Le Passe’, New Orleans, & All Other Things That Haunt Us – Day 2

Because sometimes there is nothing scarier or nightmare-inducing than our own past… 

Here’s how a Halloween trip to New Orleans helped us face our fears and reassured us there is nothing wrong with carrying a few old things with us into the future.

Day 1 of this trip was a great introduction to the city of New Oreleans and hopefully this second day will not disappoint. This morning, we’re head out on early tours of local cemeteries like St. Louis Cemetery #1 and Lafayette Cemetery #1. The tour guide jokes “You know we’re overpopulated with the dead, when we have to start numbering our cemeteries.”

Saint Louis Cemetery #1 is where actor Nicholas Cage has reserved a burial plot in the shape of a giant pyramid.

This statue on the Italian Benevolent Society Tomb was used in the film Easy Rider. The actor Peter Fonda is seen sitting on the statue’s lap during an acid trip.

I’ve caught glimpses of them in movies like Double Jeopardy, Déjà Vu, and Easy Rider, but to walk within the walls of the Cities of the Dead was quite spellbinding. For one thing, although you can see various rooftops and trees over the walls, those landmarks provide a false sense of security. Once you take your eyes off of them, you are destined to get lost.

The tomb of The Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau. The “X” marks were frequently created by visitors as a sign of wishes made and gratitude for those granted.

The cemetery walls themselves barely cover an area of over one square block, but the layouts could prove difficult to navigate with sharp dead ends or crumbled and open tomb surprises. It is said that the occupants were in a haste to choose their plots, as many succumbed quickly to yellow fever, and overcrowding became an issue at other cemeteries nearby. We make it through the mazes after a few Nicholas Cage jokes (a favorite pastime for the tour guides) and wander off into the Garden District.

The sights in the Garden District.

Buckner Mansion is most commonly known as Miss Robicheaux’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies and the main set of the television series American Horror Story: Coven.

These white and black mosaic tiles at the gate of the Buckner Mansion hint at the home’s educational past.

A sign for Dixie Beer. The Dixie Brewing company was founded in New Orleans in 1907.

Here we encounter all of the southern charm we expect to find in Louisiana. There are antebellum mansions complete with tall wrought-iron gates, gas lamps, and floor-to-ceiling windows that allow every bit of light in, but the very sun itself. We explore gardens, plush and green, as if they had not gotten the memo that Autumn has set in and winter was near. The antique shops, galleries, novelty stores, and sweet spots that dot along Magazine Street, make for an interesting afternoon walk.

It is believed that Pralines were first brought over to New Orleans from France in the 18th Century by the Ursuline nuns.

Sweet display at District Donuts Sliders Brew.

Our tired feet could use a ride back to the hotel, but the only proper way back to the French Quarter, would be in a streetcar.

St. Charles line streetcar

Riverfront line streetcar

We board the St. Charles Streetcar and it’s as if we’re instantly transported to a different time. Our hands grasp the cold brass that will inevitably leave behind a metallic reek that we won’t be able to wash out for days. We make our way to seats laden with mahogany slats, that are so hard we worry whether it will leave embarrassing creases on our backsides. We watch as the conductor jabs the controls back and forth and a hint of smoke begins to rise from the handles. Above our heads, a series of naked lightbulbs line the ceiling. For being the oldest operating one in the world, this thing runs like a well-oiled machine; confidently clicking, clacking and rumbling its way toward each stop; maneuvering through traffic; and stopping sharply for distracted pedestrians. It is quite the ride.

Back in the French Quarter we walk hurriedly past Bourbon Street, eyeing it with a “You know what you did last night” kind of look. After dinner, we ready ourselves and steady our nerves for what is to come – a ghost tour.

We line up for our tickets at a kitschy meeting place aptly called The Voodoo Lounge. It is here that we learn about the New Orleans not documented in the history books. On this chilly night, we line up two by two, for a trip down dark streets that, although exactly the same as those we’ve walked during the day, no longer resemble anything we remember.

