New Orleans - An Impression
Seeing this city, experiencing its charms and perversities first hand, has not delivered unto me any sense of before missing peace. Instead it quite seems the gulf between my soul, and what I understand as a sense of belonging, is even more wide. It's heartbreaking, seeing this city after so many years of imagining it, only to know that today, in a few short hours, I'll be leaving, maybe forever. Such is the whim of fate.
Ghosts whispered to me through the Quarter, followed me as I meandered the wet streets, watching pedestrians, those lucky souls on the balcony of their flat, possessing that for which I so long. History isn't an abstract, in those narrow streets, but rather a part of the ambiance. It's easy to see the streets as only compacted mud, to see the horses and their carriages, creole ladies and gentlemen in their finery, those gripped by the horrors of disease.
My mind's eye showed me these things, a curious juxtaposition of the past and present. What it must have been like to know the city when she was, in my opinion, in her prime, after the fires but before the years could give her a sort of jazz augmented cynicism, brought on hurricane winds. New Orleans is alive, and on her way to being well again, but there is still a sort of sickness here, a wound that has yet to heal. To borrow words from Anne Rice, there is a canker in the heart of the rose.
It's easiest to see in the Quarter, especially on its edges, where folk are eager to attempt to talk you out of your money. I don't pity them, don't look down on them, and for the most part, they're the most honest of the lot you'll meet. They know what they're doing, know what it means to need and to beg, and if you listen, they have things to say, valuable things.
I met a man by the Mississippi, a shoe shiner with a delightful accent. He served in the military, and when I told him I am from Indiana, he knew the place, named Ft. Wayne and South Bend. He lost everything in the hurricane, or so the story goes, but he's rebuilt his life, maybe not to what it was before, but he’s trying. He loves his city, said were it not for the "damned hurricanes." And here he paused, eyes staring at the inky waters of the Mississippi as they lapped against the rocky shore. Were it not for the hurricanes, he said, this place would be perfect.
It's stories like his that carried me away from tourism, and to a real sense of the place that was most strongly felt in and around the Quarter. The Garden District, for all its beauty and grandness, is a place for the rich, the well to do, high born Southern families with mansions spanning blocks. Oh, they were nice enough, these people, but there was less of the open soul sort of honesty I'd come accustomed to.
Yet there was beauty to be found there, unmistakably. The hanging trees, bright with flowers despite being late September. Even the Lafayette Cemetery No 1 was beautiful, those tombs of white washed brick and the occasional marble. Nothing like Bonaventure in Savannah, but despite the lack of statues, those tightly packed rows of crypts felt more comfortable, more alive, more welcoming. It was as if the dead of the city let out a sigh, welcoming me home.
Visiting that part of town was more of a Mecca than anything else, for me. Other places were more iconic, perhaps, but I've often dreamed of those streets, Prytania and the others; walking down them, despite the bursts of torrential rain, was mesmerizing, and brought me near to tears. Yet it was seeing Mayfair Manor which brought to me the greatest chills, knowing that, within those walls, the series that ultimately shaped my life, and at least my trip to the South, had begun, set me to trembling.
The house itself is not unlike the others, with towering columns of what I can only assume are white marble, or some other stone, and intricate iron workings on the balconies. You could see through the window above the door, see a staircase leading up, and a dangling chandelier. Elegant and mysterious and utterly divine. I think I fell in love with that house, like no other I had ever before seen.
There is too much to see and do in New Orleans, and I'd be a liar to say I accomplished every goal. I believe I could live here a millennium and never really do it all. But it was a good start, a pleasant four days which I will never forget. I saw my beloved Quarter, under the light of the sun, and the glare of the moon. I stood at the fountain in Jackson Square, watching tourists take photographs with it and never once wishing I had someone with me with which to do the same. I stared up at the St. Louis Cathedral, and I'm not ashamed to say that I cried, mindless of those around me.
Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I've ever done, and even now, as I sit in an offshoot of the Café du Monde (the one on River Walk), I long for the Quarter, for that church, for those dark streets and beautiful buildings. I miss the history and the allure already. I miss the permeating jazz, I even miss the drunken crowd of Bourbon Street, but most of all I miss the way it made me feel.
As though I'd come home after a long day at work, or after a long time lost in the woods. For me, those streets were perfect because of the street hustlers, the music drifting from everywhere and nowhere, the tiny shops with trinkets no one needs, the locals leaving or coming back to their flats. I felt welcome there, perfectly and absolutely, as though my soul had finally found the note to which it could sing along.
I'm not eager to leave, could never be, but as I whispered to the street last night, as I departed Jackson Square, not bothering to fight off the tears, it's not goodbye, it's see ya later.
Post Script
I wrote this on my phone, while I was still in the city (obviously?). As of now, I'm sitting in DC's Reagan airport, waiting for the flight that will take me back to Indiana. I'm not terribly happy to be gone, and feel a sort of... Numbness at that I am no longer in New Orleans. I spent a literal decade wishing I could visit that city, and no four day trip could ever be long enough to assuage the sort of hurt that such a long time of unfulfilled wanting accumulates. It was a helluva start, though, and it's solidified in my mind (and heart and soul) that New Orleans is the city where my soul resides. I'll be back there some day soon, as soon as I am able, in fact. And until then, all I can do is work hard, hold close to my heart the memory of jazz and the click of my boots along the cobblestone of Jackson Square. All I can do is think of the ring of the church bells, the scent of the river, the press of people.
