There’s a Joke Here Somewhere

I was born on a Sunday. And so the sun knows all my secrets. This great big star; a guiding force in my life. It keeps me warm.

But there was hardly such a thing on my last day in New Orleans. Somebody had scissored the sky just enough for the rain to fall. And it fell and fell. I wanted to spend some time with the sun. The Southern heat, despite our differences, would come to know me—understand me—a bit better as time went on.

““You could tell by the way that he talked, though, that he had gone to school a long time. That was probably what was wrong with him.””
— John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

I dreaded leaving New Orleans. What excuse is there left? Leaving New Orleans meant facing risk. Lots of it. More ebb than flow. There exists uncertainty and change. We risk touching the face of misery and hostility. A fear that has plagued me for God knows how long. I hate this fear more than I hate writing. Andrew wants me to be more honest; I suppose that’s a reasonable thing to ask. Writers contradict themselves all the time.

““When Fortuna spins you downward, go out to a movie and get more out of life.””
— John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

One of my main objectives on this trip was to strengthen my sense of mindfulness. A process that I would do so alone. I often seek out solitude because there can be something beautiful about it. I wanted to dig deep into pockets of soil. Sketch each cloud. Count each leaf. I did these things fairly well, I think. (Have you read any of my work?) And so I’ve come to realize that I like spending time with myself. Very much, in fact. Being in the company of my own presence is worthwhile. There is something of value with self-exploration. Each corner of the mind has its multitudes. It’s quite fascinating. Who knew?

The sun had kept to itself, making hardly any appearances throughout the day. It can be a shy little thing when it wants to. By noon, I’d take my small list of errands with me outside, heading towards the St. Charles streetcar. Clunkiness sounds sweet. On my way down Magazine Street, I notice how out of place everything seems to be. Charming and quirky and out of place. There’s an unspoken liveliness in everyday people, particularly in the thick of some fuzzy overcast. There was more pep to my step. I figure it’s all the jazz.

At the antique mall, I find vintage furs, comics, rotary phones, records, dishware. I don’t know where to start. I stroll around, not looking for anything in particular. Just gifts for my family. I visit the vintage shop a few doors down. There are racks on racks of band t-shirts and college sweatshirts. I take a look at the hat selection, noticing a blue-brim hat that says ‘Fishing is not a matter of LIFE and DEATH—it’s much more IMPORTANT than that!’ And I agree. I’d come to purchase it for my brother. Before making my way back to the streetcar headed towards Canal Street, I make sure to take in the live oaks that line the cobbled Garden District streets one last time.

In the Quarter, I hound each souvenir shop in search of a stuffed alligator keychain. It’s virtually impossible to find any for some strange, obscure reason. Is this not New Orleans—have I gone mad? I needed one for my mother’s new set of keys. I feel like Ignatius huffing and puffing about.

By Fortuna’s doing, I manage to stumble across the Historic New Orleans Collection, a museum and research center with free admission. It contains a small set of exhibits that detail the history and culture of New Orleans. I take my time traversing each one, entranced by the Southern allure. One exhibit, titled ‘Unknown Sitters,’ presents a selection of unidentified portrait subjects. Each figure has a soulful look in their eyes. And each figure has a story.

Across the St. Louis Cathedral, I enter another gallery, this time with the works of George Rodrigue, known for his ‘Blue Dog’ series. Just pieces of blue dogs with piercing, yellow eyes. I feel as though we need more art in the world, good or bad. (This statement conflicts me at times the more I think about it. I refuse to think about it any longer.) Where there is art, there is life.

I end the day by purchasing a 1997 copy of James Baldwin: Early Novels & Stories at Dauphine Books. James Baldwin always had something to say, and he was right most of the time. If there was such a person who could provide me with the answers that I’m looking for during this transitional and transformative period, it would be him. There is a quote about mirroring love somewhere.

““My life is a rather grim one. One day I shall perhaps describe it to you in detail.””
— John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

As I type this last blog, I would have arrived back in Los Angeles. I find that the birds chirp the same. And the sun is there to greet me home. Yet, I have a newfound sense of bravery and autonomy, which I had not known up until this point.

I don’t know what life has in store for me. It can take days, weeks, months, or even years for a revelation to happen. It’s a matter of time, of perseverance, of swift tenacity. It’s the fish mentality. You just swim and swim. Murky waters, clear waters, any water. I think back to the gulf shark I saw a few weeks ago—its fin against the sun; its glossy, wet and smooth skin; silvery, almost iridescent skin. The way it moves, perhaps not knowing what lies ahead.

The sun is a star. But the stars, they wane and they change. Distant and tremulous, moving from one sky to another. How delicate and beautiful they are, for they do not know; these spheres of gaseous light.

Unified Chaos

Just outside New Orleans School of Cooking

Ever since the first group meeting with the New Orleans book-packing class, the experience I was most excited about was the day at the New Orleans School of Cooking. As soon as we walk into the little shop on the first floor, I am greeted by the bright colors of spices and cute aprons. It feels homey. Cooking is one of the best ways of connecting with different cultures. In Chef Maria V.’s words, food is a universal language, just like music. Having watched my grandmother and mother cook Armenian food since I was a toddler, I have found that cooking has the unique characteristic of pulling conversations out of people. Conversations of curiosity. Conversations of understanding. Conversations of perspective.

After 10 minutes of browsing through the store, we were guided up to the kitchen by Chef Maria V. She is such a character. After her little introductory speech, I am engulfed by intrigue. She explains the differences between Cajun and Creole food and the history of the influences of other cultures. Knowing the historical background of Creole and Cajun people from Andrew’s lectures and looking at the same history through the lens of culture and food is just fascinating. Even though Maria has been through a lot, having lost her restaurant to Hurricane Katrina amongst other struggles, she exudes so much positivity that is characteristic of the vibrant city. It is clear that food has helped her overcome the complexities of life. So fitting to the power of culture.

The Corn and Crab Bisque we made at the cooking school

We begin the class with a Crab and Corn Bisque, a staple in New Orleans food. She starts with butter. A LOT of butter. More butter than I have seen be used in cooking all my life. Slowly adding all the ingredients, I felt like I was in a scene of the animated film Ratatouille. We were combining so many different elements in a large pot. I expected a good flavor but I was not prepared for the depth of flavor. It was like a successful harmony of chaos, which reminds me of so many aspects of the city. First, Jazz. Just like the cooking in New Orleans, jazz is a combination of different sounds, different instruments, at different times, in different tempos. But it always all somehow marries into a beautiful unified chaos. Second, the fusion of dark and light elements of the city. The Cathedral near the voodoo museums and shops. The ghosts supposedly flying by. Psychic readings all around. All in one city. 

Having finished eating the Corn and Crab Bisque, we moved on to Jambalaya. Another fusion of so many different elements that marinate so beautifully together. It was amazing. Topping this experience off with the best banana foster I had in my life, I was delighted with the day.

Daniela absolutely mesmerized by the banana foster she made

Leaving the school feeling as stuffed as possible, a couple of us decided to walk the weight off. :) Walking through the French Quarter now is a very different experience than was at the beginning of our trip. I’m cherishing every moment. I’m noticing every corner, every eccentricity, every new tourist. I am filled with overwhelming gratitude for my time in New Orleans. As much as I am very ready to go home to my family, I will miss this strange little city. Most of all, I’ll miss the people. The locals who would complement my outfits. The elderly members of Tom’s Fiddle and Bow shop who made me feel like I gained 10 more grandparents. The Preservation Hall performers that became my friends unbeknownst to them. I’ll miss them all.

As we walk around the strip of shops, we notice a store that looks more unique than anything I have seen here. Papier Plume. We walk in and I am greeted by a welcoming sense of vintage charm. Wax stamp kits that looked … historic. Calligraphy pens and stands so meticulously crafted that seemed to awaken the undiscovered artist in oneself. I started speaking with the worker at the front desk. It turns out that these pieces were hand-crafted by a small business based in France that has been around for more than 20 years. Their story charmed me. I would buy half the store if I could. I looked around and inspected each piece closely. I felt like I could imagine the stories behind each piece. A bunch of locals in France, using art to spread joy. Wow, another statement that seems to apply to so many aspects of New Orleans and Louisiana, namely jazz. I ended up buying a calligraphy set for my cousin and I felt very happy. 

“...he is baffled by the kindliness and sincerity of the town folk.”
— The Moviegoer by Walker Percy

My best attempt at chefing it up next to the master of cooking

Slowly having more time to myself as we get close to the end, I miss my family. I think this is what I mostly think about these last few days. But I’m trying to detach myself from this feeling to take in the city one last time. I will remember the authenticity I experienced in Louisiana for the rest of my life. Louisiana brought out my most genuine self and I am more grateful than anything for that. This place also brought out my love for nature. I don’t think I have ever seen a natural green as bright as is painted all over Lousiana nature. It almost seems fake. It is so enriching and relaxing. 

Oh the live oaks. I have a special connection to these trees. They are incredibly expansive and take over every corner and crevice of Louisiana. They speak to my soul. They are rich. They are strong. They are resilient. The more I reflect the more I realize that these one-of-a-kind trees are representative of the resilience of the people in this place. The people who lost the businesses they had built for most of their lives to the hurricane. The low-income locals who had to leave their homes and communities behind forever. The black communities that were subjected to unimaginable suffering and trauma through slavery. The stories of resilience define Louisiana.

“For he is no more aware of the mystery which surrounds him than a fish is aware of the water it swims in.”
— The Moviegoer by Walker Percy

Thank you for the music

I’m sitting down to write my final blog. What a crazy thing to say! My tummy is still full with pancakes and hashbrowns from Café Fleur de Lis (if you ever find yourself in New Orleans, definitely check this place out!), and here I am doing my laundry for the last time here in the Garden District. I remember the day before I left for this trip and how nervous I was. Worries like being away from home for an entire month, traveling with a group of strangers, or getting food poisoning like the time during my eighth grade Washington DC trip were my main concerns. Now having one more full day left of this experience, I would tell my past self there is nothing to be worried about. Sure, I felt homesick a couple times and missed my friends and family back in California. But the strangers I’ve been bookpacking with have turned into friends, and I have been fortunate enough to stay healthy (knock on wood). 

I could list off the things I love about this place. The people of New Orleans welcomed me with open arms. I definitely have the shy and quiet type of personality where I usually wait for others to approach me, so coming to a place where the locals initiate the conversation first has been great. After a month being called “baby,” “honey,” and “sweetheart” by shop and restaurant owners, I am not excited to go back to Los Angeles where the only thing they offer you is a sideways smile or a judgmental stare. The architecture, supernatural lore, nightlife, and food are also things I will miss dearly once I am back home. However, the sounds of the city, especially the music, is what I will miss the most.