The Gardette-Leprette Mansion is rumored to be haunted by a wealthy Turkish Sultan and the many who attended his lavish party on the night that they were all massacred.

The Andrew Jackson Hotel is rumored to be haunted by a group of children who died in a fire during the hotel’s history as an orphanage.

Tonight, if only for an hour and a half, the vampire Lestat can scour the streets in search of fresh blood; Marie Leveau, The Voodoo Queen, could cast her spells; Madame Delphine LaLaurie, cruel mistress, slave torturer and serial killer, could be heard hollering at the help from her parlour; the Turkish Sultan can entertain once again at the Gardette-Leprette Mansion before the massacre; wives on Ursulines Avenue could sleep soundly knowing that it would be a while before their butcher-inspired husbands would jam their lifeless bodies into a trunk; and Pierre Antoine Lepardi Jourdan can gamble one more lucky hand without losing his treasured home or his own life.

Muriel’s Jackson Square Restaurant is rumored to be haunted by the ghost of Pierre Antoine Lepardi Jourdan who lost his home (now Muriel’s) in an unlucky hand of poker & later killed himself on the 2nd floor. Every night, Muriel’s staff still sets a table to keep the mischievous ghost from causing trouble at the restaurant.

A ghostly chariot in front of a home rumored to be the former site of various Vampire murders.

A house on Ursulines Street, where it is rumored that copy-cat murders in which husbands chop up their wives bodies then place them in a trunks on the balcony, have occurred. The incidents date back to the 19th Century, but a more recent discovery was made in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop – “Serving beer & frozen drinks since the 1700s.”

At the start of the tour, the guide asks if anyone believes in ghosts. The tipsy guy holding the “Huge Ass Beers” (a local watering hole and restaurant) cup, is the only one who raises his hand. The rest of us carry on with slick smirks on our faces, that is, until the final stop of the tour.

The real LaLaurie Mansion is rumored to be haunted by the slaves tortured & killed by Delphine LaLaurie in the attic of the home.

We promptly huddle together across the street from Madame Lalaurie’s Mansion, which is easily labeled the most haunted house in New Orleans. The windows are are covered by heavy drapery and the front vestibule is decorated in what is obviously an attempt by the current owners to humor the tourists. Locals, on the other hand, usually won’t even walk under the home’s gallery – choosing instead to cross the street well in advance. The tour guide reminds us that only one in the group made it clear that he believed in ghosts, while the rest of us brave ones were encouraged to cross the street for a closer look at the vestibule.

The vestibule & front door of the LaLaurie Mansion is decorated for Halloween.

One woman asked the guide how close she could get before “You know, something gets on me?” The guide shrugged and said “I don’t know. You’re on your own,” in a very “and I seriously mean that / I don’t play with ghosts” kind of way. All of these folks declared an absolute denial of the existence of ghosts, yet here they were, clutching their beers and each other, too afraid to cross the street. I watched as an elderly couple from another tour walked over to the front gate. If they can do it, so can we. Besides, we don’t want to disturb the residents, we just want a photo.  

I sense a bit of hesitation your part, so I cross the street on my own and quickly snap the picture. My heart is beating. My lip is actually quivering. This is crazy! Why did I cross the street? For a moment, my feet are frozen and I’m mesmerized by the glass panes on each side of the door. I quickly whisper a breathless prayer and shimmy my shoulders, making sure to shake off anything that may “get on me.” I rejoin the group and find you snapping away feverishly, trying to determine whether any of the green or white orbs in your photos resemble something.

The guide begins to bid farewell just as you slowly tap me on the arm. You call my name, but I am too busy digging through my purse for a tip for the tour guide. When I finally turn to you, your face is frozen; your finger sliding across your phone in a frenzy. “My pictures are all upside down. My pictures are ALL upside down.” You’re not yelling, but your voice begins to take on a concerned pitch. I lean in and almost instantly whip out my phone to document what I saw. All of the pictures on your phone – from the this trip, previous ones, from past birthdays to weddings, and baby showers, even that screenshot of your favorite tamale recipe – they were all upside down.

