Ah yes, the booze, the bright lights, and the smell of garbage and vomit -- it can only be Bourbon Street after dark. Despite my better judgment I staggered out after the party along with the gang -- stumbling home hours later under the crushing weight of a gigantic frozen hurricane and incredible, beastly, life-sapping humidity. Genevieve had wisely retired hours earlier. We were awakened by the inexplicable sound of hammers clanking on the wall outside our 14th-floor hotel room. Painters at work, we later found out. I mean, my God, we couldn't have been the only drunken revellers seeking a little quiet at 9:30 on a Saturday?