I have wanted to visit New Orleans for a long time now. My mom has been here once before, so when I told her that I wanted to travel here too, she asked “Why?” and my answer was “Because of the jazz and live music everywhere you go.” It really is true that around any corner on the streets that there is a 95% chance you will hear some form of music whether it is coming from a brass instrument or percussion ones. On the very first day we ventured into the French Quarter, I saw street performers for the first time at Jackson Square. I only caught the tail end of their set, but it was a great first glimpse of the other kinds of performances I would get to see over the course of my stay here. 

The second line parade on 5/19/24

I would say the first actual “event” I had the opportunity to witness was the Second Line Parade on May 19. On Sundays during parade season, Social Aid and Pleasure Clubs (SAPCs) host these parades through predominantly African American neighborhoods. It was disgustingly hot, but I had a smile on my face the whole time. The bright colored costumes, flashy banners, brass band, and spirit of the people made me so happy. I have never seen anything like it before.





The amazing saxophonist at Cafe Negril

After submitting our first paper, my friends and I had a mission: find a jazz club. Once we had a destination in mind, we headed straight towards Frenchmen Street. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to go on a Saturday night since the street was packed, but it was alive and bustling. Music was pouring out of every restaurant, and there were tons of people lining up to get in. Our initial plan to go to the Spotted Cat Music Club was quickly squashed when they told us about the $10 cover fee. As responsible college students on a budget, we followed the sound of music across the street over to Cafe Negril. And thankfully, it was free to go inside. The atmosphere was pulsing with soul. As soon as the band began to play, my body involuntarily started swaying to the beat, and the harmonies between the instruments mesmerized me completely. The trombone player loved interacting with the crowd and the saxophone player had some amazing solos. 

The most special jazz performance had to be when we went to as a group to Preservation Hall. I went into it blind, not knowing what the inside looked like or what the players would sound like. I was a bit worried when I saw how small the room was and that there was no air conditioning inside, only fans that plug into the wall or hang from the ceiling. My handheld fan definitely came in handy! At first, I was bummed that no photo or video was allowed during the show, but it was actually really nice to be in the moment with the musicians. These days, I usually see more phone screens than the actual performance during the concerts I go to, so it was a nice change of pace. Overall, I loved the intimacy of the small room where you were unconnected from the outside world to enjoy some lively jazz music. 

Not the group from Preservation Hall, but these are some really talented musicians in Jackson Square

The music jam at Tom's Fiddle and Bow

Of course, New Orleans/Louisiana is not just limited to jazz music. Delightful music is found in the most unassuming places down here. On a daytrip deep into Cajun country, we stopped in Arnaudville where Tom’s Fiddle and Bow is located. Every first Sunday of the month, Tom, the owner, invites the musicians of the community into his shop to jam out. When we arrived, you could hear the music from the outside, and on the inside, there was just pure joy. On the day we went, they were playing traditional bluegrass music, and in previous years, they used to have a Cajun jam session in a different portion of the shop. This circle of musicians went around and took turns selecting a song to play, and what really impressed me was that all of them knew what to do without any rehearsal. I have never voluntarily listened to bluegrass on my own, but the way this group of people played their instruments made me love it. 

I may not listen to jazz as much anymore, but listening to jazz music live has a completely different vibe. There is an energy that cannot be compared to anything else and it walks the streets of the city. So… 

New Orleans,

It’s been great, thank you for taking care of me, and I hope to come back soon.

Bonus — Here are some of my other favorite sounds of from the city:

Everyone inside Pat O'Briens singing along to American Pie

The sounds of Bourbon Street

The sounds of the St. Charles Streetcar through through the Garden District

A new core memory - listening to Take Me Home, Country Roads while driving through the country roads

Goodbye (with pics)

What a bittersweet blog to make.

Life has been on pause for the past month as I’ve drifted between reading, exploring, writing, and back to reading. This has truly been an experience I’ll cherish for a long long time. As I sit here writing, I think about just how much we’ve done. We intimately explored a beach town, and everything which makes a quaint life quaint. We explored the historic French Quarter through the immortal lens of vampires, as well as the buffoonery of a man named Ignatius. We had difficult and moving explorations of the Black experience of Louisiana, visiting the Whitney Plantation and hurricane-stricken New Orleans East. We then investigated the uniquely White, Southern experience through classic New Orleans creations such as A Streetcar Named Desire and The Moviegoer. I have literature and art to thank for all of these opportunities, for allowing me to discover a wildly complex city in an immersive way. 

However, my New Orlean story didn’t end there. In fact, my final few days in the city can be better told in pictures:

V is for Virgin!

Finally got to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show for the first time ever. A completely shocking, energetic, and unforgettable night. New Orleans was the perfect place for this.

Vampire Oysters

Happy hour! 50 cent oysters! At the vampire bar! Look at that smile!

Turtle Whisperer

Me and my new best friend. Look how happy we look together! At the lovely Audubon Park.

Golden Hour

In the Business District, a block away from where we stayed.

Cooking School

BEST DAY EVER!!! I love cooking so much and these people do know their food!

Storms!!!

Watchu know about going to a cute town across the Mississippi only to get absolutely dumped on by Mother Nature and tossed around by the wind like a rag doll and having your return ferry cancelled?? (Yes, that’s my cooking school apron that I’m using as an umbrella)

The Blue Dog

We the source of the blue dog paintings!! And they’re everything I could’ve ever asked for! Here’s my personal fave from the exhibit.

From Last Evening

The most beautiful farewell gift from Nola. Taken from my window at around 8pm!

What does it mean to “make the most” of a trip? To squeeze the most out of the last few days of vacation? Entering this week, I became painfully aware of just how limited our days were. As pictured above, we did our best to chase after new, exciting experiences. However, what I failed to picture was we, more often than not, returned to what we knew. A beignet from Cafe Du Monde. A live jazz performance from the square. A sandwich from Verti Marte. A streetcar ride down St. Charles Street. Some things just feel right.

How lucky am I to be able to claim normalcy and routine from a city like this–on a school trip of all things. I began this trip by pondering what it means to be a local to a place, and why someone might choose to stay instead of leave. For a city like this, the list of reasons is unfathomably large. However, I am proud to be able to confidently name a few.

That's all folks...

I’ve always struggled with goodbyes—leaving home, leaving friends. For me, it marks the end of something, something you’ll never get back. There are days when you sit there wanting to go back to that time. But as is life, goodbyes are essential.

Today marks my final day in New Orleans, and the goodbye is approaching. I’m not really sure how to go about it. This city has provided so much comfort and life for me these past few weeks, buzzing with things to do and see. While I haven’t seen it all, I’ve made a small dent.

“Leaving New Orleans also frightened me considerably. Outside city limits, the heart of darkness, the true wasteland begins.”
— John Kennedy Toole

New Orleans provides a backdrop for so many different books, varying genres, and literary masterpieces. There is something so special about this place, a quality that is hard to explain but an emotion that is easily felt. On one of the final days here, we got to experience a cooking class, making Creole and Cajun food. We collaborated as we infused various dishes like jambalaya with a multitude of ingredients and flavors—a little something for everyone, just like this city.

Across the river, on the other side of the Mississippi, sits Algiers. The town is quiet and quaint, yet only a 10-minute ferry ride away from the bustling city. Something about this place reminds me of Grand Isle. Maybe it’s the sea breeze or the very limited selection of food places, but I’m transported back to my first few days Bookpacking. While it has only been a month, I feel like a lot has changed. I have a newfound appreciation for locations, a desire to take more pictures, and moments for reflection. While I’m not on a big journey or search for anything like Edna from The Awakening, Ignatius from A Confederacy of Dunces, or Binx from The Moviegoer, I am staying optimistic as you never know what can happen.

An hour after arriving in Algiers, the sky turns from blue to grey, and we are met with sharp winds as we walk uphill to the boat dock. The dust flies at us like pinpricks, as tumbleweed passes us going downhill. A storm was coming. A group of us waited on the loading dock, and when the rain started, collections of shrieks and laughter filled the air as we ran to get undercover. While I have experienced plenty of thunderstorms since being here, this one was different. Maybe it’s because it was my final storm here or because we had no idea how we were going to get back, but a sense of fear set in as I tried to laugh it off. The mythical mystery of this city is everywhere.

Vampire courtyard

The day prior, having been given the card to enter a secret vampire speakeasy, we entered this bar. Through the closed doors at the back, we were met with a courtyard and an immortal presence sitting at one of the tables. He didn’t really say much besides stare at us intently and point in the direction of this door. His aura reminded me of Louis from Interview with the Vampire. The experience was short-lived and acted only as a quick place of discovery more than anything else. Still, I get excited at the concept of vampires and ghosts at every turn, stopping in at different stores searching for souvenirs. Is this city haunted? And if so, is that really a bad thing?

Walking the streets now, knowing I only have a few hours left, I pass things that remind me of aspects of the novels. A Lucky Dogs cart passes in front of Ignatius’ statue on Canal Street. Jazz music on the streets makes me think of the artists. The barista at CC’s Coffee Shop has me wanting to know her story. This city is filled with words and stories everywhere you look. Walking these places, I slowly start to feel like I’ve stepped into the world, a small part of the book, immersing myself.

I am going to miss the street music, the people, the food, but most importantly, I’m going to miss exploring. I am still discovering new stores along Magazine Street, quiet cafes within the Quarter, and new places to eat. If these books and this trip have taught me anything, it is to make the most of everything and to do what you want to do. I think self-discovery happens along the way. I’m going to look back on the moments shared with my friends, riding the streetcar at night when it suddenly stopped working, getting caught in a storm in Algiers, and the run-ins we had with vampires and blood bags.

As I’m about to go to the airport, I’ll leave this city behind, but the stories I’ve learned and made I will take with me for life. Experiences like this are in some form life-changing, and while I don’t know the full extent yet, I leave here with a smile and cowboy boots.

Fools on Parade

Green leaves on pebbled ground are romantic, I’ve realized. Scattered leaves fallen from decrepit trees. Romantic in the sense that it brings you closer to earth. My fulfillment lies on these leaves. I pity the unobservant and the naive.

““He is a moviegoer, though of course he does not go to movies.””
— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

I hate you, William Faulkner!

The best beignets in New Orleans are not found in Café du Monde. It is a perverse lie. Please believe me when I say this. My time in Café du Monde is spent sheltering from the rain, listening to the rumbling of ferocious jazz bands on the street. Cracks of thunder as loud as a streetcar; the watercolor sky washed in smokey blue. There is the clack clack clack from the rusty, unsuspecting mules. Rain is romantic. The beignets are not. I feel sleepy; wilted like a flower.

