WE SAID OUR GOODBYES AFTER I ATE AN IMPRESSIVE AMOUNT OF FOOD AT A JAPANESE BUFFET. I had been incredibly hungry since missing Sunday and I also felt … amazing. I was raring to go and felt that I was going to make the entire trip back with no problem. I had never felt that good in my life and I’m still riding that high today. I bet a week of work will fix that.

We hit the road and 15* hours later, I was in my corner of Church Hill atop the hill of Chimborazo after seeing day turn to night and night turn to day. I still felt good and nearly went to work but figured I should try to go to sleep. The only thing I had with caffeine in it I had for days was two cups of Coke at the buffet and ³/₄ of a bottle on the ride back. There is no explanation for how I was so wired.

I did laundry and some unpacking before I forced myself asleep after being awake 25 hours. I woke up did some more work and forced myself asleep again. I looked forward to Friday. I wanted to work. As Mardi Gras still danced in my head, I wondered how something so incredibly epic could be so incredibly relaxing. Whatevs. I’ll just roll with it.

*I later discovered that I counted wrong. It took 16 hours but that is still faster than what Google Maps will tell you it takes to drive that distance.

WE SPENT A FEW HOURS ATTEMPTING TO GET TO WHERE WE PARKED THE DAY BEFORE. Failure.

Isaac’s glasses disappeared at some point the day before and we could deduce it to the parking garage. There was a hope that they were recovered. Parades, barricades and probably even a kitchen sink sealed off that section of the city. We ended up checking on our way out but they weren’t there. For the time being, we gave up and parked WAY north of the Quarter. I am glad I took my most comfortable shoes and I’m also glad that they were worth every penny and are old enough for me not to care that when Bourbon Street gets on them.

We finally arrived in Jackson Square, which seemed to be the epicenter of the local’s French Quarter festivities. Walking parades flowed by. Mimes posed and drank beers. Artists painted everything that wasn’t nailed down: faces, driftwood, canvas and even old doors. We voyaged across the street to the famous Caf&#233 du Monde. It all seemed so incredibly … French. It was cool.

As the sun set, the Bourbon Street made itself known. It was just a presence that enveloped the Quarter. There was a roar in the background even when the street itself was unseen. Although it was my first time there, it was an unmistakable sound. There is not way to describe it other than it was Bourbon Street. Falyn told us that, especially when it’s warm, the street even has an unmistakable aroma on Mardi Gras. Finally, it became too much; we had to see it for ourselves.

Once we reached its right of way, we were awash in alcohol, sweat, beads, vomit, flesh, urine, drugs, sex and an indescribable sense of humanity. The street was paved in discarded drinks and other debris. Music pumped from every window and door and sewer grate and pore of every human. People yelled. There was a free-flowing, half-hysterical, jovial slow stampede charging in two directions at once. A religious protest within spitting distance of a Fox affiliate truck made me fume over the mockery of my profession and oddly not the reason we all were there was because it was Shrove Tuesday. Confetti flew.

If I were a few years younger, I would have exploded. If I were a few years older, I would have exploded and died in that raging sea of revelry. I wanted out.

We headed back to the local zone and ultimately, after dinner, decided to leave before the equally famous abrupt start of the Lenten season. I cannot say I did not have fun but it was time to go. I knew it. It was time to head back to reality. For the first time in nearly two years, I was ready for it. I was recharged. I wanted &#8212 no &#8212 needed to get back. This trip was what I needed and I am grateful that I was able to spend it with those with whom I did.

We returned to Baton Rouge and slept in. I decided to use my contingency vacation day and take my time getting back.

OBVIOUSLY, I WOKE UP INVIGORATED AND SEVERAL HOURS BEFORE EVERYONE ELSE. I decided to do nothing until someone else stirred but that got boring after a while. We had nothing pressing to do till about 2 p.m. Our only plan was to get to New Orleans for two of the Lundi Gras parades: the Orpheus and Proteus, which have similar routes. Falyn had attended the others the year before and felt those two were the best. We stood for hours at the intersection of St. Charles Avenue and Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and had a smashing time.

Flambeaux carriers set the street ablaze. Beads and LED trinkets twinkled. Brass bands thundered down the road. The air was heavy with local cuisine. The Saints came marching in on a float and the crowd erupted. Intricate, flashing floats that obviously took an entire year to create plied gracefully Time seemed to melt away. I have never seen so many people excited about parades. It was utterly, utterly amazing.

Once the parades ended, we met up with Jacqu&#233, b.k.a. Pixie, and worked our way through barricades and a general crush of people to the French Quarter. We stuck to Decatur Street. It had the air of Hampton Roads in the summer writ large: as the tourist became a necessary annoyance a few blocks down, the locals had their own good time at their own places with their own prices.

The flair was amazing and reminded me of Richmond nightlife outside of Shockoe Bottom in that it was independent, not too loud to blot out conversations and just felt comfortable. We went to Coop’s Place for late night rabbit and sausage jambalaya. By the end of the trip, I could add rabbit and frog to animals I have now eaten (as an aside, I don’t like that I like how frog tastes). It was delicious and filling.

Finally, once full of food and drink, it was time to head to the hotel in neighboring Metarie. All that was left to do once we got there was sleep. Oh, and rescue a toddler from wandering off somewhere and/or dying of exposure. Isaac reported back that the only thanks he got from the Mother of the Year was her snatching her crying daughter and saying, &#8220Quit your bitching&#8221 to her. Good job, madam.

I quickly fell asleep and had no true anticipation for the day to come. Yes, it was Mardi Gras but how can you expect the unexpected?

