Tabitha Wanders - Poor decisions, beautiful places

Tabitha Wanders - Poor decisions, beautiful places Join me on my global travels with reviews included.

03/08/2026

Iceland in July and Germany in October ✈️🥾

👹🕷️👻 New Orleans: Where the Past Still BreathesSome cities preserve history.New Orleans inhales it.On my walking tour th...
02/21/2026

👹🕷️👻 New Orleans: Where the Past Still Breathes

Some cities preserve history.

New Orleans inhales it.

On my walking tour through the French Quarter, I realized quickly that this was not a tour in the traditional sense. It was not a sequence of stops. It was an unveiling. Each building did not simply stand—it endured.

We began at the Andrew Jackson Hotel, its iron balconies draped with ferns like something alive, something watching from above. The air there felt heavier than the afternoon should have allowed, as if the walls still held conversations that never ended.

At the LaLaurie Mansion, the light itself seemed reluctant. Its pale exterior reflected the sun, but offered nothing back. Standing before it, I felt the unsettling sensation of being in the presence of a place that had witnessed too much—and remembered all of it.

The Cornstalk Fence Hotel was different. Beautiful. Ornate. Almost gentle. But its intricate ironwork curled like something organic, something grown rather than forged, reminding you that even beauty here has roots in deeper soil.

We passed the Sultan’s Palace, quiet and unassuming, carrying stories that never quite dissolved into the past. And along the way were countless homes painted in soft pastels, their shuttered windows giving nothing away.

What struck me most was not fear.

It was continuity.

Nothing here feels finished.

New Orleans does not separate the living from the dead. It allows them to coexist. To overlap. To breathe the same humid air.

By the end of the tour, I understood something I had only sensed before:

In New Orleans, the past is not behind you.

It is beside you.

And sometimes, it is watching you walk away.

— Tabitha Wanders

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Photos & Edits: Tabitha Wanders

⛪ St. Louis Cathedral — New Orleans, LouisianaTabitha WandersThe Cathedral That Remembers What You ForgotIt rises at the...
02/21/2026

⛪ St. Louis Cathedral — New Orleans, Louisiana

Tabitha Wanders

The Cathedral That Remembers What You Forgot

It rises at the far edge of Jackson Square like something that was never built—only uncovered.

Bone-white against the blue Louisiana sky, St. Louis Cathedral stands with its three spires sharpened to a point, as if they have been slowly honing themselves on the passage of centuries. The clock set into its face does not simply tell time. It holds it. Suspends it. Watches it pass through everyone who steps into its shadow.

In the foreground, the fountain breathes quietly. Water folds over itself again and again, repeating a motion it learned long before any of us arrived. Tourists gather. They laugh. They take photos. They orbit the cathedral without realizing they are orbiting something older than celebration.

The iron fence forms a boundary, but not a barrier. Nothing here keeps the past out.

The white facade gleams in the sun, but it is not the brightness that stays with you. It is the stillness. The sense that the building is not merely standing—it is enduring.

This cathedral has survived fire that erased entire city blocks. It has endured fever that emptied streets. It has listened to prayers whispered by the desperate, the grieving, the guilty, and the grateful.

And it has kept every one of them.

Standing in Jackson Square, you begin to feel it—not as fear, but as recognition.

Not that you are looking at the cathedral.

But that it has already seen you.

Measured you.

Placed you among the thousands who came before.

Because New Orleans does not display its history behind glass.

It breathes it into the open air.

And the cathedral remains, exactly where it has always been—

Watching.

Remembering.

Waiting.

— Tabitha Wanders










Osteria Lupo — Fire, Precision, and a Respect for the Palate★★★★☆In a city like New Orleans, where flavor often arrives ...
02/19/2026

Osteria Lupo — Fire, Precision, and a Respect for the Palate
★★★★☆

In a city like New Orleans, where flavor often arrives loud and unapologetic, Osteria Lupo chooses something more controlled—but no less powerful.

