We need to talk about the cake that changed everything. Look. I was ready to call it. The Empress and I? We were done. After my underwhelming tea experience—tepid brews, mediocre scones, and cucumber sandwiches that tasted like leftover tragedy—I’d mentally filed the whole place under “Fool Me Once.” But then this little box of magic walked into my life. Even the Box Had Main Character Energy I’m not even joking. This dessert box was so pretty it practically had its own skincare routine. Creamy vanilla, trimmed in gold, so elegant I briefly wondered if I should cradle it like
Tag: Tourism
Murchie’s Tea Review: Come Sit in This Steeping Hot Blanket Fort With Me
Let’s set the scene: it’s raining, obviously. You’re wearing the kind of socks that only get sold next to fireplaces in boutique gift shops. You’ve made the conscious decision to put your phone on “do not disturb” because the only thing that matters right now is what’s in your mug—and that mug, friends, contains Murchie’s. I stumbled into Murchie’s like a tired Victorian ghost looking for a warm hearth. And what I found? Was home. You know that thing when a tea brand doesn’t just offer flavor but feeling? That’s Murchie’s. They are out here making tea not for the masses, but for
Chateau Victoria: I Stayed in This Hotel and Accidentally Tried to Move In
Listen. I’ve stayed in a lot of hotels. Some were fancy. Some were weird. One had a mysterious stain in the mini-fridge I still think about with concern. But Chateau Victoria? That place hit different. I miss it. Unironically. I know that sounds dramatic. Who misses a hotel? That’s like saying “I miss that DMV” or “I miss the breakroom at my old job.” But the Chateau Victoria didn’t feel like a hotel. It felt like a secret, beautiful, low-key apartment I didn’t have to clean. And get this: it was actually affordable. No, not “we’ll split the room with three other people and
A Brief, Deeply Confused History of Victoria, British Columbia (A City With More Tea Than Trauma Processing Skills)
There’s a corner of Canada where it always smells like sea salt and overpriced potpourri. The sun hits the harbor just right, and suddenly you’re convinced you do believe in ghosts, but only the well-mannered, Edwardian kind. This place is called Victoria, British Columbia, and it is essentially a living Pinterest board. And like Pinterest, it’s beautiful. It’s soothing. It’s covered in delicate florals. Also like Pinterest, it is absolutely not grounded in reality. Let’s Start With the Real Story: Indigenous Peoples Were Here First. And Still Are. Before Queen Victoria was off somewhere being aggressively painted in oil and inventing the concept
A Brief History of New Orleans: Or, How to Build a City on a Swamp and Still Be the Coolest Kid at the Party
Let’s get one thing straight right out the gate: New Orleans should not exist. Geographically speaking, it is a deeply ill-advised city. It was built on a mosquito-infested swamp, below sea level, in the path of hurricanes, on land that is actively trying to sink itself into the Gulf of Mexico like a drunk ghost giving up on existence. And yet. It is one of the most magical, chaotic, delicious, music-saturated, joy-soaked places in the world. It’s like someone dared the universe to create a city that feels like jazz sounds—and somehow, it worked. In the Beginning, There Was Water
We Paid a Stupid Amount for Tea at the Empress Hotel So You Don’t Have To
Listen up, my beloved and fabulous readers: I have a thing for tea. Tea is my solace. Tea is my comfort. Tea is the steaming hot cup of calm that keeps me from throwing hands when life gets spicy. And because of this borderline religious devotion, my partner and I like to indulge in the occasional afternoon tea at our favorite local teahouse. You know the type—fluffy scones, delicate cucumber sandwiches, and enough clotted cream to make a dairy farmer blush. It’s perfection. It’s my happy place. So when we visited Victoria, British Columbia, there was exactly one thing on my bucket list: afternoon tea
An Open Letter to New Orleans
Dear New Orleans, You saucy little minx. I came for your jazz, your beignets, and your legendary laissez-faire attitude. I stayed because I couldn’t find the strength to leave. I’m convinced you’ve enchanted me with some unholy concoction of powdered sugar and humidity. Or maybe it was the sazerac. Either way, I’m onto you. Let’s start with the obvious: you’re absurdly good-looking. I’ve never walked down streets so simultaneously dignified and debauched. It’s as though your architecture got dressed for Sunday service, but Bourbon Street borrowed its eyeliner and never came home. I don’t even know how to process the
Le Pavillon: The Hotel That Understood the Assignment
I simply cannot talk about my New Orleans adventures without giving Le Pavillon the love letter it deserves. This hotel was GORGEOUS—like, absurdly so. Statues? Everywhere. Lush greenery? Check. A lobby that looks like it was yanked straight out of an 18th-century French chateau? Oui, oui, mon amour. And unlike so many hotels that have been stripped of their personality in the name of “modernization” (cough corporate beige hellscapes cough), Le Pavillon has character. You walk in, and you feel something. In my case, that feeling was a mix of awe, delight, and the sneaking suspicion that a powdered-wig-wearing aristocrat might saunter by at any moment. The Rooms: Small, Cozy, and
A New Orleans Cemetery and Old Lady Skelly
Sooo… I took a bus tour in New Orleans. Look, I know what you’re thinking: A bus tour? Really? But hear me out. New Orleans is a hotbed of culture, history, and voodoo-adjacent spookiness. And how else was I supposed to soak it all in while digesting 3,000 calories of beignets? So yes, we boarded the bus, listened to our microphone-wielding guide, and rolled through the city in air-conditioned comfort. And yes, I fell asleep. (Don’t judge me; I’m powered by sugar and vibes, and sometimes the sugar runs out.) But when we stopped at one of those iconic cemeteries, the whole
Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop: Where Pirates, Ghosts, and Hurricanes Collide
If you’ve ever thought, Wow, I wish I could drink something that tastes like Hawaiian Punch but could legally power a lawnmower, then boy, do I have a drink for you. But first, let’s talk about Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop because the history of this place is wilder than a Florida Man on meth riding an alligator. Lafitte’s is allegedly the oldest bar in America, and it looks like it. The building is so old, it makes your grandma’s creaky knees look futuristic. Founded in the 1700s, it was supposedly a cover for Jean Lafitte—a pirate, smuggler, and general bad boy with a