I was relaxed to the point that I was already ready to get back into the swing of things in Virginia. I wasn’t bored with my time; I just got the rest and relaxation I needed. Visions of Richmond danced in my head than night and I dreamed of the Tri-Cities.

Woke up around 8 a.m. Puked. Crawled back into bed. Assured everyone several times that I would be OK and this happens when I drink a lot of liquor with no mixers or regard to how much I’m drinking. I don’t know when to stop with just liquor, unlike mixed drinks or beer, and I have a delayed reaction as far as my brain telling me to stop with just liquor. Holy shit, I drank that much? Wow. I’m going to lay back down now. I’m OK. Really.

Woke up again around 8 p.m. or 9 p.m. No, I’ll pass on dinner. I may grab something later and meet you at the party around the corner. I’m feeling better really. I’m just still a tiny bit nauseated but I’ll be good to go if I sit here and watch this movie. I went back to sleep after the movie.

Woke up again around midnight or so with ravenous hunger. Went to Wendy’s. Went back to sleep.

Binge drinking, you lusty wench.

WE WOKE UP EARLY AS SATURDAY WAS THE BATON ROUGE SPANISH TOWN PARADE. We traveled mere blocks from the state capitol and engaged in what boggled my mind despite traveling to Savannah in 2008: blatant drinking in public. As the parade came by, we began catching beads. Most people who head to Mardi Gras make a beeline to Bourbon Street and have no idea how to get beads beyond earning them. They come from the parades, you idiots. And boy do they come from the parades. By the end of the trip, Nicole’s trunk was literally full of beads. I was given nearly all of them to distribute in Virginia. I gave a lot of them away and I still have a metric ton.

During and after the parade, we met up with more of Falyn and Isaac’s friends. We made plans for dinner and decided to nap beforehand. Two years, 28 days of nonstop action caught up with me. I slept through dinner. I almost didn’t want to go to the party to which we were invited because I wanted to sleep more. But it was a party. It was interesting to say the least. And I shall say the least. I will say I was reminded why I don’t drink straight liquor often. It hit me like a ton of bricks once we got back to the apartment and I decided I needed a tiny bit more to cap off the evening. I managed to get my contacts out and brush my teeth and do other preparations for bed before passing out.

SNOW &#8212 MOTHERFUCKING SNOW. Large, white, wet flakes of dihydrogen monoxide pelted Nicole Cobb, my car, on Interstate 75-85 smack dab in the middle of downtown Hotlanta. We were stuck in traffic. Every time we stopped for more than 45 seconds, the slushy mess accumulated. The roads were clear for the moment. My windshield wipers were icing over. I was about to lose my shit.

A few hours prior, we were in Raleigh. I arrived at Joseph’s house, the evening before. I knew Joseph through Falyn and Isaac, who we were going to see in Baton Rouge. I have known Falyn since high school and I met Isaac, Falyn’s fianc&#233, and Joseph while she was a student at the University of Mary Washington. Heading to visit them marked my first true vacation in two years and 28 days.

Many, many things happened in that time frame: my grandmother, who indirectly pushed me into journalism, died; I changed my name to honor her; I finally quit a job that eventually led to panic attacks; I reentered the dating game and quietly made my retreat after a short relationship and several unsuccessful dates; I found myself at the helm of a newsroom; I found myself flat on my back in an emergency room with a heavily bleeding face; I found myself with that and more with no more than three work days and a weekend between me and work (not including the week to bury Grandma).

I was at the end of my rope: If I did not go on vacation, I was going to die. I had become snappy. The slightest of things would enrage me. I was 10 seconds away from not only firing someone but setting his personal belongings on fire. I nearly threw my phone every time my mom called. Then it snowed. Oh, it snowed. More snow than Richmond had seen in years. Then my heat AND power went out. I still worked. I barely slept. My car got stuck in the snow. I was more than ready to go somewhere warm, give myself a break from life and knock back more drinks than I probably should.

Then I drove into a fucking blinding snowstorm hundreds of miles south of my house.

It Snowed. IT SNOWED. It Snowed from Atlanta, Georgia to Montgomery, Alabama. As we traveled farther down Interstate 85, it became more of an icy disaster. My fellow southern drivers damned the consequences and did not reduce their speed. I decided against my better judgment to keep up with the flow of traffic. I lost control of my car at times. I got to the point that I did not care, I was going to keep driving till it was 60 degrees or die trying. A quick weather check noted that Baton Rouge and New Orleans weren’t going to crack 55 the entire time we were there. I burst a blood vessel.

Somewhere along the pitch black wasteland between Montgomery and Mobile into which the Eisenhower Administration saw fit to carve Interstate 65, I no longer cared. I was on the way to being 1000 miles away from a life of solid work and life for two years, 28 days. I was at ease.

Joseph and I arrived at Falyn and Isaac’s apartment in the city of Red Stick around midnight and met Jan, who was often the main carrier of our beverages for the trip. Falyn’s was on her way from a place &#8220discovered by the Germans in 1904 &#8212 they named it San Diego, which of course in German means ‘a whale’s vagina’&#8221 but was delayed in Texas due to snow. I was no longer stressing about anyone or anything. I didn’t care what happened as long as I didn’t die and I was in Richmond at some point Thursday. I remembered what it was like to talk about things that had nothing to do with journalism. Not long after Falyn arrived, I went to bed excited about the days to come.

I am alive and I am home. I personally drove over 2000 miles. I did half of that in one stretch today. I just took a four-hour nap. I am glad to be back in Richmond and I’m looking forward to resuming my life.

It was epic. It was amazing. It was relaxing. I will write about it later.