The last portion of our trip was through Cajun country of Lafayette, LA. Although I’d heard of Cajuns before this trip, I’d never learned about what the word meant. Andrew explained that it was a group of people descended from French Canadian settlers who had been forced out of the north, but as is often the case, the literal definition of their history is nowhere near enough to describe this group. On our first day in Lafayette, we went to see the Evangeline Oak, a tree named for an old romantic legend. It was a massive oak tree in a tiny park, surrounded by thick, muddy bayou waters. In all of the different little towns we visited, the surrounding swamp was always present. It was a reminder, we were out in the middle of nowhere. But it never felt threatening. Instead, it added to the quietness of all of the towns. It made it clear that we were in a place that wasn’t about the stresses of urban environments.

A live oak covered in Spanish moss at the Jungle Gardens

We got to experience this environment even closer when we visited Avery Island. We stopped briefly in the Tabasco factory shop, a hilarious tribute to and collection of all things Tabasco including jewelry, stuffed animals, stickers, and tiny bottles of hot sauce that were about the size of my thumb. However, the highlight of this place was the Jungle Gardens we then drove into and explored. The Jungle Gardens were a huge park made of swamp, filled with gorgeous live oaks whose branches dripped with Spanish moss. We saw an alligator who made its home in a pond, and a lookout point at “Bird City”, the ruins of some old wooden swamp building that was now the resting place of hundreds and hundreds of majestic white egrets.

What was by far the most impactful part of our time in Cajun country, though, was when we went to a Cajun music jam in the tiny town of Arnaudville. We stopped on our way at the supermarket to pick up some food, the gathering being a potluck as well as a music-making session. Then, after driving farther and farther from the more centralized little towns of the area, we pulled into this quaint little village. One of the few non-house buildings was labeled with a sign that said “Tom’s Fiddle and Bow” which was where we were going. We entered the cozy shop’s front room, and were immediately greeted by the melody of violins and accordions. A few people, all in their 60s-80s, sat in the front room, playing music. Past this, a back room housed a small kitchen and a slightly larger group of bluegrass musicians, also all in their 60s-80s, on guitars and mandolins and singing together as they played. And in those first minutes of letting the music wash over me, I had a realization–I’d never before been to a gathering held purely for the purpose of wanting to make music together. There was no audience, no formality, no productivity, no goal. Everyone was there because something inside them made them want to make music and be with people. The shop, unsurprisingly, belonged to a man named Tom, who based his business here of repairing fiddles. Fiddles hung on all of the walls, seeming to declare the space as a home of music.

Andrew playing violin at the Cajun music jam

The way everyone was immediately so friendly and open toward us felt surprising. Here we were, a group of obvious foreigners to this land, none of us knowing anyone there other than Andrew. It would have been so easy to ignore us or dislike us, but that never seemed to even be a possibility there. The people smiled and talked to us, telling us stories of their lives and what had brought each of them here. I was struck with emotion as the lively music washed over me. Everyone there had whole lifetimes of experiences, many dating back seven or eight decades, having come here to this tiny town from both all over the country and from the immediate area, and here they all were, united as one group because they wanted to make music. As time went on, the bluegrass group got smaller but the Cajun group got bigger. Andrew got a fiddle from Tom and joined in the music making, following along and improvising. There was no written guide for any of it; it was all played from memory and from the heart and from people feeling the music and joining in.

A freeform sketch of the Cajun music group all united in music

At a certain point, Andrew encouraged me to join in, after I admitted I played a bit of guitar. I was nervous to join. I didn;t know what I was doing, and I was afraid of ruining the beautiful songs that all of these people were working so hard to play. But I got a guitar from Tom and walked up to the circle. An older lady there looked at me and smiled wide and immediately shifted her chair over to make space for me. I looked to the fingers of the other guitar players to follow along. Although I was new, I had been welcomed in like I was a part of the community. Everyone’s kindness and openness absolutely astounded me. At one point, a man who was clearly well respected, who although he was younger was being looked to by everyone to lead the music, made eye contact with me as I was trying to figure out what to play. He had been incredibly skillfully playing intricate fingering patterns, but he stopped, and began to play the open chords of the music so I could follow along and join in. The warmth of the gesture floored me. He stopped being the leader of the music, he stopped his demonstration of skill and grace, just to help introduce me, a stranger, to the music making. We never said a word to each other; he was playing guitar and singing the entire time we were there. As we all sang and danced together, I felt a happiness and a fullness I hadn’t felt in a long time.