All I can do is continue to love that city, and get safely back.
Ghosts whispered to me through the Quarter, followed me as I meandered the wet streets, watching pedestrians, those lucky souls on the balcony of their flat, possessing that for which I so long. History isn't an abstract, in those narrow streets, but rather a part of the ambiance. It's easy to see the streets as only compacted mud, to see the horses and their carriages, creole ladies and gentlemen in their finery, those gripped by the horrors of disease.
My mind's eye showed me these things, a curious juxtaposition of the past and present. What it must have been like to know the city when she was, in my opinion, in her prime, after the fires but before the years could give her a sort of jazz augmented cynicism, brought on hurricane winds. New Orleans is alive, and on her way to being well again, but there is still a sort of sickness here, a wound that has yet to heal. To borrow words from Anne Rice, there is a canker in the heart of the rose.
It's easiest to see in the Quarter, especially on its edges, where folk are eager to attempt to talk you out of your money. I don't pity them, don't look down on them, and for the most part, they're the most honest of the lot you'll meet. They know what they're doing, know what it means to need and to beg, and if you listen, they have things to say, valuable things.
I met a man by the Mississippi, a shoe shiner with a delightful accent. He served in the military, and when I told him I am from Indiana, he knew the place, named Ft. Wayne and South Bend. He lost everything in the hurricane, or so the story goes, but he's rebuilt his life, maybe not to what it was before, but he’s trying. He loves his city, said were it not for the "damned hurricanes." And here he paused, eyes staring at the inky waters of the Mississippi as they lapped against the rocky shore. Were it not for the hurricanes, he said, this place would be perfect.
It's stories like his that carried me away from tourism, and to a real sense of the place that was most strongly felt in and around the Quarter. The Garden District, for all its beauty and grandness, is a place for the rich, the well to do, high born Southern families with mansions spanning blocks. Oh, they were nice enough, these people, but there was less of the open soul sort of honesty I'd come accustomed to.
Yet there was beauty to be found there, unmistakably. The hanging trees, bright with flowers despite being late September. Even the Lafayette Cemetery No 1 was beautiful, those tombs of white washed brick and the occasional marble. Nothing like Bonaventure in Savannah, but despite the lack of statues, those tightly packed rows of crypts felt more comfortable, more alive, more welcoming. It was as if the dead of the city let out a sigh, welcoming me home.
Visiting that part of town was more of a Mecca than anything else, for me. Other places were more iconic, perhaps, but I've often dreamed of those streets, Prytania and the others; walking down them, despite the bursts of torrential rain, was mesmerizing, and brought me near to tears. Yet it was seeing Mayfair Manor which brought to me the greatest chills, knowing that, within those walls, the series that ultimately shaped my life, and at least my trip to the South, had begun, set me to trembling.
The house itself is not unlike the others, with towering columns of what I can only assume are white marble, or some other stone, and intricate iron workings on the balconies. You could see through the window above the door, see a staircase leading up, and a dangling chandelier. Elegant and mysterious and utterly divine. I think I fell in love with that house, like no other I had ever before seen.
There is too much to see and do in New Orleans, and I'd be a liar to say I accomplished every goal. I believe I could live here a millennium and never really do it all. But it was a good start, a pleasant four days which I will never forget. I saw my beloved Quarter, under the light of the sun, and the glare of the moon. I stood at the fountain in Jackson Square, watching tourists take photographs with it and never once wishing I had someone with me with which to do the same. I stared up at the St. Louis Cathedral, and I'm not ashamed to say that I cried, mindless of those around me.
Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I've ever done, and even now, as I sit in an offshoot of the Café du Monde (the one on River Walk), I long for the Quarter, for that church, for those dark streets and beautiful buildings. I miss the history and the allure already. I miss the permeating jazz, I even miss the drunken crowd of Bourbon Street, but most of all I miss the way it made me feel.
As though I'd come home after a long day at work, or after a long time lost in the woods. For me, those streets were perfect because of the street hustlers, the music drifting from everywhere and nowhere, the tiny shops with trinkets no one needs, the locals leaving or coming back to their flats. I felt welcome there, perfectly and absolutely, as though my soul had finally found the note to which it could sing along.
I'm not eager to leave, could never be, but as I whispered to the street last night, as I departed Jackson Square, not bothering to fight off the tears, it's not goodbye, it's see ya later.
Post Script
I wrote this on my phone, while I was still in the city (obviously?). As of now, I'm sitting in DC's Reagan airport, waiting for the flight that will take me back to Indiana. I'm not terribly happy to be gone, and feel a sort of... Numbness at that I am no longer in New Orleans. I spent a literal decade wishing I could visit that city, and no four day trip could ever be long enough to assuage the sort of hurt that such a long time of unfulfilled wanting accumulates. It was a helluva start, though, and it's solidified in my mind (and heart and soul) that New Orleans is the city where my soul resides. I'll be back there some day soon, as soon as I am able, in fact. And until then, all I can do is work hard, hold close to my heart the memory of jazz and the click of my boots along the cobblestone of Jackson Square. All I can do is think of the ring of the church bells, the scent of the river, the press of people.
All I can do is continue to love that city, and get safely back.