When the Saints go marching in...

We got rinsed at the New Orleans train station by a taxi driver who refused to take us to our hotel for less than $20. He reasoned the traffic was too bad because of the Saints game that evening. The Superdome overlooks the station, and people were already tailgating in the car park. That said, it only took us five minutes to get to our accommodation. Always the hustle in America.

Degas House, on Esplanade Avenue in the Esplanade Ridge neighbourhood, is where French artist Edgar Degas lived and worked for the years he spent in New Orleans. Built in the 1850s, it's a picture of the affluence the city experienced in the years prior to the Civil War. It's separated from the French Quarter only by the I-10, underneath which runs the least salubrious neighbourhood you can imagine.

Degas House

Of course, we had tickets to said Saints game. The taxi back to the stadium cost us $8. It was our first and only NFL game for the trip, although we'd seen a college game a couple of weeks earlier. There's just something about the atmosphere, about being packed into a stadium with 73, 042 other people, all hooting and hollering.

The Superdome has been substantially renovated since it was used as an emergency shelter during Hurricane Katrina and the aftermath. It's huge, and the stands are so steep that if you stand up too quickly you feel as though you're about to topple downwards. We were, as always, surrounded by friendly Americans. Once they discovered we hailed from the land of Steve Irwin, they were just a little excited about explaining all the rules and commentating each and every play as it happened. Jaws still drop at our accent, which is greeted with particular wonder in the South. One sweet young thing of about sixteen responded to Daniel's half-time hot-dog order with eyes wide open and a "where ya'll from"? When we said Western Australia, she nudged one of her friends and whispered of our exotic origins. Said friend asked incredulously, "what ya'll doin' here"?

The game was a good one, I think. The Saints marched in by 14 points (WHO DAT). By the end of the evening our palms ached from high-fiving every American within a ten-yard radius of our seat.