I’m starting to regret this trip. It’s not the city, no. Oh, it’s not. It’s the writing. I must confess that I hate writing. Writing is a selfish lover; one with many faces. Taking and taking, not giving, exhausting all emotion. And it is a lover that I continue to return to. But, I admit: seeking out the city for literary pleasures and indulgences is exhilarating! It's a license for licentiousness. Living life in New Orleans as a striving (and starving) writer is a rather fantastic idea. Fitzgerald, Williams, Capote, Twain, Whitman—these freaks of nature; my compatriots. There is neurosis in the air. It makes me want to take up smoking.

Notice the books with the interesting titles?

James Baldwin—the man that you are.

After the rain clears, I walk over to Pirate’s Alley. Sweat and smoke and soap. I come to Faulkner House Books, the nook where Faulker once resided, now a small bookstore. I’m just itching to read some Baldwin. Rows and rows of books. It makes me delirious. I ignore the fact that I’ve hated William Faulkner since I was seventeen years old; feelings which still persist. Around the corner, there is a blue wall with framed photographs and texts and letters. Southern greats like Williams and Lee with their moody stares. I chat with the owners for a bit before leaving for the Hotel Monteleone, the next stop on my literary pilgrimage.

Inside the foyer, there is a shrine dedicated to the writers who have visited and mentioned the Hotel Monteleone. Capote, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Williams, and the like. Does this particularly inspire me? Perhaps slightly. I am still unsure of what to do with my life. I’ve thought about taking an amicable break in my relationship with writing. Yet everybody keeps telling me to write. Write, write, write. Oh, but you must write. Yes, it is one of the few ways of expressing myself. And yes, it is a vessel for exploration. But I’m tired. I want to desperately sleep and dream and listen to Herb Alpert.

Returning to my hotel, Kevin, the elderly and zestful hotel manager, gifts me a set of bead necklaces by draping them around my neck. Christened by the beads—and thus accepted by the city—without the need to jump into the Mississippi.

I came to New Orleans to escape existential dread; the ravenous kind; the one that’s been gnawing away at my insides. To forgo the philosophical and reacquaint myself with everydayness. The very opposite of what Binx Bolling sets out to do in The Moviegoer. I've since been lost in the mystery of finding myself in Los Angeles at such a strange, liminal time. New Orleans would be the cure for my blues. I would learn how to coexist with the world. Every whistle of the wind, every beam of light, every sprig of grass—I would come to learn how to love these things. But the closer I approach my departure, the more I want to pick up Nietzsche again. I do not want to ‘search’ for anything per se, I just want to be able to live contemporaneously. Living in the moment is what they call it. Take each day and cradle it in my arms.

I like talking to Kevin. He calls me ‘honey,’ ‘sweetheart,’ ‘baby.’ We share moments of life and death with one another. I listen to him ramble on about piling mountains of crawfish, Lake Pontchartrain, and forgotten marital prospects. I ask if he’s ever visited Mexico. “Yes,” he says with amazement, eyes wide as stars. He tells me about his clubbing days in Tijuana. And then we talk about the losses in his life. I nod; there are layers to my sadness. You lose a part of yourself and there seems to be nothing else. Nothing but grief and shame.

“You’ve got to live your life,” says Kevin.

““The everydayness is everywhere now, having begun in the cities and seeking out the remotest nooks and corners of the countryside, even the swamps.””
— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

I love you, Narrative Studies.

It is June; so bright and so sweet and so full of life. On my way to Audubon Park, I stop to admire the trees. The ones whose limbs look like hair. I notice the various ducks and geese resting peacefully under the shade. The fields of pale pink touch-me-not. Turtles sunbathing on logs, heads held high. Our group heads to the gazebo. Class is in session.

We open our discussion. Has Binx come to find the meaning of life? Of course not. He resorts to the allure of the mundane. But what is the meaning of life? There is certainly some of that in Audubon Park. Wasps zoom in and out of our seminar space. I ignore them because I am fixed on the crows that hop and laugh about. But I cannot stop thinking about how tired I am. Could we, under the human condition, ever come to find the meaning of life? I don’t think there is such a thing possible. And yet, why do we try?

Andrew proposes this: if there were such a thing to be found, is it not within the very idea of love? Love that we not only give, but the kind that we receive. The love we receive from other people. The kind we receive from the people that love us, and that, presumably, we love right back. Is that not it? And is it not enough?

I want to throw up; this is our Sermon on the Mount and nobody knows it.

I make a swift effort to put on my sunglasses.

The Bird was Free at Last

Preservation Hall, before the performers walked in

It is scorchingly hot. I feel like my skin melting off, just an everyday shedding season here in the heart of New Orleans. We walk to the place, having no sight of what’s inside thus far, and stand in line for about 30 minutes. It is getting a bit difficult to remain sane in the humidity.

The organizer tells us she will begin calling us in 5 minutes. HURRAY, I thought. We start walking in and I am perplexed. I don’t know what I thought Preservation Hall would look like but it was certainly not that. A garage-size space with no AC, and only about 4 ceiling fans, 2 of which were off. Being hot is all in my mind, trying to reassure myself. Think … cool thoughts. I look around the walls, trying to distract myself. The place is old. But there is a certain charm about it. The walls are rusty but in an inviting way. I started noticing the posters on the walls. Depictions of intriguing, almost animated, figures holding instruments. They looked like caricatures and I was fascinated. One of the band members entered, his energy higher than what I had experienced in the city. I can already imagine the energy he will exude when he plays the trombone. In the next 5 minutes, the rest of the band members come trickling in. I can feel the energy in the room gradually increase with the entrance of each member. There is a moment of silence. The trumpet player gives a quick introduction to the band members, and before I know it, I am transported to another world. A world of harmonious chaos. Jazz was an oxymoron. It didn’t make sense. One second I felt an overwhelming sense of calm and the next I felt uneasy from the loss of structure. Jazz is a representation of life. It is the unexpected. It is the joy. It is the intrigue. It is the suffering. I was so engulfed in this experience, I completely forgot I could not handle the heat a few minutes ago. After all, the struggle was all in my mind.

“Attracted to opposites again, to the crazy music he chose to die listening to, bitching at new experiments, the chaos...”
— Coming Through Slaughter by Michael Ondaatje

Posters of some of the jazz performers on the wall just outside Preservation Hall

The enclosed feeling I know too well comes over me. I feel like a caged bird yearning to break free. Yearning to get on stage. Yearning to perform. My humming intensifies but I can’t quite reach that point of satisfaction I have been craving for years. I am afraid. I feel myself shoving this passionate bird back into the cage every time I see a performance. One day, I tell myself. The feeling goes away quickly, as it usually does.

As the performance comes to an end, I am incredibly elated. I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for life. I rush toward the stage, eager to greet the performers. I take a selfie with my new friend, the energetic character I will never forget. From that day on, it was him I channeled in the city, that inviting sense of acting on your most authentic self, a staple in jazz. I walked out of Preservation Hall, eager to get a souvenir to treasure this incredibly fulfilling experience. As I look through the hats and try one on, I make eye contact with the drummer, a young man, who is sitting in the merch area. I don’t know why, my hand shoots up and I start waving. He smiles and waves back. I exclaim: “Good job!” … Uhm …why did I wave to him as if he was a close friend? I didn’t know what came over me but the moment did not feel awkward at all. While I would usually feel embarrassed by a moment like this, I felt happy instead. I felt like I had known him for years. Maybe it’s jazz. It facilitates understanding. It communicates things words cannot. 

One of the locals explaining how Tom’s “club” works and who partakes in it

From that day on, I knew I had to take advantage of any music experience I could in the city. So, when Andrew asked if we wanted to see a bluegrass and cajun performance at a fiddle shop, there was no question in my mind. I could not wait to see it. Andrew had found Tom’s Fiddle and Bow Shop off of Facebook and it was in some obscure part of Louisiana about 2.5 hours away called Arnaudville. When I asked Andrew if Arnaudville was a common tourist attraction, he said something along the lines of “I don’t think any tourist has been to this city.” I was more excited by this response. It took me some point but I realized what I loved about Louisiana was the mundane. The people. The nature. A bunch of locals, mostly elderly, getting together to jam to bluegrass music. This was the South. The welcoming, warm camaraderie inside the home and outside.

Arriving in Arnaudville, I didn’t know what to expect but I was beyond excited. As soon as I walk in, I hear the sweet sounds of guitar and violin in an unstable harmony. Violins ranging in all sizes hanging around. About 5 kind-looking elderly men smiling at us. I felt at home. They started playing again. I am so happy, I catch myself nodding along, feet moving to the rhythm, with the biggest smile on my face. Another song finished. Two seconds into the next one, I hear the voice of one of the elderly. THEY STARTED SINGING! Oh, I could not contain my excitement. Everything was majestic. The little harmonies with each lead singer. The polite “stepping back,” lowering of the volume of the instruments to allow each performer to shine. The merry smiles of affection toward the audience after every applause. The mundane was beautiful.

The performers at Tom’s Fiddle and Bow shop

There it is again. The caged bird yearning to escape. Yearning to join the world of this harmonious elegance. Yearning to perform. I had to do it. It was the perfect opportunity. I patiently wait until it was the right time and asked if I could request a song. Getting a positive response, I ask for “Jolene” by Dolly Parton. After a few short remarks about the right chords, pensive looks, and nods of “we got it,” they turn to me: “You know the words?” My heart started pounding. I secretly want to go up there and sing but I am afraid. I have never done anything like this. I tend to work behind the stage, never on the stage. I answer, “I probably remember a good amount.” One of the locals looks at me, “Come sit here.” Not only is my heart pounding, I am shaking. Nervous excitement. I look around. A bunch of kind elderly men looking at me, smiling. I felt safe. I didn’t feel judged. So, I did. I sang Jolene. Was I good? Not really, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care at all. The bird was free at last. The bird was free.

