It was cold.  Like really cold.  Paul and I, bundled in layer upon layer, had been walking around the city with video and photography gear in hand.  Laughing at ourselves because while trying to make a city guide, we kept getting lost and realized we had no business being guides at all.  We decided as the sun settled lower and lower that we should probably head back to our hotel to get ready for our dinner reservations.

But first — alcohol.

So we ducked into the local CVS, right there on the corner of Canal and Bourbon Street.  I hemmed and hawed over whether I wanted champagne or hard liquor for the evening and we finally settled on some Ketel, Jameson, and Gatorade.  We bought the tiny bottles and had to have the attendant come unlock the case for us.  Then we waited in line and chatted and I continued to marvel at how dang friendly everyone in NOLA was.

At some point, my camera brushed between my arm and leg and secretly snapped the photo above.  There’s nothing significant about it, other than it reminds me of our little pit stop.

After we paid and made our way back toward the door, bracing ourselves for the chill, a cute younger couple walked in.  The girl was holding a full-on pizza delivery box and these two looked ready to party.  As they cruised through the door,  for no seemingly good reason, the entire pizza box fell from the girl’s hands and landed face down on the floor.  Pizza.  Everywhere.  The boyfriend shouted “Babe!”

And the entire store — in perfect unison — let out an audible groan.

Paul and I shuffled past them and once out on the street, I couldn’t help but burst into giggles.  I mean, sure.  I felt bad that they had lost their pizza, but the entire scene was just comical.

Not to mention that this very thing had just happened to me a month ago.

Pizza problems yo.