My first trip to New Orleans was a whirlwind experience, to say the least. But I fell in love.
Photo by Melissa White
I was excited about my trip. The food was especially appealing, as I love Cajun food and am always interested in learning to cook something new. I expected the haze of the French Quarter; everyone told me previously how dirty it is. I expected some humidity, and my weather app told me it would be warm. I was intrigued by the idea of mass transit; I chose the hotel based on the recommendation of a friend and the fact that it was right in front of a trolley stop.
I didn’t expect the intense experience I had. Everything was amazingly vivid. The food had a depth of flavor you don’t get in chain restaurants. There was something special to be found at every restaurant. I would start with a drink and appetizer at one restaurant, go to another for my main course, and have dessert at yet another location. Everything was fresh and delicious. When you can sit at an oyster bar and not smell the oysters, you know what fresh really means.
Photo by Melissa White
Walking the streets of the French Quarter was an assault on the senses during the day. Your brain can’t keep up with the smells and the sights and the people. You pass restaurant after restaurant, bar after bar, and you can smell fried food and spices and liquor. Punctuating all those heavenly smells you get trash, and rot, and human waste. You can smell the briny waste of the river, and the slightly damp smell that pervades everything. There are interesting signs and bright colors everywhere. Every business is trying to get your attention.
Photo by Melissa White
At night you are nearly violated by the rush of the culture around you. There are women wearing nothing but paint and panties. Strippers hang out in doorways, tempting you in to their establishments. There is a cacophony of noise, karaoke from one bar, jazz from another, a live band from a hidden courtyard: Country, Rock, Classic Rock, Piano and Blues. There are people everywhere. The crowd is part of the scenery, with the roads blocked so you can wander wherever you choose.
Blanketing everything is the oppressive humidity. You can tell the locals from the tourists by the sheen on their faces. No one has immaculately straightened hair, because it wouldn’t last anyway. It was hot and muggy by mid-morning, and this was in early September. In the afternoons, a rainstorm might cool the area off for a while; the wind pushing it in cool and clean smelling. Within an hour of the rain stopping, the whole area felt like it was covered in a wet blanket. You were swimming instead of walking and felt like you could breathe water.
Photo by Melissa White
The lore is dark: Voodoo, vampires, witchcraft. But it’s bright and energetic too. Mardi Gras, not the Bourbon Street experience, the real one, with the parades and Carnival atmosphere is the prime example. New Orleans is one of the most incredible melting pots of culture and people I’ve personally seen. Part of it is the tourists, but it’s the people who live and work there. Young men with neck tattoos are the ones working at the Oyster Bar. If you ask them questions, they’re pretty knowledgeable about the food, and they’re happy to share that with you. There are street performers, artists, and musicians who all make up the mashup of culture that is New Orleans.
There is a dark underbelly, like any major city. The darkness of their literature and culture foreshadows the depths of the human darkness you can find. I’ve never seen so many homeless. They were every shape, size, age, and race. I saw one pretty, young girl with a cute dog, and a sign. How can you tell which ones are legit, and which ones are for show, looking for easy money? And is it really that easy? There were street performers walking around mostly naked, performing small tricks for tips. You’d pass people passed out in little niches, whether from drink, drugs, or exhaustion I’ll never know. There is a layer to the French Quarter culture that is certainly not the advertised experience.
Photo by Melissa White
I finally made my way to the airport, and began to hunt for coffee as soon as I cleared airport security. I was hoping for just one more cup of Cafe du Monde coffee (and maybe a few beignets). All I can find is a little stand that serves PJ’s. I’d seen their stores all over downtown, and thought, “What the heck?” I regretted the decision almost immediately. I ordered a large coffee, and she poured it from a pre-made container. It was just as bitter as I expected it to be, it had been sitting there for a couple of hours at least. “Cream?” I asked. “On the stand over there.” She pointed and I turned around to see the little cups. Drat.
After doctoring the bitter brew, I wandered into the Hudson’s News. I was invisible, for all that I was carrying around a lime green laptop and overstuffed backpack. I overheard a conversation about the hotdog stand across the terminal.
“I’ve never eaten them outside of this airport. It’s easy for lunch,” a young woman admits a bit sheepishly.
“No one eats them outside of the airport. Except the tourists, and they only do it ‘cuz they drunk.” The old man nodded his head to end the conversation.
I always try to ask locals where to go. Everyone I asked in New Orleans had a different opinion. The cab driver that took me from the airport to my hotel didn’t steer me wrong on a single suggestion. The security guard at my hotel was helpful, as was the bartender at one of the oyster bars I tried. I learned something on this trip that is, perhaps, common knowledge for others: Locals really want you to like their home, and if you’re friendly, they’ll share some of their secrets.
Photo by Melissa White
I continued wandering around the little shop. They had the usual: shirts, hats, shot glasses, coffee mugs, key chains. I hesitated at the key chains. I needed a new one, and why not get it here? I really enjoyed my visit. I was considering what it would be like to live there, whether it was even possible. No. I couldn’t capture the vivid experience of this place in a cheap piece of metal. I couldn’t collect the experience in a house. You need that entire city to have the entire experience.
New Orleans has a flare for the dramatic that made me feel right at home, somehow (Aren’t we writers all the same? A bit reclusive and shy, but with a dramatic streak a mile wide). The intensity with which I dream and think and feel doesn’t seem so misplaced there. Granted, I was in a lot of touristy situations, but the natives and the native transplants were right up my alley. The people who weren’t from New Orleans originally wouldn’t just come out and say “I’m from Boston” when you asked, even though their accent placed them pretty accurately. “Here.” They’d say. “This is home.” They adopted the place, and New Orleans welcomed them with open, dirty arms.
Photo by Melissa White
Obviously, this is all my personal opinion. Do you agree with some of these observations? Disagree? Please leave a comment and let me know!
any trees that you can’t see the ocean from the parking area. It’s a short hike down a maintained trail to the beach, but you can’t rush. as the trail is rather steep. The enticing sound of the waves and wind are muffled by the forrest as you make your way down the trail. It is strangely quiet for most of the hike, and then the ocean gradually comes into view, and the roar of the surf rises. The view suddenly opens up, and there is the ocean, as far as you can see. Then you have to climb down some rocks to get to the sand.
nieremeli 