My photo of the upside down image. Could it be an iOS 10 glitch or something more?

We try to explain what has happened to the tour guide but he doesn’t seem to want to entertain such a report. He says blurred images, orbs, and other strange happenings have been documented in photos by tourists and locals alike. He doesn’t wish to comment further and certainly doesn’t want to lay a finger on our phones, as if we were now the bearers of bad juju.

We flip through your album for several minutes, when finally we put the phone down in disbelief, and realize that we are still standing in front of the house. We scamper around the corner and check the phone again. The photos are miraculously no longer upside down. We look around and notice that we are the only two on this side street and that, according to recent news reports, as lonely tourists, we may have more to fear than just ghosts. We make a mad dash for the hotel and settle under our respective bed covers without a word. We are safe now, unscathed, with the exception of our frayed nerves.

In his novel, All the Pretty Horses, Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist and playwright, Cormac McCarthy writes about a young man, the last in a legacy of Texas ranchers, who is left to cope with sale of the family ranch and the final link to his past. MccArthy writes “Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.”

Aside from comfort food and cozy sweaters, this time of year – with its dead leaves, dark sky, and chilly air – is best known for its tales of witches, vampires, goblins, ghosts, and all varieties of the undead, but some might say that there is nothing scarier or nightmare-inducing than our own past which is very much alive in us. Those things, within ourselves, that we only remember in pulses and flashes because they are too frightening to relive all at once and, much like flood waters can easily overwhelm and leave us gasping for air. They are the pieces of ourselves that we ignore, but certainly can’t forget, much like the markers around the city commemorating births, deaths, wars, victories, and defeats. Much like the cemeteries that house the remains of loved ones, they are the places in our memory that we enter out of familiarity, but whose tricky paths quickly entangle us and make us lose our way.

Many are quick to blame New Orleans’ colonists for its colorful past. They say “Well, what do you expect in a city populated by thieves, prostitutes, murderers, vagrants, and smugglers,”  In the same way that we say “Well what do you expect…” about ourselves. We blame our mothers and fathers, our family members, the homes in which we grew up in. We blame the town folk and schools, the president and our country’s laws, and we even blame ourselves. But in the end, all we really want is to think that we have grown to become better people than that which we once were.

We’ve all been through something. We’ve all been challenged in ways that, at one point or another, we thought we’d never overcome. For some, the past binds them and pins them down unmovable, as if under some spell. For others, the past has slowly faded away and only chooses to reappear in the form of orbs and shadows recognizable in moments of weakness. The past haunts us, even until this day.

As author Libba Bray writes in one of her popular Young Adult novels:

“Every city is a ghost. New buildings rise upon the bones of the old so that each shiny steel beam, each tower of brick carries with it the memories of what has gone before, an architectural haunting. Sometimes you can catch a glimpse of these former incarnations in the street or filigreed gate, an old oak door peeking out from a new facade, the plaque commemorating the spot that was once a battleground, which became a saloon and is now a park.“

This city, like many of us, is only what it is now because of what it has been through. From the Great Fire of 1788, to the Yellow Fever epidemic, to Hurricane Katrina, and everything in between. New Orleans has faced eradication on quite a number of occasions, but it somehow stands up to the challenge and comes back stronger every time.

As we move forward in what is left of this year (and my renovation back home), we look to New Orleans as a symbol of what personal strength should be.

Some say the land under New Orleans is sinking. I say, if they haven’t gone anywhere since the 1700s, they won’t be budging anytime soon. New Orleans is simply repositioning and preparing to give rise to new bones.

I didn’t expect New Orleans to be perfect, because no one with a tainted past can be…but what I got was pretty darn close.

BE SURE TO CHECK OUT DAY 1 OF THIS TRIP – HERE!