Travel tale #2: New Orleans

A weekend in NOLA

In New Orleans, there is so much that beckons you. So much music alongside so much noise. On Bourbon Street, music comes out of every bar, shop, restaurant— different sounds competing. There’s jazz, country, R&B. I walk down and one sound leads into another, the transfers jarring and quick. Everything is loud and boisterous. Men catcall as I explore the French Quarter, even from their cars, taking me back to Istanbul. “I want some chocolate milk”, one shouts. Asian business owners ask me to come in for a massage. There are many bands busking for enchanted tourists. There are horse-drawn carriages going past, the drivers calling out facts about the city to their customers. There are many homeless people. 

The buildings in the French Quarter are special. The black terraces are reminiscent of Paris, but the colours of the walls are different, more vibrant — Light blue doors against yellow walls; mint green doors against peach walls — The art is more vibrant too. The pieces on display in the galleries that line Royal Street are unapologetic, lacking subtlety, proclaiming life with a loud cry. There is so much history here. There is Jackson square and the French market, and restaurants that have stood for a hundred years, but I can’t help thinking about how different these places were then, who they used to serve, who they didn’t. There is a stately hotel that used to be a slave auction ground; French market, with rows of food and fashion stalls, was where black bodies were brought in through the Mississippi River. There are many antiques shops. They are filled with the glistening, patterned wood of cupboards, tables, stools. I wonder who owned them, what secrets are engraved there. 

Yet, blackness thrives here now. Black joy, black industry, black music, black food, black talent, is everywhere, seeped into all aspects of the city. There are children who beat on overturned buckets, who make music, who marry rhythm, hands against sticks against plastic. There is an art installation in a warehouse called Studio BE that holds me. It is filled with black faces — calm, hopeful, determined. I stay there for a long time and take in the stories.  

I eat. This is my primary reason for coming, and I track down different dishes in the French Quarter. In two days, I eat gumbo, jambalaya, fried chicken, red beans, barbecued shrimp, crabcakes, pralines, beignets, caramelised bananas, lobster dumplings, bread pudding. I drink ice cream daquiris, frozen irish coffees, cocktails at different bars. In some of these spaces, I notice that there aren’t many customers that look like me. The black waiters notice too. They give me special attention, compliments, extra biscuits. They go out of their way, out of their assigned sections, to speak to me. One calls me an African queen, another tells me we should eat on his discount next time, a third, who works at two of the restaurants I visit, greets me both times. New Orleans is good for my confidence. 

There are the performances. I listen to Shannon Powell on drums and Ronell Johnson on trombone at the city’s historic Preservation Hall. I listen to an old man singing Sam Cooke’s “A Change is gonna come” in a weighted, timbered voice. I listen to a woman called Doreen and her band on the street — she goes between playing her clarinet and bellowing with her head arched back. Here, I appreciate jazz for the first time, appreciate the complexities of its compositions, the way the instruments come together.

There are other aspects I don’t get to experience, some I don’t want to. There are elements of darkness, with the voodoo and the tarot cards and the skeletons that you see on some terraces. There are lamps that flicker, and vampire stories set in the city. There are also the signals of life, which I miss out on. There are the coloured beads that hang on terraces that speak of the next Mardi Gras. There are people who drink in the street, carrying transparent bottles, gearing up for night time. And when it comes, there are people that go from one bar to another in hordes, who dance on the concrete, who drink on balconies. And I walk past, watching. 

This place is special. Complex and full, bursting with colour and volume, throbbing with history. In a weekend, I only see a fraction of it, feel its pulse. There are many reasons to come back. To watch a second line parade and dance in it; to see the masks and colour of Mardi Gras, to experience Essence Fest as a black woman; to ride a streetcar; to walk and eat my way through Tremé. This place is a melody. There are many reasons to keep listening.  

Prompt:

Where will you return to? What will you keep listening to? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.