A writer named Ross McCammon created a thought experiment that’s become known as the “two beers and a puppy test.” Here’s how it works: Pick a person in your life, and ask yourself two questions about them:

  1. Would I have two beers with this person?
  2.  Would I trust them to look after my puppy for a weekend?

Some people are beer people, some are puppy people, and a sacred few are both. (Some are also neither, which is unfortunate.) Last February, when I decided to travel to New Orleans for Mardi Gras and wanted someone to go with, I found myself asking two very similar questions:

  1. Would this person enjoy partying in New Orleans for three days?
  2. Could this person and I drive 13 hours and stay in close quarters for a very chaotic weekend without killing each other?

Robby, for example, is a wonderful person to travel with. He packs light, walks quickly, and likes trying new things. Problem is, he would rather eat a bowl of shattered glass than go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. I invited him as a formality and was unsurprised when he said no. He couldn’t get the word out fast enough.

I wanted to do Mardi Gras in the corniest way possible: hotel in the French Quarter, hand grenades on Bourbon Street, wandering along Frenchmen. New Orleans is one of my favorite places in the world, but I didn’t have any friends who lived there at the time. And honestly, though I know the Bourbon Street celebration is made up of tourists (with locals attending cooler neighborhood parties and parades), it felt a little rude to try and suss out more unique places to go. In the same way my friends and I don’t want bachelor parties in our favorite dive bars, I didn’t want to risk crashing an event that was special to locals. Plus, the cheesy novelty of Mardi Gras in the French Quarter appealed to me. Bourbon Street was where I belonged.

As I thought about who I should ask to come with me, I was pleased to realize that there are several people in my life for whom the answers to both “would they like Mardi Gras” and “would we travel well together” are “yes.” Two of those people are named Patrick and James, and they live two blocks up the street from me. I met Patrick in grad school. He’s a music writer from Connecticut by way of Brooklyn who used to wear a black baseball cap and only spoke when he had something hilarious to say, which made me think he was shy. (He’s not.) Pat is sweet and brilliant and very good at pool. Soon after meeting him, I met his partner, James. James, who is also a music writer and is originally from New Jersey, is thoughtful, sharp, and reads a pile of books every month. He and I often do DIY projects together, which we execute with surprising efficiency. Both Pat and James exclusively wear black t-shirts featuring bands I’ve never heard of, and more importantly, they love spontaneity, parties, dive bars, and wandering aimlessly in new places. When I asked if they wanted to go to Mardi Gras on the most cliche trip we could possibly manage, they said yes.

We packed the car and drove thirteen hours. The next three days were a colorful blur: We strolled by the river. We found a magical little bookshop right off Bourbon Street that felt like a different planet. We ate heavy, decadent brunches. We ate horrible Mexican food. We bounced between chaotic, fantastic gay bars. We walked through a stream of bubbles that poured from a balcony in the morning light. We stumbled across the warehouse belonging to Dr. Bob, the strange-but-kind-of-famous folk artist whose work features the tagline “BE NICE OR LEAVE.” The woman working there, who was thrilled when we told her we were staying in a hotel instead of an Airbnb, took out a scrap of paper and wrote down her favorite po’ boy order in the city. We walked another mile to the shop she recommended, passing a neighborhood parade in which everyone was dressed up like food, and ordered our sandwiches. We had a religious experience eating those po’ boys on a park bench. We caught beads and trinkets and a rubber chicken that flew from parade floats. We searched for my phone when I inevitably lost it while jumping up and down at a nighttime parade. We met up with the disturbingly attractive and sober European couple that found it, who were very good sports when I threw my arms around them in thanks. We meandered for hours down Burgundy Street, picking out the houses we wanted to live in. We danced until our feet hurt. 

I left Mardi Gras a better person. This happens every time I go to New Orleans. If I were to participate in a three-day bacchanal in any other location, I’d likely plummet into a shame spiral afterward. But on the thirteen-hour drive back to the Carolina coast, I just felt warm and grateful. I am lucky to be able to have experiences simply because I want to, and I’m even luckier to share those experiences with other people. When Patrick, James, and I got back to Wilmington at 2am, we were still talking and laughing.

Last Saturday, almost exactly one year out from our Mardi Gras adventure, I awoke with no plans. The morning was a welcome mat to a day that could be anything. I ate a cheddar biscuit, threw back some coffee, and texted Patrick and James. I told them I wanted to recreate a day we spent together a year ago, when we walked miles on Burgundy Street for no reason at all.

Wilmington is a far cry from New Orleans, but it has a similar, lighter aura of chaos. And when you live somewhere for years, you have the opportunity to hold the city in your hand like a gem, occasionally turning it to see new fractals inside. 

We met and started up Princess Street. We walked past the cocktail bar with black ceilings and a massive record collection, past the soda-bottling-plant-turned-pop-up-market, past the eclectic coffee shop that’s closing soon. Though we didn’t officially set rules for our day, it was understood that we’d only wander into places that at least one of us had not been before.

We stopped in an off-the-beaten-path art gallery featuring paintings of houses that reminded us of New Orleans. We went to Crofton’s Pretzels, an ancient gas station that was transformed into a lovably ridiculous pretzel bar. We ordered cheese-filled pretzels that burned our fingers, and Patrick introduced me to birch beer. We walked toward Castle Street, pausing to explore a surreal gift shop/aerobics studio/video screening venue, where the owner told us about her daughter who passed away, how she and her husband live on a boat now, how she wants the little shop to become a place of community and love. We wandered into the Spanish market with a wide tiled counter where a family teaches paella classes. We bought olives and tinned fish. We ducked into a tiny witchcraft shop that sold pottery and potions and had strange burlap dolls hanging on the walls. Then, out of morbid curiosity, we went into the new putt putt bar and played nine holes. I lost, despite having a hole-in-one that involved the ball bouncing off a keg.

It was a pointless, delicious day. The three of us wandered, as we always do, with curiosity and no plan. Beautiful things happen when you spend time with people who say yes. Yes, I’ll get two beers with you. Yes, I’ll watch your puppy. Yes, we can wander the same streets we walk every day, finding ways to make them feel new.