“The right ending is an open door you can’t see too far out of. It can mean exactly the opposite of what you are thinking.”
— Coming Through Slaughter by Michael Ondaatje

Weathering the Storms

A comparison of the ocean temperatures between the year of Katrina (left) and this year (right)

I tuck myself into bed after a long day of sightseeing and being in the sun. I know it’s not the healthiest habit but my nightly routine is not complete without a quick scroll through TikTok (just ask Cecilia). It’s the usual funny videos, easy recipes, storytimes, etc. I guess ever since I arrived in New Orleans, my feed has slowly been adjusting to more localized recommendations like restaurants to try or suggested things to do in the city. I scrolled to the next video, and it caught my attention. It’s a video from Alexis Amber and it shows a tweet that compares the record temperature anomalies for the year of Hurricane Katrina with the forecasted temperatures for this year. And the difference is scary…


I glance at the date – May 22, only nine more days until this year’s hurricane season officially starts. Naturally, after seeing that one TikTok, I go down the rabbit hole and do my own investigations on forecasted predictions for the 2024 year. Videos from Accuweather, Tracking the Weather, and residents of Florida, Louisiana, and Texas filled me in on what is to be expected. A general consensus is that it will be record breaking and above average, or in other words, “a supercharged season from hell.” Yikes! I also learned that a new scientific paper published in the journal of the National Academy proposed the question: with global warming and the potential for larger, more intense hurricanes in the years to come, do we need to add a category six to the Saffir Simpson scale? I am no expert on hurricanes whatsoever, but I found this extremely alarming after all the information I have gathered. Looking at a list of the strongest hurricanes on record, they are all classified as category fives with wind speeds ranging from 175-190 mph. However, a video clip from meteorologist Mike Iscovitz from Houston discusses the possibility of adding another category and makes a valid point: what if some of the category fives have been classified as a category six, and would it have made any difference in preparation or in the loss of lives? It’s crazy how much you can learn after stumbling upon a particular video, but the timing was surely freaky. I uncovered all of this while I was in the middle of reading The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom. I have just finished reading Movement III which focuses on Hurricane Katrina and its path of ruin in Sarah’s life. 

Getting caught in the rain in Jackson Square

Not to run an old joke into the ground, but as a native Southern Californian, I really do not get to see a whole lot of weather (rain). Every day for the past couple days, rain, thunder and lightning have been part of the forecast. I would say I am intimidated but also in awe of the thunderstorms I have experienced so far. Intimidated because the thunder can be LOUD and in awe because of how quickly the storms can roll in and how heavy the rain can pour. Thankfully, I have only experienced thunderstorms on this trip. Hurricanes, however… Those scare me because I have seen the damage that has been done by previous ones from years past. 

I am no stranger to natural disasters. Just not the ones that involve water. Wildfires pose a threat to my family and our home each year. In November of 2018, the Woolsey Fire forced me, my family, and countless other families to evacuate. The fire burned over 96,000 acres and scorched the entire hill directly across the street from my house. I remember the night we evacuated to my grandma’s house, watching the live coverage on television, and seeing my neighborhood being surrounded by flames. We were unable to sleep as we were only thinking about if we would have a home to return to. Reading about how Katrina completely uprooted Sarah’s life in The Yellow House was something I resonated with. Although I did not lose my house, just the mere thought of how close I was to losing the only place I have ever called home was enough to send me into despair. I honestly have no clue how Sarah dealt with the loss of her home. I don’t know how anyone can deal with the loss of their home. Sarah and I share the same kind of relationship with our houses in the sense that we have never lived anywhere else. Memories, good and bad, are also residents that live within the walls of your home. Having to say goodbye to material possessions as well as the emotional ties at the same time is something I never want to have to do for real. 

““The house contained all of my frustrations and many of my aspirations, the hopes that it would one day shine again like it did in the world before me.””
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

Visiting the Presbytere and viewing exhibits that educate people about the impact of Hurricane Katrina put a lot of things into perspective. For instance, I was only three years old when Katrina hit, so I do not hold any personal memories of the event, but seeing the amount of loss in property and, more importantly, human lives was sincerely eye-opening. In her memoir, Sarah Broom reflects on how her entire family along with her community in New Orleans East experienced displacement because everything was now underwater. The Broom family had to scatter and evacuate to different parts of the country, the fear of knowing the chances of having a home to go back to being slim to none. This is one of the worst feelings in the world because the worrying and nerves are constant. My experiences with natural disasters and evacuations thankfully have never led to my home being completely destroyed, otherwise I would struggle with finding a substitute or replacement for it. Broom wrestles with the idea of what home means to her after the Yellow House is ultimately demolished, and she comes to a realization:

““Houses provide a frame that bears us up. Without that physical structure, we are the house that bears itself up. I was now the house.””
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

This has to be one of my favorite quotes from the memoir because Broom assures readers that all is not lost. In the literal sense, houses are physical structures that give us support, stability, and security. When they are destroyed, the feeling of this physical support can be lost. However, by finding the strength within yourself, you gain the properties of a house and become a person who can be resilient on their own and provide strength to themselves and other people around them. Seeing the empty lot of where the Yellow House once stood at 4121 Wilson Ave was surreal. Even looking at the other empty lots in the Lower Ninth Ward with my own eyes gave me goosebumps. It’s one thing reading about the destruction left behind by Katrina, but actually seeing the neglected spaces of ruins and grass forces you to reflect on the countless lives that were forever changed because of this event. Despite all the gnarly predictions that are in the hurricane forecasts this year, I pray that we never see the same level or worse amounts of destruction that Hurricane Katrina left nearly almost 20 years ago.

No Epiphanies, No Problem

At a time when I am supposed to be writing my final paper for this class, I get a fleeting sense of inspiration. It escapes me when I need it for my paper, yet I had the sudden urge to begin writing my fifth blog, my final blog.

As the time to leave New Orleans approaches, I find that I am grateful. At the beginning of this trip I honestly expected to not want to leave when the time came, but it turns out I was over optimistic. Don’t get it twisted, I had a great time overall, but I definitely have had my fill of the city.

And that’s okay. I think when traveling there is a pressure to feel something, to be changed, and, sometimes, that does happen. But I don’t think it needs to be a requirement. I think I’ve documented it rather well in these blogs; I’ve had fun experiences, of course, and maybe some revelations, but I don’t think I’m much different from when I first got off the plane. I’ve felt rather pessimistic throughout most of this trip, but I’ve made the most of it. I think I’ve hit a wall when it comes to writing, which you may be able to tell, but I’m not upset about it. I’ve written so much during this trip, and, honestly, I enjoyed it more than I thought.

Originally, I was worried about these blogs and how many I’d have to write. I felt like the deadlines kept coming and I had no idea how I would keep up; it turns out, I have a lot to say. I own a journal, but I’m awful at keeping up with it. By the end of the day I’m too tired to even hold a pen, so there are large gaps in the dates that I write. These blogs forced me to write my thoughts and feelings, and I’m grateful for it. I can’t speak for everyone, but I know for me these blogs have been an opportunity to share my stream of consciousness, and I honestly really enjoyed it. I think being earnest and sincere in these blogs from the beginning has taken much of the pressure off; it’s truly like reading from my diary and remembering what I did on what day.

If I had to write in my journal, and I probably should, it’d probably say something like this:

I’ve been asked a few times now what was your favorite part of the trip? And, to be honest, I have no idea. The memories have kind of blurred together in a way that I can’t pick out which one was my favorite, but perhaps the one that stands out to me the most is getting caught in a downpour trying to leave Algiers.

Meg and I laugh at our predicament

My friends and I took the ferry to Algiers in the late afternoon. It was sunny with a nice breeze from the river; no clouds, no rain, no weather warning. We sat in a sweet English pub playing darts and laughing, when I got a severe weather warning on my phone. We didn’t know if we should leave or wait it out, but we knew if we waited it out we’d be stuck in the pub for hours. We decided to leave and were met with strong winds and cloudy skies, we thought it was hilarious. We weren’t actually sure if the ferry was still coming, but we were hopeful; it did not come. There was a mix of opinions of what to do, eventually we decided on a Lyft. And then we left. And this story sounded a lot more fun in my head.

That was it, we made it home. But in the moment it was the funniest thing ever. We were soaked from the rain and feeling icky, but it’s a great memory. I think above everything, that’s my favorite memory. Except maybe when we took a swamp cruise and I held a baby alligator, that might actually be my favorite (sorry friends).

And that’s it. This one’s a little shorter, maybe that’s something to be happy about, I think I’ve said all I can say. This doesn’t have much to do, anything to do, really, with books and bookpacking, but I think I’ve done enough of that. I’ve read the books, I’ve reflected on them, and now I’m just reflecting on my time.

All of this to say:

It’s okay to not have a life changing experience, it's okay if not every experience is defining, and it's okay to not have any epiphanies. It's just a city.

A great one, at that, but just a city. It may not be the city you find yourself in. Don’t despair.

“Or just brood for awhile.
Don’t despair.”
— A letter from Robert Gottlieb to John K. Toole. "Confederacy of Dunces"

Too Much Is Just Enough

I’ve completely overdone it. When I step onto the streetcar I’m instantly met with a variety of odd looks. I may as well have sprouted a third eye.

It’s my first time seeing The Rocky Horror Picture Show live in a theater, so I wanted to go all out. I spent nearly an hour in the hotel room excitedly smearing my face with powder and product, swiping electric blue over my eyelids, lining my lips in dark brown, and painting on arching, doll-like eyebrows. But now I’m starting to regret it, feeling silly and clownish as I sit in shameful silence on the streetcar ride to the Prytania Theater. It’s only a fifteen-minute ride, but it feels like hours.

But as my friends and I get off the streetcar and head down Prytania Street, our fellow moviegoers slowly start to trickle in—and it becomes apparent very quickly that we’ve been gravely upstaged. Bare skin is on display everywhere, peeking through fishnets or lingerie; glitter and cheap sequins flash in the dark; teeth and tongues glint against dark rouge lips. I’m embarrassed again, this time because I should have gone even further. I kick myself for leaving my corsets back in California.

Luckily, I forget about this pretty quickly; Rocky Horror is not the kind of movie for reflection or self-consciousness. It’s a movie for dancing, for screaming, for being loudly, obnoxiously naughty—and I can’t think of a more fitting place to enjoy all of its outrageousness than here at the Prytania.

Rocky-inspired makeup

The Prytania

Rocky Horror virgins!

““Ignatius ate his current popcorn and stared raptly at the previews of coming attractions. One of the films looked bad enough, he thought, to bring him back to the Prytania in a few days.””
— John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

The Prytania is famous for being the oldest theater in New Orleans, as well as the theater where Ignatius Reilly, the notorious protagonist of A Confederacy of Dunces, frequently goes to masochistically grumble about the “degenerates” onscreen. Ignatius would be beyond horrified to witness the wickedly delightful ribaldry of Rocky Horror, to see all of these flamboyant, scantily-clad youths gyrating down aisles, flinging rice at each other, howling irreverently—although he might grudgingly agree with their crude assessment of Barry Bostwick (asshole!) and Susan Sarandon (slut!). It’s a spectacle that’s certainly not for the faint of heart, or the faint of valves. But it’s also a spectacle that you just can’t look away from; as Ignatius tells his mother, “We must stay to watch the corruption.”

““When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.””
— John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

Me too, Ignatius, me too

Rocky Horror sums up so much of what’s so great and so damning about this city, ridiculous and excessive and overindulgent. It’s my last week in New Orleans, and so I resign myself to indulging all of my vices. Ignatius bumbles through A Confederacy Of Dunces gorging himself at every opportunity, plowing through pastries and steaks and popcorn and hot dogs. Reading the book I laughed at his gluttony, but I’ve become all too familiar with it now—how can you come to New Orleans and not make a pig of yourself?

