The gutters on Bourbon Street in New Orleans on the morning after a big night are filled with as foul a swill as you can imagine. Picture a stagnant soup of piss, vomit, beer, the dregs of countless fruity rum concoctions, wads of paper, shards of glass, strings of beads, coins -- in other words, the debris of depravity. Sunday morning, March 18th, 9:00 am. While most of the Big Easy slept off a Saint Patrick's Day hangover, the Bunny and I strolled down Bourbon Street in search of breakfast. It was mostly deserted, except for the city sanitation workers who were busily mopping up the mess, a few random still-drunks, and a handful of early risers like us. Half a dozen or so blocks into our walk, we noticed a family headed our way. Parents, a couple of kids, aged maybe five and seven; everyone dressed in the standard vacation attire of logo-emblazoned sweatshirts, jeans, and Nikes. They'd been meandering in the street, zig-zagging back and forth. Suddenly, they halted right in front of us. To our utter horror and disbelief, the mom and the younger of the two kids swooped into the gutter and began fishing about in the rancid liquid and garbage, triumphantly pulling out strings of discarded beads. It was hard enough to look at or smell this noxious sludge; but to actually put one's hands into it, to allow one's child to swish his pudgy fingers about in it, well, what comes to mind here? Could it be Hell? I admit to being a little germ phobic, but who in their right mind would reach into the fetid gutters of Bourbon Street for a string of plastic beads? These very same beads -- minus that wretched effluvium of course -- were for sale in the French Market at twenty-four strands for two dollars. Thus began our Totally Sober Tour of New Orleans.

There's a lot to see and do in New Orleans when you're awake and not completely blotto. We prowled every inch of the French Quarter, and saw all sorts of unusual things. There was a middle-aged woman walking down the street with a large tropical bird perched on her shoulder. Her shoulders and back were heavily spattered with guano. The Bunny studied this remarkable sight and commented, "Even pirates knew enough not to carry the damn things around on their shoulders all day long." Little boys were tap dancing on the street, using the metal lids of juice bottles for shoe taps. Street musicians of every kind played and sang and solicited requests. One guitarist, looking like he'd wandered off the set of a 1980's Poison video and never found his way back, approached a woman in her late sixties. "Hey, I really like your Hard Rock Café jacket" he smirked. "I can play something for you. C'mon, live it up a little!" The woman declined. I think she was frightened by his excessive hair mousse and striped pants -- I know I was.

After cruising down Decatur Street and through Louis Armstrong Park, we headed over to what used to be the J&M Music Shop. This was a legendary recording studio where the careers of icons like Fats Domino and Jerry Lee Lewis and Ray Charles were launched. Today it's a combination café/laundromat called Hula Mae's Wash Café. A few doors down from that, I tripped over a raised brick in the sidewalk, and fell flat on my face -- and eight months pregnant body - in the street. I tried mightily to catch myself (and still have the stiff, aching biceps and triceps to prove it) but failed. A trio of teenage boys walked past and laughed -- just another drunken tourist, right? We limped back to our hotel, where I curled up on the bed and cried for half an hour, convinced that I'd just killed our baby. My husband fed me an orange, stroked my hair, and assured me that everything was fine. Luckily, it was. My oversize Kenneth Cole messenger bag stuffed with the Fodor's guide had cushioned my fall. I'm an even bigger fan of Kenneth Cole now than I was before, which is saying a lot. How can you argue with stylish, protective urban assault gear that doubles as a purse?

We strolled through the Garden District, making the obligatory pilgrimage to the home of author Anne Rice. Lafayette Cemetery, with its spooky tombs and aboveground vaults, is a must-see for the ghoulish. Who doesn't love a good graveyard? There are two wonderful old churches in that part of town, St. Mary's Assumption and St. Alphonsus (where Anne Rice's own parents were married). We walked into St. Alphonsus to see the stained glass and found ourselves right in the middle of their St. Joseph's Day Festival. This is a very big holiday in Sicilian-American communities. There was snazzy Italian cha-cha music playing, and the altar was laden with offerings, most of them in the form of bread and cakes. Loaves of bread in wonderful shapes -- stars, crowns, crosses, and woven sandals, even a giant golden-brown alligator -- were heaped in great mounds. In the courtyard of the church, volunteers were serving plates of pasta and sweets, with wine and soft drinks. Everyone was welcoming and in the mood to celebrate. "How cool are Catholics?" we mused as we joined our fellow papists for cookies and fellowship -- great fun. Later that evening, we headed to a tiny Italian restaurant in the Quarter for dinner. Irene's doesn't take reservations, so we waited, along with a small crowd of our fellow diners, as the local parish priest blessed the makeshift altar set up in the back of the restaurant. Each of us then received a gift of cookies and bread in honor of St. Joseph's Day. We were feeling very festive after all of this, so we ordered Irene's special dessert, a flaming baked Alaska. When this massive grappa-soaked ice cream confection arrived at our table in a blaze of blue flame, we clinked our forks to St. Joseph and dug right in. Never miss a chance to have your food set afire -- life's too short.

