Ah, New Orleans!
A city bursting with vibrant culture, exquisite cuisine, and unforgettable experiences. As it does every year, La Revista Binacional had a significant presence at the Super Bowl, blending Latino passion with the excitement of this monumental sporting event.
We arrived in a place where music fills the air, history whispers through the streets, and the electric hues of Mardi Gras mixed with the neon spectacle of this year’s Super Bowl. With a packed agenda, we set out to explore, indulging in alligator gumbo and savoring the legendary beignets that make this city a food lover’s paradise.
We came ready to take over New Orleans with our curiosity—only to find ourselves taken over instead.
A Welcome We Didn’t Expect
Our first official stop was MEDIA NIGHT at the New Orleans Saints stadium. We were staying at the famous Hotel Monteleone, a historic gem rumored to be haunted by the ghost of a child who roams its halls at night. With its ornate décor and old-world charm, it felt like stepping into 17th-century France.
Since the stadium wasn’t within walking distance, we called an Uber.
$8.98 from the hotel to the stadium? Seemed like a great deal.
Enter Steve.
A quintessential gringo—blond, friendly-looking—picked us up in a blue Honda Odyssey. The paint was a little worn, but then again, so was much of the city, its faded charm only adding to its character. The Louisiana plates read 650GLC.
Rafael and I struck up a conversation with him. He talked about his favorite things, we chatted about the Chargers and Drew Brees, and everything seemed normal. Obviously, he pegged us as out-of-towners—our accents and my back-and-forth in Spanish with Rafa made it clear.
Then, my phone buzzed.
The Uber app notified me that the driver—Steve—had changed the route.
I didn’t think much of it. After all, the city was swarming with security—police, soldiers, surveillance everywhere. What could possibly happen?
But then, I looked out the window.
My stomach dropped.
Steve slowed the van to a stop, and Rafa and I found ourselves under a bridge in what can only be described as skid row. The scene outside was grim—people sprawled out, strung out, lost in their own worlds.
Then Steve turned to us.
“Well, the app says I have to drop you off here.”
Excuse me?
“Well, my app says no. You need to take us to the stadium.”
Steve smirked. “Yeah… that’s not gonna happen.”
My mind started racing. Alright, fine. I’ll just request another ride from here.
“Well,” Steve said, “I’m not ending the trip, so you won’t be able to call another Uber.”
I pulled out my phone—he was right. As long as my ride was still “active,” I couldn’t request a new one. The only option available was to order an Uber for my kids back home, but not for myself.
And then he laid it out for us.
“So, you’ve got two options: get out here—which, trust me, won’t be good for you—or you give me all the cash you’ve got.”
I glanced at Rafa, waiting for his tough guy from the streets of Tijuana energy to kick in. He looked back at me and quietly handed me two dollars.
TWO.
I was fuming.
“I’ve got $15 and 500 pesos total,” I told Steve, hoping the pesos would throw him off.
He wasn’t interested. He wanted $20, but in the end, he settled for the $15 and let us go.
The second we got near the stadium, we jumped out of that van like our lives depended on it. We walked in silence for a few moments, and then, in a flood of frustration, we unleashed every bad word we knew.
But Rafa, with his steady calm, had done the smartest thing—stayed quiet, avoided confrontation, and got us out safely.
The worst part?
Our EGO took the biggest hit. We’d just been robbed by a guy who looked like Ned Flanders from The Simpsons.
We had been too trusting. Too overconfident. And suddenly, I started thinking about all the young people—especially women—who get into Ubers and Lyfts, assuming they’re safe.
You really can’t trust anyone.
We had to down a beer to calm ourselves, and we had to laugh when Steve—our dear Steve—had the audacity to send me a link asking for a tip.
Uber didn’t handle my complaint until I was already out of New Orleans, but they’re refunding my money.
And that’s how New Orleans mugged us—yet still managed to enchant us.
Would I Go Back? Absolutely.
Next time, I want to bring my kids—to explore the cemeteries, talk to voodoo witches, and truly dive into the mystique of this swampy city where eating a crocodile taco is just another Tuesday.
For Spanish:
gina dewar 