Almost everything I’ve had to eat here has been both excellent and plentiful. Portion sizes in New Orleans are gargantuan, but I hardly notice because I clean my plate every time. I fret to my sister over the phone about how many pounds I’ve put on, how my waistline must have expanded at least three inches. But in spite of my complaining, I wouldn’t dream of trading in those few pounds for all of the incredible food I’ve gotten to enjoy. If I began to list every delicious thing I’ve eaten on this trip I’d run out of space, but I have to give special praise to the beignets at Cafe Du Monde, and the “All That Jazz” po boy at Verti Marte—a glorious sandwich stuffed with ham, turkey, shrimp, cheese, mushrooms, tomatoes, and Verti Marte’s ‘Wow Sauce’ (accurate to its name!). Ignatius has an infamously insatiable appetite, but I have to imagine that if there was ever a sandwich that could satisfy him, it’d be this one. Possibly more than anything else, I’m going to miss the food here dearly.

““That’s what’s so wonderful about New Orleans. You can masquerade and Mardi Gras all year round if you want to. Really, sometimes the Quarter is like one big costume ball.””
— John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

Em and I drinking our blood bags

I’ve fallen in love with this city in all its excessive eccentricity. This is a city where people day-drink and dance through Jackson Square toting enormous, obnoxiously bright green Hand Grenade cocktails. It’s a city where shamelessly drunk idiots stumble down Bourbon Street dangling Mardi Gras beads at women, shouting for them to lift their shirts. It’s a city where people dress up as vampires and witches and everything in between. Ignatius hates the overindulgence that’s all around him, but partakes in it just the same; it’s impossible not to! As I’ve written before in a previous blog, where else? Where else can you drink “blood bags” at vampire-themed bars, gain five pounds off of po boys and beignets, spend entire days strolling aimlessly and gorging all of your senses? Where else, where else, where else?

A very indulgent collection of memories

““Now that Fortuna had saved him from one cycle, where would she spin him now? The new cycle would be so different from anything he had ever known.””
— John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

As my time in New Orleans rapidly dwindles to an end, I’m struck by how fast this month went by. But having spent all of this time indulging myself, I feel satisfied; I feel full, content. I think of Ignatius and Myrna riding off in the car together on the very last page of A Confederacy of Dunces, leaving New Orleans behind, and how Ignatius—perhaps for the first time in the entire novel—is overwhelmed by a profound gratitude. I’m grateful too, for this trip, these people, this remarkable city. Until we meet again in the next cycle.

Ignatius and I, signing off

What is the meaning of life?

Every corner of New Orleans hums with history, its streets a palimpsest of past and present where echoes of old-world Europe and antebellum America intertwine. Walking through the French Quarter, with its vibrant mix of colors, sounds, and smells, I can't help but feel the layers of time peeling back. The winding streets and iron-lace balconies evoke a sense of faded grandeur, a ghostly whisper of the city's aristocratic past, much like the decayed plantation houses in Southern Gothic tales.

Video of damages of Hurricane Katrina in Presbytere Museum

Reflecting on my recent days in New Orleans, the journey through "The Yellow House" was an emotional roller coaster. The book's exploration of loss, resilience, and identity resonated deeply as I wandered through neighborhoods touched by Hurricane Katrina. The storm clouds over the Business District seemed to echo the volatile history of this city, from the devastation of natural disasters to the struggles of its people to rebuild their lives. The Presbytere Museum's exhibits on Katrina, with their haunting videos of the storm's fury and the subsequent humanitarian crisis, brought to mind the existential crises explored in "The Moviegoer" by Walker Percy. The loud thunderstorms outside and the sounds of videos of Hurricane Katrina inside reflected my inner thoughts and attempts to find meaning from my thoughts. Binx’s search for meaning in a world rife with chaos mirrors the resilience of New Orleanians in the face of unimaginable hardship. Binx's reflection, "The search is what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life," captures this spirit of perseverance and quest for deeper understanding.

Image of Artwork mocking Elon Musk in Presbytere Museum

My thoughts often drift to the dichotomy of Southern identity, the tension between the genteel façade and the brutal reality beneath, so vividly captured in "A Streetcar Named Desire." Blanche DuBois, with her illusions of grandeur and tragic downfall, is a fitting metaphor for the city itself—a place of beauty and decay, grace and violence. The film's portrayal of class conflict and mental illness echoes the historical and social complexities of the South. Stanley Kowalski's raw, unbridled nature juxtaposed with Blanche's fragile refinement captures the essence of a city that is at once robust and delicate, vibrant and broken.

Rainy Day at Jackson Square outside Presbytere Museum

In the shadow of Confederate Hall, now the Civil War Museum, I grappled with the South's painful history. The glorification of Confederate leaders and the conspicuous absence of slavery's brutal legacy in the exhibits underscored the selective memory often at play in historical narratives. This experience reminded me of Mark Twain's critique of Southern romanticism—how the region clings to an idealized past that never truly existed. The Confederate artifacts, from flags to uniforms, seemed to whisper tales of a feudal society built on the backs of enslaved people, a society that Andrew in "The Yellow House" critiques with biting accuracy. The man at the front in the museum, who said he was a history teacher for 40 years, disturbed me. His version of history, lacking an important facet of blacks, class, racism, and the hierarchy of Southern culture and society, felt shallow. This experience underscored the necessity of telling history from both sides of the aisle, reflecting on the human suffering caused by these figures and the systems they upheld.

This electric box caught my eye outside Café du Monde, referring to P.B.S Pinchback, one of the first black Lieutenant Governors of Louisiana

My walk from Café du Monde to the Presbytere, amidst the scent of beignets and the sound of jazz, was punctuated by moments of reflection. The electric grid box featuring P.B.S. Pinchback, one of Louisiana's first black governors, was a stark reminder of the city's complex racial history. The fire alarm that sounded like jazz—a discordant symphony of chaos and order—felt emblematic of New Orleans itself. This city, with its rich narrative of cultures, histories, and stories, is a living, breathing entity that defies easy categorization.

In my personal reading of Viktor Frankl's "Man's Search for Meaning," I found parallels between his existential explorations, my own reflections on the human condition, and “The Moviegoer.” The struggle to find purpose amidst suffering is a universal theme that resonates deeply in New Orleans, a city that has endured so much yet continues to thrive. The resilience of its people, much like Frankl's survivors of the Holocaust, is a testament to the indomitable human spirit. Frankl's words resonate with me: "The salvation of man is through love and in love." This love, the driving force behind resilience, is evident in the fabric of New Orleans' culture and community. 

Confederate “Memorial” Hall having the Confederate States of America Flag Hung up at the entrance

Visiting the Confederate Hall was intellectually challenging, a confrontation with the Southern white perspective that still lingers in the air. The museum's portrayal of Confederate heroes like Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee, juxtaposed with the glaring omission of slavery's atrocities, felt like a disservice to history. Yet, it also highlighted the importance of preserving these artifacts—not to glorify, but to learn from them. Kerry, the museum guide, represented a perspective rooted in tradition, yet I couldn't help but feel the weight of history pressing down, demanding a more nuanced retelling. Binx’s words from "The Moviegoer" echoed in my mind: "Everydayness is the enemy. No search is possible."

In my conversations with locals, I found echoes of Kate and Binx from "The Moviegoer." Their existential musings on life, purpose, and authenticity resonated in the stories of resilience and hope shared by New Orleanians. The vibrant energy of the Second Line parades, the joyous defiance in the face of adversity, reminded me of the Divine Ladies' procession—a celebration of life and community amidst the ruins. Binx's reflection that "The movies are onto the search, but they screw it up. The search always ends in despair," captures the essence of these moments of clarity and connection in the midst of chaos.

The exploration of politics, both historical and contemporary, has added layers of complexity to my reflections. The stark contrast between the Republican Party’s hierarchical rhetoric and the Democratic Party’s puritanical ideals has left me grappling with my own beliefs. The Republican emphasis on tradition and order often clashes with the Democratic pursuit of progressive ideals. This ideological divide reflects a broader national tension, reminiscent of the factionalism that defined the North and South during the Civil War. As I navigate this political landscape, I find myself questioning how we can bridge these divides and foster a sense of unity. Atticus Finch’s assertion in "To Kill a Mockingbird" that “there’s just one kind of folks. Folks.” resonates deeply, encapsulating a vision of common humanity that transcends political affiliations.

Paradoxically the World War Two Museum being right across the road from the Confederate “Memorial” Hall

The tension between my own beliefs and the broader political landscape often leaves me in a state of inner confusion. This reflects a broader national tension, reminiscent of the factionalism that defined the North and South during the Civil War. Binx’s philosophical musing, “To become aware of the possibility of the search is to be onto something. Not to be onto something is to be in despair,” resonates deeply as I navigate this ideological landscape, questioning how we can bridge these divides and foster a sense of unity.

In "Confederacy of Dunces," Ignatius’s aversion to a movie about a man losing his soul resonates with my own journey. “Ignatius had decided against going to the Prytania. The movie being shown was widely praised Swedish drama about a man losing his soul, and Ignatius was not particularly interested in seeing it. He would have to speak with the manager of the theater about booking such dull fare.” This reflects denial and the refusal to confront one's own existential crises. Like Ignatius, many avoid facing their true selves, but it's through this confrontation that meaning is found. 

Each step through New Orleans, each page turned, brings new insights and reflections. The synthesis of politics, economics, history, and literature is not just an academic exercise, but a deeply personal journey. In the spirit of Binx Bolling, I find myself perpetually on the search, seeking meaning in the everydayness of life, finding solace in the shared human experience.

Confederate “Memorial” hall, privately-owned museum, selling confederate army flags

The vibrant chaos of the city, the jazz, the stories of human resilience and suffering all intertwine with my readings. Tom’s Cajun festival was a joyful reprieve, sitting in the middle of nowhere, eating pizza and living deliberately. Tom's story of transitioning from a Massachusetts native to a luthier, previously working as a deep-sea submarine technician, added layers to my understanding of the human journey. Today, being at Audubon Park near Tulane University was another moment of reflection, discussing "The Moviegoer" and embracing the concept of "sonder"—the realization that everyone has their own story, living lives as complex and vivid as my own.

The inner struggle to not give a f*ck about what others think while caring deeply about those who matter mirrors the existential crisis faced by Binx and Kate. It’s about balancing the role of being the main character in my own movie while fostering relationships and contributing to the broader human experience. As Mark Manson puts it in "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck," true liberation comes from accepting life's inherent difficulties and embracing our flawed nature. "Happiness comes from solving problems," Manson writes. "The keyword here is 'solving.' If you’re avoiding your problems or feel like you don’t have any problems, then you’re going to make yourself miserable."

