Eat Cake" at the Lush Bar in the Green Pineapple.

TraceyG had not originally planned to attend the KWFWF due to some trip conflicts. Disappointed, because I thought it would be great to meet her, imagine how excited I was when she told me she and her husband were going to make the trip down after all. We agreed to meet up at the Lush party (no pun intended...but wow...what a perfect name for a place to have this party....).

My group was leery of any party that I dragged them to that involved costumes. They have been that way ever since New Year's Eve 2010 when I saw that a local bar was having an "All 80's New Year's Eve" and convinced them all to go in costume. It wasn't my fault. The ad said, "Costumes Encouraged." Well....we walked into a bar filled with wall-to-wall people and.....we were the only ones in costume.

And our costumes were not such that we could blend. We had not been subtle.

Okay, John and Teresa might have been able to blend, but Matt looked like a gay biker and I looked like some Madonna/Cyndi Lauper reject with giant hair.

They never forgave me.

So....when I knew there was a potential costume opportunity, I checked with the girl in the know, TraceyG.

"Is this a 'wear a mask' event or is this a full-on costume event?" I asked.

"I have heard from my inside sources that costumes are a GO," she replied. "It may just be me and you, but I'm going all the way."

So I pulled out my inner Marie Antoinette and let her freak flag fly.

I was in girlie girl heaven. There was cake. There was champagne. There was a DJ pumping out dance tunes. We munched on cupcakes with glittery sprinkles and the champagne flowed. Everyone looked fantastic.

I was finally able to meet TraceyG and she was every bit as funny in person as she is in her blog, but she really stole my heart when she started drinking out of the champagne bottle. I thought no one did that but me!

And yes, that is my real hair. I decided to forego the wig and instead employed a foolproof tactic from my 80's high school days involving a giant can of superfreeze hair spray and a hair dryer. Those of you ladies who were teens in the 80's know EXACTLY what I'm talking about.

(Photo courtesy of borrowed shamlessly hijacked from the KWFWF and Sheelman Photography)

(Photo courtesy of borrowed shamlessly hijacked from the KWFWF and Sheelman Photography)

Yes.....there was too much champagne consumed....but who cares. It was a great night!

(Photo courtesy of borrowed shamlessly hijacked from the KWFWF and Sheelman Photography)