I ordered the spicy rigatoni alla vodka, with broccoli and crispy potatoes as my vegetable companions, and the first thing that stood out was the pasta itself—cooked to absolute perfection. True al dente. Not stiff. Not soft. That precise point where the bite pushes back just enough to remind you that someone in the kitchen cares deeply about timing.

The sauce followed with equal confidence. The heat wasn’t decorative. It was real. It built slowly and stayed with you. This is not a dish for a weak palate. It doesn’t apologize, and it doesn’t dilute itself for comfort. It trusts that you came to experience something, not just consume it.

The broccoli was vibrant and clean, prepared simply but thoughtfully, while the crispy potatoes were golden and deeply satisfying, with that perfect contrast between exterior crunch and soft interior. Comforting without feeling ordinary.

What I appreciated most is that even as someone leaning toward veggie options, nothing felt like a placeholder. And for those who aren’t, they offer unique omnivore dishes that reflect the same level of care and creativity.

The atmosphere mirrors the food. Warm. Intimate. Effortlessly composed.

Service was attentive and relaxed, allowing the experience to unfold naturally.

My only reason for stopping at four stars is that while everything was excellent, I’m still chasing that singular, unforgettable bite that stops time completely. Osteria Lupo comes incredibly close—it delivers precision, heat, and confidence—but holds itself just shy of excess.

And in New Orleans, restraint is its own kind of rebellion.

— Tabitha Wanders









🎭 The Kingdoms That Roll: How Mardi Gras Floats Became Moving MythologiesTabitha Wanders — New OrleansThere is something...
02/18/2026

🎭 The Kingdoms That Roll: How Mardi Gras Floats Became Moving Mythologies

Tabitha Wanders — New Orleans

There is something beautifully absurd about a city that builds entire kingdoms… only to set them rolling down the street.

Not metaphorical kingdoms. Literal ones. With papier-mâché monarchs, glittering suns, giant alligators wearing crowns, and men dressed like warriors tossing beads as if they were blessings.

Mardi Gras floats were never meant to be subtle.

They were meant to be seen.

They began in the 1800s, when secret societies called krewes decided that walking wasn’t dramatic enough. If you’re going to celebrate excess, mystery, and joy before Lent, you might as well do it from a moving throne.

Each krewe is its own private universe. They choose themes. They design their own symbols. They give themselves names that sound like they belong in myth instead of municipal records.

And then there’s Zulu.

Zulu doesn’t roll quietly.

Founded in 1909 by Black laborers who wanted their own place in Mardi Gras history, the Zulu Social Aid & Pleasure Club turned exclusion into invention. When they weren’t allowed into other krewes, they built something more powerful — their own.

Their floats are bold. Their satire is sharp. Their throws include the most legendary treasure in Mardi Gras:

The Zulu coconut.

Not plastic. Not mass-produced.

A real coconut. Painted by hand.

Heavy enough to remind you that joy has weight.

People will chase a Zulu coconut like it’s a relic. Like it might hold a secret. Like it chose them.

And maybe it did.

Because Mardi Gras floats aren’t just decoration.

They’re storytelling machines.

They carry centuries of rebellion, humor, and survival.

They roll past strangers and turn them into participants.

They remind you that history doesn’t always live in museums.

Sometimes it rides by on wheels, throwing beads, laughing loudly, refusing to be forgotten.

And for a moment, standing there on the curb, reaching into the air, you realize something quietly profound:

You’re not just watching Mardi Gras.

You’re being written into it.

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🌈🏳️‍🌈👨‍❤️‍👨SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL LGBT+ IN NEW ORLEANS Tabitha Wanders: Where the Street Glitters Back 🌈New Orleans has a wa...
02/17/2026

🌈🏳️‍🌈👨‍❤️‍👨SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL LGBT+ IN NEW ORLEANS

Tabitha Wanders: Where the Street Glitters Back 🌈

New Orleans has a way of pulling you toward the light — sometimes neon, sometimes candlelit, and sometimes in the form of a little shop on Bourbon Street that feels like a heartbeat.