This search for meaning through relationships and actions is a theme deeply explored in "Man's Search for Meaning." Frankl’s words resonate: “For the first time in my life I saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth—that love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which man can aspire.” It’s in our relationships, our shared stories, and our collective struggles that we find the deepest meaning. The path to understanding life is paved with pain and suffering, but it is through this journey that we build character and find our true purpose.

New Orleans, with its rich narrative and enduring spirit, stands as a reflection to the power of storytelling and the resilience of the human soul. s I wrap up this oddly wonderful experience, I carry with me the lessons of the past, the vibrancy of the present, and the hope for a future where history's immense human suffering is laid to rest and new, beautiful stories are written through our actions to make proud those who suffered to give us this precious gift we call life. 

I Took Myself On A Date!

I needed a quick change of pace. Living in New Orleans for a couple weeks had started taking its toll on me; being in a foreign environment for so long does have its effects. It was also of course a Wednesday, the dreaded hump day. I decided to turn the week around and treat myself to a solo adventure, in an attempt to rekindle my sense of intrigue and excitement for the great city around me. 

Early evening time, I began by taking myself to the river walk and taking a seat on a bench overlooking the Mississippi. There was a nice, fresh smelling breeze to the air. Almost too fresh––it was definitely going to rain soon. Oh well, nothing was going to get between me and my me-time. I pulled out the book we were reading at the time, Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer. All alone, I read while dozens of people walked on the path beside me: couples old and young, families, and groups of partiers. With some great timing, our characters Binx and his Aunt discuss birthdays. 

Don’t you think a thirty year old man ought to know what he wants to do with his life? - WALKER PERCY

I let my eyes wander as I continued to people watch. I wondered how many of these people know what they want to do with their lives. Half of them? A quarter? How did they figure this out, what separates them from me? I pack up and continue to walk down the path, head pounding with many more questions. I took a break at a nice clearing of concrete steps on the riverbank. It overlooks the Mississippi steam boat, as it prepares for an evening cruise. A big band jazz performance blasts off the decks, and I can make out tiny little figures dancing their hearts out. In the background, I could make out the skyline of the business district and the Crescent City bridge spanning across the river. In class, we talked about why New Orleans is such a literary city. I think: this, right here, is one of the reasons why. Even today, this collision of the past and present IS all packaged on a quiet little river front. How could one ever run out of things to write about? 

At this point, the sky stops holding back. Big, juicy drops of rain begin to pummel me, and I quickly hustle into the quarter for shade.

I am embraced by the Market Cafe, where I am greeted by a nice refreshing drink and some comfort tunes. We get some Etta James, Louis Armstrong, and even the lead singer’s lullaby song for his toddler. As one of the only ones in the cafe at this point, I shared a nice conversation with one of the band members. I learned how he was in New Orleans his whole life, but never got the chance to pick up music until his 40’s. But once he was in a place to properly learn and practice, there was nothing else in the world he could see himself doing. 

The rain has calmed down at this point, so I make the trek over to the primary destination of the night, Frenchman Street. We had already explored this part of town, but never went to the always crowded Spotted Cat Music Club. Arriving there early, I avoided the cover charge and made myself comfortable at the bar. The menu had plenty of “Cattails” like the Cat Old Fashion and Cat Nip. I loved it, a bar which knew its identity. Pinned to the bar was hundreds of bills from dozens of different currencies. I pondered the significance of it, wondering if there was any international element of this club. But after no time, the band had made its way to the stage. They were noticeably younger than any jazz band I had listened to so far, and it was evident. The musicians all had a youthful craze and excitement to their playing, and their talent was quite evident. However, I did find myself at times missing the character and certain ruggedness I noticed in older bands, such as the one I listened to earlier in the day. I also thought back to the band at the famous Preservation Hall which we had listened to days before, and just how fun they were. Only upon comparing these bands did I begin to understand the idea of a mastery of one’s musical craft––past the point of technical perfection, but to where you can proceed to breaking the rules and going against convention. So jazzy. But how lucky am I to be in a place where I can even draw such conclusions! I am in a city so dense with talent and a universal love for music. So much so where even the “worse” musicians still hold a complete technical mastery of their instruments. 

I finished my date with a walk through the Frenchman Art Bazaar, an open air art market next door. It had dozens of vendors, anything from jewelry to paintings to clothing. It was really refreshing to walk through. Every bit of art looked so clearly handmade and filled with love. The vendors were all super sweet too, and were really excited to talk more about their booths and what it is they like to create. 

I took the streetcar all the way home, back against the river and up Canal Street. I thought about the trip so far, and the days I had left. I still hold that I am definitely an extroverted person, loving the company of others. Going into a city like this, I had the expectation that I was to socialize in every facet of my exploring. Not to mention, it can feel much easier to do new things with the safety blanket of being surrounded by friends. But perhaps that’s what made today so special. I couldn’t rely on anyone but myself to have a great time, so I chased after activities which I had to be completely present in. I should do this more.

lost and found

“The truth is, we are all fish out of water because this particular time space reality was designed so. This society feels out of our hands. This lifestyle is too complicated for every person that is part of it, this world is too harsh and everyone feels like they are in over their heads. Everyone feels intimidated by his or her life here on this planet. Everyone feels intimidated by each other. The grand façade is that no one admits that this is so.”
— Teal Swan

Here’s Grand Isle and New Orleans for me so far:
Find time for you. Write your blogs. Make them personal. Talk about how you feel. Be honest with yourself.

Or so I thought…

These are all easy things to hope for, but let me be honest with myself for once—nothing of the sort has been achieved. It’s almost been a whole month here, and I’m just tired.

I read the syllabus for this class. It requires a different kind of writing: not the boring old academic writing, but the more modern journalistic one. In theory, it should be easier, simpler, and more intimate. I mean come on, we’re basically writing a journal! Well… WRONG! That’s how it was supposed to be, but how it has been turning out? Pressure. I think I speak for most of us here when I say that the pressure to write a decent blog is getting to us all. It feels like we’re not writing for ourselves anymore, but for a letter on our transcript. Here’s the thing, journaling should be personal, natural, and open. It shouldn’t be looking up synonyms for Cambridge-level words nor should it be about impressing other people with our writings. At least for me, it still feels that way at times. So where does that lead me? Back to square one. Repressed, discontented, and more façade.

I am sick of it. At least for this last blog, I want to do it for me. It’s only fair. Twenty-one years of life, and I’ve beaten myself up more than anyone or anything else has. I’ve been unfair to myself, over and over again, even throughout this trip. So, for once, I’m not going to write for the world, for the class, or for the website. I am letting my defenses down, and I am going to write for me.

Now, this trip has been great… for the most part. The heat and the rain? Nuh-uh. Maybe a part of it is also just me being a home-body, but I feel as if this trip hasn’t been as fulfilling as I had initially imagined it to be. The transportation system—both the streetcars and buses—is completely unreliable; the food is mediocre at best, unless you’re willing to go to those high-end places; and the weather just makes even the idea of stepping out of this hotel unbearable. I feel like I haven’t been able to make the most out of New Orleans and properly enjoy the city, at least for the purpose I had in mind in the beginning. I don’t quite remember the details now, but if I was to guess, it’s probably something along the line of self-discovery, self-growth, and all that jazz (no pun intended). Instead, most of my free days have been filled with naps, movies in bed, cup noodles, and overspending on laundries.

“I feel rather Teutonic these days. That is sort of a strong yet stiff feeling. But underneath there is a lot of pathology.”
— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

As some might’ve been aware, too, this trip didn’t start off quite on the right foot for me. The last night on Grand Isle, I was faced with something that brought on quite some pain and heartbreak. It wasn’t pleasant. It’s still not pleasant, I think. I’m not too sure. I’ve been feeling relatively okay about it, but I don’t know if that’s just because I’ve been busy with other things or if I’ve genuinely gotten over it. All I know is that I haven’t healed from it. I couldn’t have even if I wanted to. I haven’t given myself the time to sit with it. I haven’t been able to journal. I haven’t been able to just tune in with myself and write my feelings out. Some nights I find myself trying to intentionally replay the events of that night and everything else from the past year and a half, just to… I don’t know, feel something? The results varied. One night, it would bring tears to my eyes; another, it would evoke no reactions out of me whatsoever. The ending has been consistent, though. I put on some soft piano music in the background, close my eyes, and convince myself that all will be well by the morning. Funnily enough, it’s been working like a charm.

I’ve been waking up in the morning only feeling groggy and slightly irritated because I want more sleep. Any other emotions are quickly buried down by the ticking away of time rushing me to get ready to head out, either to the Shop for a morning seminar or to the lobby for the day’s escapade. In any case, sleep is gotten, morning is well. It’s usually not until midday when my mood starts going downhill (exponentially). Nine out of ten times, it’s probably because I haven’t had lunch or I’m too exhausted. So then, what do I do? Go back to the hotel, watch another movie, and nap. By the time I wake up, it’s dinner time. What does that mean? Another cup noodles. What does that also mean? Getting annoyed at myself for having been in NOLA for nearly a month, and still haven’t had crawfish or any seafood boil. But, as I’ve come to learn, life is life.

I sit up, and I have my cup noodles with a YouTube video or movie playing in the background. Before I know it, hours have passed. So then, the choice is usually either to wind down for the day or continue to lay around for another hour or so. Today, it is the latter. Unlike the past days, though, today is a bit different. Instead of indulging myself in digital entertainment (coughs in Fahrenheit 451), the late-night thoughts struck me a bit early, hence my writing of this blog.

So now, here I am, in bed, facing yet another existential crisis.

My bad, that might have been slightly hyperbolic. The truth is, what prompted my whole spill right now was just flashes of events from this trip. I ended up having some sort of a reflective moment, and one word came to mind: “façade.”

See, this notion of façade is something that has been circulating all around me, seemingly an inevitable fate for me. From Kate Chopin’s The Awakening to a personal reflection on my first blog, Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire, Sarah Bloom’s The Yellow House, and even now with Walker Percy’s Moviegoer—I am sick of the masks.

Even at the Mardi Gras Exhibition, all I saw was masks. It’s as if no one can survive this world by being true to themselves, as if they have to conceal parts of who they are to get by every single day, and as if everyone is afraid of what truths may be unveiled if no façades were put on. And, of course, I am no different.

On my first blog, I wrote this:

“Having put myself in yet another unfamiliar environment, my automatic response reverted back to the ‘fake it til you make it’ mindset, which is basically to put on as best of a façade as I possibly could. These are new people I’m meeting. They don’t know who I am, they don’t know my past, and they certainly don’t know my battles. They barely even knew my name at first glance, a couple of whom didn’t even know it at all.”

