La Petite's Guide to New Orleans

The best parts of New Orleans happen about a foot above my head.

I learned this over five days in late October, when Jay and I flew in for the wedding of my friend Lexi and her now-husband Cody. It was the story of la petite: at the parade, at the wedding, and on the tour. Each time, the city put on a show. Each time, I was standing behind someone taller.

Checking in at bedtime

This was a frugal points trip, and we started as we meant to go on. From the airport we took the city bus for $1.25 each, saving the bigger Uber money for activities.

We'd booked The Saint, a Marriott Autograph Collection hotel sitting smack dab on Canal Street. They put us in the older building, where we were greeted by thrones, chandeliers and a paper bag of shortbread cookies. Our flights landed us right at bedtime, and we congratulated ourselves on our foresight like people who had planned it.

The expat shopping list

Anyone who lives abroad knows the real itinerary of a trip home is a shopping list. Ours sent us to Whole Foods twice, several kilometers from the hotel each way.

We came for American cold medicine (Robitussin and Tylenol) and mac and cheese, always Annie's or Goodles, plant based all day. In Denmark we order these online now, a luxury compared to when we first moved there and couldn't get them at all. We also bought four orders of Secret Clinical deodorant: three for friends in Copenhagen, and one for me, out of FOMO.

I drooled over the salad bar. There was nothing specific to drool over. It was straight up selection excess.

Getting all of it home was not a problem. We flew back on British Airways, which allows more than the fare we came in on, and our bag weight rose accordingly.

A half marathon a day, on purpose

Most days we walked more than a half marathon between shops, live music and whatever was happening on the street. Occasionally we jumped on the streetcar. A more adventurous traveler might take pedicabs or a horse-drawn carriage, but we are not novices in those departments. Thank you, PDX and Denmark chapters.

Bourbon Street was Bourbon Street. The riverbank mall and convention area was a surprise joy. My favorite move was popping into jazz clubs for a drink and a dance, then back out into the noise.

Jay summed it up better than I can. New Orleans, he said, reminded him of home: Chico, California, with more musicians and less shame.

Friday: Lexi's people

The wedding party hosted welcome drinks at The Avenue Pub, a two-step from downtown. It was a treat to meet Americans from all over, because Lexi's network looks a lot like mine.

That's no accident. I met Lex in a different life. I was CEO of the Sherwood Chamber of Commerce, and she was the right-hand gal to the city manager. We were the young ones in jobs I'm still not sure we had any business doing.

The evening ran late, so Jay and I bounced to bed and missed the co-ed bachelor and bachelorette parties. From the looks of the group text, they had a good time, with minor issues.

Saturday: the Krewe of Boo

We spent the sunny part of the day at the sculpture garden, where I loved the water features, the wildlife and the alligator warning signs. We saw no alligators. The signs did all the work.

At 4 PM we joined a Halloween happy hour with the Bone Soir Krewe at the Friendly Bar, with face painting (the line was long, so I stayed unpainted) and drinks of the alcoholic and non-alcoholic variety. We said hi to the bride, then headed out to meet the larger party parade side.

Jay and I are no strangers to big parades. We lived in Brazil and went to all the major carnaval celebrations, so we have opinions. The Krewe of Boo, New Orleans' official Halloween parade, was wholesome and somehow still had that Mardi Gras spirit, minus the boobies. Kids hauled bags stuffed with candy and beads. Local bands and dance krewes kept coming, and the music changed every three minutes as a new float or troupe rolled past.

Lexi danced in it with the Muff-A-Lottas, the night before her own wedding, and gave it everything she had.

I gave it tippy toes. So did Debbie and Sherry, two new friends who were also built close to the ground. The kids, rightly, got the front. Seeing the parade was a struggle, and I still came away with a handful of beads and, randomly, a bag of red beans in a custom Krewe of Boo bag.

Eventually Jay and I made our way back to the hotel for a private, somewhat quieter view from the 7th floor. From up there, the parade poured down Canal Street on either side of the wide median that New Orleanians call the neutral ground. The name dates to the early 1800s, when Canal Street divided the Creole city in the French Quarter from the newly arrived Americans upriver, and the strip in the middle belonged to neither side. Every median in the city is a neutral ground now. Ours, for one night, was the best seat in the house.