I wandered into Bourbon Pride the way you wander into most magic here — accidentally, and exactly when you need it.

Inside was color in its purest form. Flags like open windows. Shelves lined with defiance and joy. Little pieces of identity waiting patiently for the right person to recognize themselves in them. It didn’t feel like shopping. It felt like witnessing. Like being reminded that being fully yourself is still a radical, beautiful act.

The air outside smelled like hurricanes and possibility. Music spilled from doorways. Strangers became temporary friends. And right there in the middle of it all was this space saying quietly, but firmly: You belong somewhere. Maybe even here.

If you’re local, you already know how sacred these places are. Protect them. Celebrate them.

If you’re visiting, don’t just collect beads. Collect meaning. Step inside. Support them. Bring that light back home with you.

Because New Orleans doesn’t just let you wander.

It lets you find things you didn’t realize you were missing.

About the shop:
📍 Address: 909 Bourbon St, New Orleans, LA
🏳️‍🌈 LGBTQ+ gift shop in the heart of the French Quarter
🎁 Known for pride flags, apparel, accessories, and community-centered merchandise
🚶 Located right in the middle of Bourbon Street’s historic nightlife and cultural corridor
It’s a small but visually powerful storefront — usually framed with rainbow flags, pride banners, and bright displays that make it impossible to miss when walking down Bourbon.

— Tabitha Wanders

02/17/2026

I wish that I could share my Mardi Gras parade experiences but there's literally over a million people. It just doesn't share the same cadence to film over people's heads and capture pieces of their conservations.

NOTE: THIS IS A HIDDEN GEM FOR OMNIS AND VEGS. A Love Letter Written in Dutch Crunch★★★★★There is something deeply reass...
02/17/2026

NOTE: THIS IS A HIDDEN GEM FOR OMNIS AND VEGS.

A Love Letter Written in Dutch Crunch
★★★★★

There is something deeply reassuring about a place that treats your meal not as a transaction, but as a conversation.

I came into Ike’s Love & Sandwiches in New Orleans with my heart set on the Vegan Laveau, drawn in by its mystique and its promise. When I learned they had run out of the vegan steak, there was a moment of quiet disappointment—the kind travelers know well, when a specific craving has carried you across streets and expectations. But what unfolded instead was something better: improvisation guided by care.

I ordered the Vegan Easter Bunny, along with seasoned fries and a margarita, trusting the spirit of the place. What arrived was a reminder that intention matters as much as ingredients. The sandwich itself was a layered architecture of texture and flavor—bright, savory, slightly sweet, and grounded by that signature Dutch crunch bread that feels both playful and indulgent. It didn’t feel like a compromise. It felt chosen.

What truly elevated the experience, though, was the attentiveness behind the scenes. The chef made the effort to ensure the sauce served with the fries was prepared vegan. It wasn’t announced with fanfare. It was simply done. That quiet accommodation spoke volumes. In a city overflowing with excess, it was this small act of consideration that felt luxurious.

The seasoned fries were crisp and deeply satisfying, and the margarita carried that perfect balance of tartness and ease—cool relief from the New Orleans air and a companion to the richness of the meal.

Ike’s doesn’t just serve sandwiches. It serves possibility. It reminds you that even when the original plan falls through, something equally memorable—and perhaps more human—can take its place.

I left full, grateful, and already thinking about what I’d try next.