On this last blog, I am writing this:

These are no longer new people I’m with. I’ve lived with them for almost a whole month now. And, good news, they all seem to have gotten to know my name. But, I can still say this… They still don’t know who I am, they still don’t know my past, and they certainly still don’t know my battles. Having been with these people every single day, you would think the masks would come off at some point. Well, you’re wrong.

I was wrong.

“circumvention of the labyrinth
healing of the poison ivy
break of the tidal waves
scrutiny of the mirrors

through the runs and escapes
tangled up by vine
lingering are the scrapes
evanescent is the shine

back to the labyrinth
goes in the dandelion
sink down goes its plinth
suffocating up on the Himalayan

tangled
yet again
wrangled
once ‘gain

perchance the labyrinth
is to blame for the ruin
of the already frail hyacinth”
— causal nexus, pt. II

An Epilogue (of some sort).

I’ve been sitting on this blog for a while now, re-reading it many times over. I think I’ve come to a different conclusion.
The group explored Audubon Park today. We settled under a meditation gazebo for our morning seminar. Today’s seminar was focused on The Moviegoer by Walker Percy, so the discussion zoomed in on the topics of “The Search,” the mundaneness of life, and hiding the pain of the past under a façade. To be honest, I had quite a bit to say during the seminar, but, alas, I didn’t. I kept to myself. This week has been off. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the trip, or maybe I’ve just been feeling more closed off—either way, I didn’t say much this morning. As I went through the day, though, there were more and more reflective points that struck me.

In this blog, I talked about how this trip hasn’t been going as I had initially hoped for it to go, how the façades I glued on at the start have yet to come off, and how the trip has been quite… mundane.

I realized, maybe this is exactly what I needed.

It might not be what I was looking for, but it may perfectly be just what my life needs right now.
Before I went on this trip, as I mentioned on my first blog, I was constantly drowning in this Pre-Med field which seemingly had no end. The overwhelmingness that trails the avalanche of future-related crises and preparation had been my sole acquaintance for a long, long while. But, here, in Louisiana, I’ve come to be acquainted with the mundaneness of life.

Aside from the ubiquity of façades, another trope that has continued to come up throughout the past month—both on Grand Isle and here in New Orleans—is the mundaneness of life. Sure, my days haven’t been all seminar in the morning, work in the afternoon, and Bourbon Street at night. But, it’s been a very much needed pause from my LA life. I haven’t been feeling on edge and on the go 24/7 this past month, and I certainly haven’t been having my days filled with constant stress from school and MCAT talks. Instead, I’ve been allowing myself naptimes whenever my body needs it, I’ve been going out and about whenever the hotel feels too stifling, and I’ve been appreciating the little things in life more. Breathing, taking things slow, standing in the shade, feeling the breeze, noticing the things around me from the streetcar or that gazebo, and having the privilege to miss dinners with my family back home. Little did I know, I’ve been indulging in the everydayness of my own life.

So, let me end this blog, reflection, and trip by saying this:
It’s been a pleasure meeting you, mundaneness, and I can’t wait to get to know you better.

“It is not a bad thing to settle for the Little Way, not the big search for the big happiness but the sad little happiness of drinks and kisses, a good little car and a warm deep thigh.”
— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

Oh, the Places You'll Go!

“Joy and sadness come by turns, I know now”
— Walker Percy

This is a thought I kept coming back to in The Moviegoer as Binx Bolling tries to understand his place in the universe.

Can joy and sadness be mutually exclusive?

The past few weeks have been exciting and thrilling but tiring. I look back on everything with a smile, but the thought of having one week to finish two books, write two blogs, and a paper has me on edge. I just want to sleep.

Struggling to decide what to write about, on a walk into the French Quarter, we pass a narrow building with a sign hanging overhead, ‘The Art of Dr. Seuss.’ Megan, shoutout Meg, turns around and proceeds to ask what our favorite Dr. Seuss book was as a kid...

Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

This childhood book, which I had forgotten about, teaches kids to persevere, that setbacks are a part of life. Maybe it is just a ‘sadness’ before the joy. The book ends on a high, the joy of the possibility of discovery. Maybe Binx was right.

So far on this trip, I have had the opportunity to explore some amazing places that I never would have had the opportunity to go to before.

Wednesday:

Cowboy paradise

My quest for cowboy boots. Since arriving in Louisiana, a goal of mine has been to secure some boots. I have spent countless hours searching for some in vintage stores along Magazine Street and boutiques in the French Quarter, but somehow, no luck. My desire to have some boots was only further inspired by Emily’s. So, Wednesday morning, I drag Emily with me (thanks and sorry again) to Gretna, Louisiana. While nothing literary has probably been written about Gretna, I found charm—or should I say boots. It is a small town south of the river, and it seemed like we were some of the first tourists they’d seen. My mission: Cavender’s, a western store home of all things cowboy. The store, almost like a warehouse, was vast and had an overwhelming smell of leather. After trying on almost every pair of boots there, taking pictures at each turn as Emily sat patiently, I finally decided on a pair, which I haven’t taken off since I got them.

That afternoon saw my friends and me exploring the Quarter, finding interesting and peculiar shops down small alleyways, as well as visiting Faulkner Bookshop. The day left me feeling accomplished and happy with an overarching feeling of joy.

Thursday:

View from the museum, the emptiest I have ever seen this place

Was overshadowed by thunderstorms. This lightning and rain provided constant background music during our trip to Café Du Monde and the Presbytère. The storm had me wanting to rush indoors, with fear of my new boots getting wet. The rain here is warmer than I am used to, and while I often find myself caught in the rain back home, this is my first time really experiencing thunderstorms, which I have come to realize elicit fear in me.

The Louisiana State Museum has two floors. The first detailed the events of Katrina, the destruction and harm that had been caused to the city, and the loss that is still felt by all in New Orleans. The floor had a prominent solemn feeling. The top floor, however, provided a complete contrast with information on Mardi Gras, showing the costumes, colors, and vibrancy that the festival brings—joy. While the two themes of the museum seemingly have nothing in common, holding vastly different emotions attached, they are both extremely important to New Orleans.

Friday:

The storms continued, and while I spent most of the day in the hotel room working, I observed a couple fighting outside. It made me think of A Streetcar Named Desire, the film I watched the night before. While I didn’t hear Stella being yelled, there was a definite cause of the over-dramatics. The continued rain makes me think if it is linked to emotion. Most people dread the rain; people are less happy and less likely to go outside. Maybe it is a prelude to sadness.

Sunset after a storm

Vampire cocktails

That evening, on a search for dinner in the French Quarter, we end up in a small courtyard protected from the rain. However, the live music from the streets and the inside part of the restaurant is bouncing off the walls, so, unable to have a conversation, we sit in silence. I thought the night was doomed. We spend the latter half of the night going to the Apothecary for drinks. The charm of this place is phenomenal, and with undertones of vampires, the atmosphere allows for a relaxing evening amongst friends. We proceeded to laugh and take hundreds of pictures of our drinks with flowers in them. The waiter even invited us to a secret speakeasy, which I look forward to attending. Since the change in mood, we then return to play another game of pool at The Garage, a place we keep returning to. While I didn’t see victory in the game, I enjoyed the impromptu dance breaks between moves.

While I found times of joy and sadness, separate moments of these days had overlap. I look back on the fun felt while out with my friends in thunderstorms on a Friday night.

Nothing I did in these days was searching for 'the big happiness'. In truth, it was fairly common: returning to places I’ve been before, hanging out and laughing with my friends—behaviors which have become repetitive—yet there was still fun to be had.

“It is not a bad thing to settle for the Little Way, not the big search for the big happiness but the sad little happiness”
— Walker Percy

I am content with the ‘sad little happiness,’ and while I find joy in the ‘Little Way,’ for me it is not ‘settling.’ The places I’ve been this week have made me see glimpses of joy in moments of sadness. The community coming together to rescue strangers during Katrina, and people still playing and performing live music with just as much spirit as when there’s not a thunderstorm.

The Problem We All Still Live With

““When you come from a mythologized place, as I do, who are you in that story?””
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

I am my ancestors’ wildest dreams.

The sun breaks at noon. Light seeps through the leaves at Congo Square. The wind is eager to pass; young and snappy. I sit under a live oak in order to feel. Cicadas cry; it is both gentle and mighty.

Many things seem to follow this life. Gender is one of them. Class especially so. And, unobjectionably, race. Gender, class, race. Sometimes in that order, other times not; because it can arrange itself a bit differently, and often does. For the unfortunate, they are what you call slim pickings. These things will always follow—and it is so haunting.

You cannot help but position yourself to think this way. It is glaringly obvious. The city talks if you listen. Sitting down in Congo Square, taking in the sun, and listening to the wailings of the cicadas—you simply cannot help but to think.

Of course, these are things I’m already familiar with. Ask me how or why. But exploring New Orleans—where every corner tells a story—can change or move a person. I really do believe that.

It’s all around us: pockets of the dark past; an ink that bleeds and continues to bleed, staining each page of the book. Nearly every major street in the Central Business District once held slave pens. Tall and wide gray, white, or black buildings situated on every block. Hotels, civic or corporate buildings, restaurants; all once the sites of open human markets from the not-too-distant-past. I can look out from the window of my hotel room to see one at any time. And there are many windows to choose from.

““We played hiding behind the trees a heap and played in the moonlight. We played tag. We picked up scaley barks, chestnuts, and walnuts.””
— Josephine Hamilton, a formerly enslaved person

The land on the Whitney Plantation is vast. It is an expansive property. Dragonflies hover and whirl. They are blue and green. Upon entering, I’m given a lanyard with a pass. It displays the statue of what appears to be a young girl named Julia Woodrich. She has my mother’s name.

I walk around the self-guided tour, stopping by at each marker or monument. Walls with many names. I try my best to read them all.

The chimes. Oh, the chimes.

Near the big main house, tall oaks blanket the space. Each limb as long as the Mississippi. It occurs to me, with eyes fixed on the trees, that I can hear the soft sounds of chimes. Around the corner, I see wind chimes swaying, the breeze cradling it along. Birds and other bugs sing along with the chimes. I am transfixed because it is so beautiful; everyone else walks on by. It is ethereal for what it is; a glimpse of light that pierces the dark.

I arrive at the quarters. The small statues of children posted outside are gifted with toys, coins, and other gifts. I wear my sunglasses for the rest of the tour.

““We are all born into histories, worlds existing before us. The same is true of places. No place is without history.”
”
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

Look closely: it’s a monarch butterfly playing hide and seek.

Have you ever cried at the sight of a butterfly? I watch as a little monarch butterfly flutters around, before hiding in the leaves of a tree. I take it as no coincidence; monarchs are a symbol of home—monarchs migrate annually to Michoacán, Mexico. Not too long ago, I learned that there is an enslaved ancestor on my father’s side, particularly through my grandfather. I will never be able to know their name. But I’d like to think it is them. 

