Because sometimes we learn a lot about ourselves from the places we visit…
Here’s the story about the people, places, and things I encountered during a Halloween trip to New Orleans and how each livened up parts of myself that I didn’t know had been buried.
My home is currently undergoing renovation. I’m all about history and preservation but some things – like wood paneling and dingy carpets – have to go. I stand in the doorway considering the structural bones of the house and thinking about the home’s past life as this quote by author Liam Callanan echoes in my head:
“We’re all ghosts. We all carry, inside us, people who came before us.”
As I stare at the undecided rooms, a piece of drywall comes crashing down the stairs and a cloud of dust blows through. That’s my cue to take a break from this project.
I’d like for you to join me on another trip. Perhaps to a place where we could let our guard down a bit. A place like New Orleans. After all, its nickname “The Big Easy” implies that it’s a no-fuss city.
We arrive at the airport and a taxi quickly shuffles us out of Jefferson Parish and toward the French Quarter. We pass the Superdome, looking sleek with its anodized exterior, reminiscent of cars produced by its namesake, Mercedes-Benz. A far cry from when the building was used as a last-resort refuge following the tragedy of Hurricane Katrina. I recall the dizzying images on television of people pouring out of there, screaming “Anarchy!” at the news crews in helicopters filming from above.
Mercedes-Benz Superdome
Until now, everything I know about New Orleans, I’ve learned from news broadcasts during Katrina, history books that map out the terms of the Louisiana Purchase, and of course, from Anne Rice novels.
After a series of twists and turns through areas that remind me of “Any Town, USA,” we finally arrive at the French Quarter. The driver takes us past Hotel Monteleone and we marvel at how, despite its height and grandeur, it blends in with the intimate street.
The streets begin to narrow and the storefronts seem to fuse one into the other. It is early, but the city is wide awake. Long lines of hungry early risers hoping for a head start on the city’s true main vice (food), flank the sidewalks in each direction. Once at our hotel, we’re informed that our rooms are not ready, but they suggest we follow suit on the lines for breakfast. It is then, that I learned, you can put hot sauce on anything.
We walk off what will be the first of many hearty meals in this town and become acquainted with all that the oldest neighborhood in New Orleans has to offer. The idea that the entire district has been designated as a National Historic Landmark is fascinating.
Mississippi River & the Crescent City Connection (formerly the Greater New Orleans Bridge)
President Harry S. Truman wrote that “The only thing new in the world is the history you do not know.” That is why I wanted to visit New Orleans. I wanted to get to know the people who live there. I wanted to walk the historic streets that still vibrate with the weight of all those who have once stepped foot there.
Storyville is the notorious Red-Light District that existed in New Orleans in the late 1800s – early 1900s.
I wanted to experience the music and not just simply hear it.
I wanted to taste the food which is more like a concoction of the different cultures that have called New Orleans home.
And so, on this first day, still in our travel clothes, we immerse ourselves in the city.
The exterior of the Gallier House was used to depict the home of serial killer & slave mistress Madame LaLaurie in the television series American Horror Story: Coven.
This is the real LaLaurie Mansion just a few houses down.
At 4:00 p.m., we retreat to our hotel. It is check-in time at the Chateau LeMoyne, perhaps named after the “Father of New Orleans,” Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne, or as travel booking websites on the internet recognize it – the Holiday Inn. I was eager to see the exposed original brick walls, the leather seating, and cypress beam ceilings boasted on their hotel website. I wanted that little bit of “history with a modern twist” as they call it.
Boutique hotel Holiday Inn: Chateau LeMoyne
What I didn’t want were strange noises coming from my bathroom while I slept. The slight shake of a hanger from my closet. The tap at my balcony window or even the soft tug on the sheet at the foot of my bed. I had read about all those things happening here. I had hoped, perhaps, that the friendly ghosts would be on vacation while we visit.
I look out onto the balcony and while it is a nice view to the left and right, on this occasion, the building across the street is under construction, which makes for an eerie sight at night as you peek out behind the curtain onto empty floors that are once again transitioning into something else. Reminds me of the renovation going on back home. If I were a ghost, and had to deal with a total upheaval of my digs each time a business went under – I’d hate that. I’d probably be inclined to slam a few doors and knock over a few glasses too.
We choose our beds, and you conveniently choose the one closest to the front door, while I’m left with the one nearest to the shared balcony.
I’m a little creeped out at the thought of having a neighboring guest wander over and peer through our window, but I laugh it off and decide that this isn’t 19th Century New Orleans and there are no such things as murderous brutes who may come banging on our balcony door or witches who may swoop in on their broomsticks while we sleep…right?
At night, we catch our first glimpse of the navy sky as we make our way to dinner. This was the New Orleans we imagined. The gas lamps, the shadows at every corner, the impromptu parades, the sudden toot of a trumpet or wail of a saxophone, the savory aroma pouring out onto the streets and luring us in like some whiff-stricken caricature. The city is a-glow, almost in a supernatural way.
We dine, we listen to jazz, we chat up strangers, and we just…take it easy. Feeling totally relaxed we decide (Yes…on a Saturday night) that there might be no harm in walking down Bourbon Street…
We turn the corner and it is like an exorcism of serenity. Every ounce of ease we had summoned during our evening excursion, was out the window. Granted, it is past midnight, and everyone here is carrying around their own personal collection of plastic Hurricane cups.
To walk down this street, we have to be alert. The fetor of barley, hops, vomit, and urine instantly intoxicates you. We must look down to avoid the trickster potholes and uneven sidewalks. We carefully tiptoe around unappealing puddles of questionable fluids. We look up to avoid being dripped upon, spit at, or strangled by strings of rogue beads. We dodge left to avoid getting blindsided by the galloping derriere of one the New Orleans Police Department: Mount Division horses. We bear to the right to avoid a collision that would end with a lukewarm drink sloshed across our front. Music seeps out of the doors and windows of every bar and gift shop. Men, wearing printed T-shirts that declare their questionable morals, stand outside of cabarets, winking and inviting us to secret shows that promise “Hot Bodies Inside.” Some corners are rowdier than others; some more pungent, but all part of the experience. To walk down Bourbon Street is to have all of your senses engaged.
The sights and sounds of Bourbon Street.
We make our way back to our hotel, completely satisfied by our grand welcome to this city, despite the token of Bourbon Street’s appreciation smeared on the soles of our shoes as a permanent and rancid souvenir.
I get the feeling that this is what it’s like down here: a little fast sometimes but mostly slow. A little loud because they love their music, yet quiet at times, because they have secrets. A bit savory, but surprisingly sweet.
We sleep like babies and manage to escape being hacked to bits by the infamous Axeman…or at least that’s what we tell ourselves in the morning. Even in our slumber, our assumptions and imaginings about New Orleans are without restraint.
I’m excited about what the day will bring tomorrow. I believe there is much more hidden beneath the surface of this old city and perhaps even somewhere within myself.
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