Sunday: football, then a wedding

Sunday started the way many of mine do: with a quest for American NFL football. The internet recommended Vieux Sports Saloon and Cafe in the French Quarter, which was a vibe but did not have the package.

A mile from the hotel, I randomly ran into Sherry. We collected another new friend, Dave, who was wearing a Florida Gators jacket. As a Panthers fan, I correctly identified him as my enemy. We found a bar that had the game, and I watched my team get destroyed. Jay joined, and we moved on to Brussels sprouts, burgers and sweet potato tacos at The Will & the Way.

The city bus to the wedding delivered more drama than any reality show, and the other passengers sorted it out before we reached our stop.

The ceremony was nestled in a colorful neighborhood at a venue called Capulet. Live music was the decor. There was a beautiful rendition of "Ave Maria," a clock chiming the hour, and wiener dogs in the wedding party. Lexi and Cody said their vows, and then everyone lined up to hit the street for the part we'd all been waiting for: the second line.

How a second line actually works

A second line is, at its base, a brass band parade, and it comes in two parts. The first line is the hosts: the band and the club or family who organized the parade and hold the permit. The second line is everyone else, the people who hear the band, fall in behind it and dance along. The followers are the point. A second line is built to grow as it moves.

The tradition comes out of New Orleans' social aid and pleasure clubs, Black neighborhood associations formed after the Civil War that gave members help with loans, burial costs and insurance, and paraded through their own neighborhoods once a year. Clubs still parade on Sundays through much of the year, and the city second lines for funerals, weddings and plenty of reasons in between. At a wedding, the couple is the first line, waving handkerchiefs or parasols. The guests are the second.

La petite, part two

Our handkerchiefs were custom, printed with the couple and their dogs. "Follow the drums" was the plan as we came down the stairs, hanky in hand. The parade had started without us.

I couldn't see over the people in front of me, so I followed what I thought was the sound and found us walking the wrong way. We turned around and made it back to the venue just in time for the end. You know the one: that cascading crescendo when the whole band comes down together. I'm fairly sure it was "When the Saints Go Marching In."

The reception was packed with activity. A jazz band kicked off the party before the DJ took over. Dinner was risotto and bananas foster, with a fully stocked snowball station I somehow never visited. The bride and groom sang "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" as karaoke. A guest took a tumble, and I did first aid until the venue staff took over.

Then came the line dances, all of them and more. The Irish guests wanted to know how every American in the room knew the moves.

We didn't make it to the after-party.

Monday: the swamp

On our last day we skipped the farewell brunch for the swamps. We fueled up first with beignets at our hotel.

We decided to splurge and upgrade to an airboat. They had run out. Strike one. So la petite took her seat in the middle of a regular tour boat, and my view of the bayou was mostly the backs of heads.

The captain kept up a running commentary: "Look, there's a gator. I threw him a marshmallow." Every time he pointed, a forest of hands shot up with phones, and more of those hands ended up in my photos than I'd like to admit. Between them I saw houses on stilts, houses with their own elevators, herons, pelicans, turtles sunning on a log and, yes, the gator with his marshmallow. I saw swamp things, despite being height deprived.

We finished with amazing Mexican food at Espíritu before heading to the airport.

If you go

• Airport to town: The RTA's 202 Airport Express runs from the airport to downtown for $1.25, good to anywhere in the city of New Orleans. Rideshares to Orleans Parish start around $36.
• Krewe of Boo: The official Halloween parade rolls on a Saturday in late October (in 2026, October 24 at 6:30 PM). It starts on Elysian Fields Avenue in the Marigny, cuts through the French Quarter and turns onto Canal Street. Locals set up early. Our crew was told to be in place by 5:30 PM.
• If you're short: A Canal Street hotel room with a window above the route is the best parade seat money can buy.
• For a wedding second line: Bring the handkerchief, and keep your eyes on the band, not the crowd.
• Walking: Plan on it. We averaged more than a half marathon a day without trying.

The view from the back

New Orleans doesn't need you to see it. It needs you to join it. The second line doesn't ask whether you had a good view; it asks whether you followed the drums. I spent five days staring at the backs of other people's heads, and I still came home with beads, red beans, a dog-printed hanky and a suitcase full of deodorant.