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New Orleans During Mardi Gras Feels Like Stepping Inside Someone Else’s DreamI don’t think you visit New Orleans during ...
02/17/2026

New Orleans During Mardi Gras Feels Like Stepping Inside Someone Else’s Dream
I don’t think you visit New Orleans during Mardi Gras.
I think it visits you.
The city doesn’t open itself all at once. It unfolds. Slowly. Playfully. Like it’s deciding whether you’re ready.
Everywhere I turn, there’s color refusing to behave. Beads hanging from balconies like the city shed pieces of its own celebration. Music that doesn’t come from speakers but from somewhere older. Somewhere human. Trumpets cutting through the warm night air like laughter that couldn’t stay contained.
Strangers talk to you here like you’ve known them longer than you have.
Someone pressed beads into my hand without explanation. Someone else told me to “stay exactly where I was” because the next float would be their favorite. And when it passed, glowing and impossible, I understood why.
Mardi Gras isn’t chaos.
It’s permission.
Permission to be louder than usual. Kinder than usual. More open than usual.
To exist without rehearsal.
There’s something beautiful about a place that doesn’t expect you to remain unchanged after experiencing it.
I can feel it already.
New Orleans isn’t just a city.
It’s an invitation.
And I’m still deciding whether I’ll ever fully leave.
— Tabitha

02/16/2026

Welcome to Tabitha Wanders

I am a healthcare worker who needs breaks from sh*tty short staff shifts and sh*tty life too.
I didn’t start traveling to escape my life.
I started traveling to interrupt it.
Somewhere along the way, I realized certain places don’t just exist geographically. They exist psychologically. They rearrange you. They expose versions of yourself that never had permission to surface back home.
This page is not a highlight reel.
It’s a record.
Of late-night jazz clubs where the music felt older than the walls. Of strange meals that meant more than they should have. Of streets that felt familiar for reasons I couldn’t explain. Of quiet moments where I realized I was no longer the same person who arrived.
I’m not chasing luxury.
I’m chasing atmosphere.
I’m interested in the beautiful, the eerie, the playful, the imperfect, and the deeply human. The places that don’t try to impress you—but do anyway.
You’ll find New Orleans here. And wherever comes next.
Not as a tourist.
But as a witness.
— Tabitha

02/16/2026

The Spotted Cat, Where Music Outgrows Its Vessel
★★★★☆

There are places that serve you.

And there are places that absorb you.

The Spotted Cat, tucked into the glowing bloodstream of Frenchmen Street, belongs firmly to the latter. It does not announce itself with grandeur. It hums. It beckons. It breathes warm light and trumpet song into the night like an animal calling its own name.

I crossed its threshold and immediately understood that I was no longer entirely separate from what was happening inside.

The music was not performance. It was possession.

A trumpet unraveled something golden and aching into the air. The piano followed, not obediently, but knowingly, like an accomplice. Strangers dissolved into silhouettes of movement and laughter. Time, which had felt so structured and obedient outside, began to loosen its collar.

I ordered a drink, more out of ritual than thirst.

It arrived competent. Inoffensive. Entirely mortal.

And that was perhaps the only moment the spell faltered.

In a city where cocktails often feel like extensions of mythology, where every glass carries lineage and intention, the drinks here exist more as placeholders than revelations. They serve their purpose, but they do not transcend it. They do not linger in memory the way the music does. They do not haunt you later.

But the music—

The music refuses to be forgotten.

It fills the inadequacy without apology. It compensates without trying. It reminds you that some experiences do not require perfection to achieve permanence.

I realized, standing there in the dim amber interior, that The Spotted Cat is not a bar that excels in every category.

It is something stranger.

It is a place where music has outgrown its vessel.

Where the drinks are incidental.

Where the night rearranges you quietly, without asking permission.

And when you step back out onto Frenchmen Street, carrying only the echo of brass and the faint sweetness of something unfinished, you understand that four stars is not a measure of what was missing.

It is a measure of what was undeniably, almost unbearably, alive.

What you’re seeing reflects its real character:
🎺 Intimate live jazz performances — musicians play just feet from the crowd
🕯️ Warm, dim interior with the iconic spotted cat logo painted behind the stage
💃 Crowded dance floor where strangers spontaneously dance together
🍸 Small, casual bar setup — simple drinks, with the music as the main focus

— Tabitha

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New Orleans, LA

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