Just outside New Orleans, you'll find the Great River Road, which winds for miles along the Mississippi, and is dotted with wonderful old plantation homes. We visited Destrehan Plantation, which can be seen in the movie, "Interview With The Vampire". It was built in 1787. Over the years, sugarcane and indigo were farmed there; it was purchased by an oil company; and for a period of twelve years, from 1958 till 1971, was vacant and nearly destroyed by vandals. Our guide, a courtly gentleman with a very dry wit, explained that he was wearing the uniform of a Yankee officer because the Union Army had occupied Destrehan during the Civil War. We walked from room to room, our guide patiently explaining that no, the elevator wasn't original to the house, and yes, these were, in fact, the original floors. He pointed out a large, solid marble bathtub that had been a gift from Napoleon Bonaparte. It weighed nearly a ton, making it one of the few things that vandals had been unable to steal. Our guide told us a funny story: thieves did try to steal the tub. Three men crept into the house, leaving another posted as a lookout on the road. They used short-wave radios to communicate. Unfortunately, they selected the same frequency used by the local Sheriff's Department, which monitored the entire crime-in-progress. Caught red-handed, they were prevented from stealing Napoleon's tub, though they did manage to damage it. The guide then showed us six engravings of Napoleon and his brothers, at which time my husband whispered, "You look a lot like them." I think every woman wants to hear that she resembles a tiny, power-mad tyrant, don't you? He tried to defend this so-called "compliment" by saying that after all, Napoleon was Italian -- just like me. Mussolini was Italian too; I don't particularly want to look like him either. We ended up learning a lot on our tour of Destrehan: the average human being can cause more destruction in twelve years than the Civil War, the Union Army, and over two hundred years of the sultry Louisiana climate combined.

Next stop: the Louisiana Swamp Tour. We made the mistake of using our AAA membership discount to book our spots on the boat, which resulted in our being the only passengers to be given stickers reading "Gator Bait". Everyone else got to be an "Honorary Cajun". Despite this uncomfortable beginning -- oh, and we were late because I could not for the life of me decipher the doodle that passed for a road map on the brochure -- we ended up having a big time in the bayou. We saw lots of herons, cranes, and alligators in the wild, and I even got to hold a baby alligator in my hands. Interesting fact: in the swamps, an acre of land is lost every six minutes to erosion. After tipping our Cajun captain, we headed to our next destination: the Mardi Gras Museum. Mark rolled his eyes so much at this that I feared he'd damage them and be unable to properly enjoy the costumes and displays awaiting us. Fodor's assured us that this museum was "the next best thing to being at Mardi Gras". I wouldn't go that far, but it only cost three bucks to get in, and we did learn all sorts of things. Like, what King Cake is all about, and that the daughter of Jefferson Davis was once a Carnival Queen.

Our last day in the Big Easy was anything but. We started out at the Audubon Zoo, which just plain rocks. It's beautifully laid out, with lots of gardens and lovely buildings. There are white Bengal Tigers, a pair of handsome elephants, jaguars, leopards, cheetahs, and most importantly, the rare and mysterious white alligator. This reptile lives up to it's name: white as milk, with eerie blue eyes -- it's hard to believe that it's real. My favorite critter was an enormous rodent that weighs up to one hundred pounds. At least a dozen of these wondrous beasts were napping in the sunshine, looking for all the world like a herd of giant irradiated teddy bear hamsters. I can't even remember what they're called -- that's how much they freaked me out. From the zoo, we headed to the famous Magazine Street for a little shopping. Well, more than a little. You can go nuts there, but I limited myself to a pair of baby shoes shaped like wee crocodiles (that other crocodile, the IRS got all of our cash this year). Next, a ferry ride across the Mississippi -- and more eye rolling from Mark.

Gambling is legal in New Orleans, so we took ourselves off to Harrah's Casino for a big last night on the town. I hate to gamble -- why pump my hard-earned cash into some blinking gizmo when I can trade it for useless knick-knacks and more articles of black clothing? The slot machines have tantalizing names, like "Triple Diamond", "Lucky 7's", and my favorite, "Money To Burn". Players sit staring at the spinning displays, eyes at half mast, dropping coin after coin, colored light playing across their slack faces, cigarettes dangling in their mouths. After a while, you no longer even hear the din -- the chiming, whirring, whistling, and clanging that surrounds you. There are no clocks, and no windows. People were standing twenty or more deep in line to get cash advances on credit cards. There was also a line at the window offering loans. I saw many gamblers still in their workday uniforms -- fast food, hotel custodial staff i.e., people who have to work much too hard for their paychecks to just throw them away. We had our only win when a casino employee named Troy approached Mark. "Hey man," Troy said. "I don't mean to interrupt your play or nothing, but you got a real good look about you. Like a movie star. You look good. You look real good." I thought, "My God, my husband could have his pick of any man in this place -- yet he goes home with me." Mark wasn't thrilled to hear it put quite that way, but an unsolicited compliment is a lovely thing, regardless of where or how it's delivered. Plus, it took the sting out of losing twenty-three bucks.

We lurched our way to the airport the next morning in our rented Dodge Durango (with just four thousand miles on the odometer, a malfunctioning transmission, and the engine light on. Memo to self: do not ever buy a Durango.) Drunk or sober, we agreed that New Orleans is a great town. It may take a while before we forget the smell of Bourbon Street in the morning, or the sight of that family mucking about in the sewage. It's true that we didn't drink a single Hurricane, and were pretty much classic guide book tourists, complete with camera and maps. But once you've gone nose-to-nose with a baby alligator and haggled over a real voodoo charm loaded with powerful juju, you feel like you've truly tackled the Big Easy. As for whom we'll be using that voodoo on, I'll tell you later. I've got to go find a black rooster...