I come to the memorial of the 1811 German Coast uprising. Each head and each name on a pike; all murdered for a righteous cause. The heat suffocates and makes me cry. I feel the weight of the pain; my chest swells. I still have my sunglasses on as I leave. At the gift shop, I purchase a cookbook for my father. 

Sarah M. Broom’s 2019 memoir The Yellow House traverses the places we call home; each crack and crevice that binds history to the self. Broom expands on the significance of the titular Yellow House, the seemingly lively and unruly house she grew up in, located on 4121 Wilson Avenue in the then-promising neighborhood of New Orleans East, a section of New Orleans that is now systematically overlooked due to its overwhelmingly Black and middle-class population. The youngest of twelve children, Broom, the prodigal daughter, inevitably faces the push-pull effect tied to generational trauma; a desire to leave home that is left to be confronted and reckoned with.

My visit to Wilson Avenue is cornered with low expectations. Like Broom, I come from a mythologized place—Los Angeles. And yet, it is a version of Los Angeles unconventional to the mind; devoid of Spanish-style dreams and sweet-smelling citrus trees. I am an other; there are no stars in this part of the sky. I count time with each passing train. I feel as if I cannot leave.

William Frantz Elementary School.

New Orleans East is stuck between wetland and wasteland. 4121 Wilson Avenue is a desolate and solemn plot of empty space. Abandoned and left to die. The streets are scattered with seashells. It is awfully silent, save the rowdy rumbling of cars on the main road over. The legacy of Katrina lives on with every sprawl of reed. 

Next to the Lower Ninth Ward, I come to a stop at William Frantz Elementary School, a monumental landmark and cornerstone of civil rights. It is the location where Ruby Bridges, then six years old, became the first Black student to integrate the previously all-white elementary school in 1960, part of the historic ruling of Brown v. Board. Quite honestly, this was one of the most surrealist moments of my entire trip. It felt otherworldly, standing across from the very place that moved me as a child. I initially learned about Ruby when I was in elementary school, having watched the 1998 television film sometime between the first and third grade. Watching the semi-fictional Ruby cower in fear due to racist death threats struck fear and sorrow into my own heart. 

Those feelings never left.

Remembering is a chair that is hard to sit in

When I noticed in our schedule that we would be taking a tour of a plantation, I did not know what to expect. I have visited Mount Vernon twice – once when I was in elementary school with my parents and the other time with my fellow classmates on my eighth grade Washington DC trip. I went because I was told it is a “historical landmark” and that it was the estate that belonged to the first President of the United States of America. Although its history of being a plantation is not completely ignored, it’s put on the back burner while the life and legacy of George Washington is what attracts tourists to come visit. The word “plantation” isn’t even in the official name, it’s just “Mount Vernon.” Even though I have taken multiple tours there, I think I was too young to truly process what a plantation even was and what that implied. My memory is a bit fuzzy, but I barely remember hearing about the lives and treatment of enslaved people at Mount Vernon. It would be interesting to go back today and see if I am mistaken or if it has changed. When learning about the Whitney Plantation during the days leading up to our visit, the thing that shocked me the most is that it is considered to be the first plantation museum that focuses entirely on the lives of the enslaved, and it has only been open for ten years. Unsurprisingly, other plantation museums in the South eerily remind me of Mount Vernon in the sense that they choose to focus on the wealthy White owners, their estates, and what was grown/produced there. A quick side note, but I was totally taken aback when I heard about “plantation weddings.” Yeah, my jaw dropped at the insensitivity too. It is honestly disappointing that in the year of 2024, some still choose to ignore the appalling sides of history. However, it is especially important to remember such histories in order to learn and prevent these horrors from happening again. 

I will be honest when I say that walking around the Whitney Plantation felt strange. I did not want to think about if I was standing in the same spot someone suffered or even died. It is gruesome to think about, but the thoughts were hard to ignore. We took a self-guided tour which was very informative and offered an immersive experience that unraveled slavery at the Whitney Plantation and its impact on American history. As I was on the tour, I took in my surroundings. Fields of green grass, pathways lined with live oaks, little pockets of water, and diverse wildlife almost distracts you from the purpose of your visit. It is hard to appreciate the naturalistic beauties of a place like this when its history is tied to enslavement. In general, the tour presented me with fresh perspectives from groups of people whose stories would have otherwise been lost to the past. In my opinion, the Whitney Plantation does an amazing job of humanizing the countless lives that endured each day they were there. Whether it was from the audio guide or from the memorials, I liked the inclusion of direct quotes, stories, and testimonies from the enslaved people who lived there since it added a lot to the experience because there is no better source than first-hand accounts. Even if I did not have prior knowledge of the museum, I would still have picked up on the sense that their main mission is to inform people the truths about slavery. In our interview with one of the employees, one of the stories that stood out to me was that he has seen a person wearing a MAGA hat on the way in and tossing it in the trash on the way out. This was astonishing to hear, I almost could not believe it. It proves how powerful a place like the Whitney Plantation museum is and how it is still very relevant in our world today because it lays down the parts of history America is sometimes scared to confront. And by confronting these realities, imagine how many other people can witness new perspectives and change their own. 

““Remembering is a chair that is hard to sit still in.””
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

This quote by author Sarah M. Broom in her memoir The Yellow House is a perfect encapsulation about the idea of memory. Good or bad, memory is dynamic in the way that it often brings up emotions, making it a challenge to “sit still” with them. This quote from Sarah is a reflection on the memories in her own personal life, but its message is applicable to the memory of slavery. With history as complex as slavery in America, there are an innumerable amount of emotions that come to mind: anger, resentment, shame, guilt, grief, admiration, compassion, etc. From a historical standpoint, it is crucial to have a deep understanding of slavery not only to refrain from repeating the mistakes of the past, but also to understand current political and social movements in our country. Cultural and familial memory of enslavement is also important. Descendants of enslaved people are the voices for their relatives, and they are able to share their stories in order to preserve the traditions and resilience of their ancestors. These memories also help shape the personal identities and affect the connection these individuals share with their ancestors and how they understand their place in the world.

At the end of our tour at the Whitney, there is a wall in the gift shop that lets visitors express what they thought about the tour. This was my favorite part because I got to go through the candid reactions of people who came there before me. I shared a lot of the same sentiments people wrote down on their sticky notes, but one stood out to me in particular. It read: “I am my ancestors dream.” This sticky note is a powerful display of resilience, hope, and progress, but it also embodies a feeling of pride. The dream of their enslaved ancestors, freedom and a better future for their family succeeding them, has been fulfilled.

The Silence was Loud

“Art is a wound turned into light.”
— Georges Braque (French artist)

The church in the Whitney Plantation, where statues of black enslaved children stand

“People do plantation weddings…” My jaw dropped. I wasn’t listening to the tour guide anymore. My brain had reached its capacity, unable to comprehend anything else, which usually happens when I wreck my brain over a tough finance problem. It was too baffling. Celebrating where a black enslaved person was lashed to death over not hitting absurd cotton-picking targets. Celebrating where enslaved people were beheaded for attempting to rebel against being enslaved. Celebrating where blood, sweat, and tears had been shed. It’s just wrong.

As I started my way into the Whitney Plantation, every step seemed like I was stepping through barbed wire, bleeding more and more as I went deeper. Statues of children in ragged clothes in every corner, their faces burning with despair, forever stripped of childhood innocence. I felt each kid trying to scream for help but not finding the words or more accurately, not having anyone to listen to them. Reminds me of a recurring nightmare I had where I would lose the ability to scream in times of need. The enslaved people were stripped of their voice and their freedom, constantly in shackles whilst enduring the worst physical and mental pain one could imagine.

The plantation was disturbingly quiet. It was piercing my ears. No birds chirping. No sliver of wind. Only nature and trauma. The silence was loud.

“Slave Rebellion Heads” in the Whitney Plantation, representing the hundreds of enslaved people beheaded after the 1811 slave rebellion

It kept getting worse and worse. I was walking from exhibit to exhibit, listening to the accompanying audio about the stories of trauma behind each location. I noticed something sinister in the distance: a bunch of metal circles on what looked like sticks. It was some sort of statue I couldn’t yet make out. As I got closer, my heart sank. The metal circles were depicted to be the heads of enslaved persons. The exhibits tell the stories of those beheaded after the slave uprising of 1811, the heads propped on sticks by the slaveowners to terrify the rest of the slaves. I froze. I felt my emotions shifting from shock and sadness to pure anger. Being a descendant of survivors of the Armenian Genocide, this hits close to home. The sheer evil in humanity is sometimes unfathomable. I can’t help but imagine a descendant of an enslaved person walking through this plantation, seeing the exhibit of their people beheaded. I can’t imagine the pain. 

“Who has the rights to the story of a place? Are these rights earned, bought, fought and died for? Or are they given? Are they automatic, like an assumption? Self-renewing? Are these rights a token of citizenship belonging to those who stay in the place or to those who leave and come back to it? Does the act of leaving relinquish one’s rights to the story of a place? Who stays gone? Who can afford to return?”
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

This site once was a house, wipe out by Hurricane Katrina, located in Lower Ninth War of New Orleans

As I walk further into the plantation, I can’t help but think of the role locations play in history. The Whitney Plantation will never be anything other than the stories of the hundreds of enslaved people mentally and physically abused to subservience and death. As much as one tries to forget, the silence is deafening. The significance of location in stories is a common theme throughout The Yellow House: A Memoir by Sarah M. Broom. Throughout the book, Sarah wrestles with the concept of memory in a place. She wanted to forget the memories of the Yellow House, the worn-out home the children were often embarrassed by, where they had to experience a lot of hardship. But when she sees the house destroyed by Hurricane Katrina, she is perplexed. Her brother walks into the frail house, searching for the bits of memory that the hurricane had wiped out. Over the course of the novel, Sarah leaves New Orleans but ends up settling back in her hometown, pulled by memories of the Yellow House, despite the destruction of its physical structure. As much as a place gets changed by outside influence, stories get engrained in places. The plantations where people have weddings will always be the plantations where innocent children, women, and men were brutally abused into servitude and killed. The memories will never die down. 

“I did want the Yellow House gone, but mostly from mind, wanted to be free from its lock and chain of memory, but did not, could not, foresee water bum-rushing it.”
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

A house affected by Hurricane Katrina in the Upper Ninth area of New Orleans

The day before visiting the plantation, we watched 12 Years a Slave, a movie about Solomon Northup, a free person of color who was forced back into slavery for a period of a few years. Slavery is not only characterized by the mental and physical abuse endured by the enslaved, but the years completely erased from lives. Solomon Northup is a classic disturbing example. The period of years he was forced into slavery represents the years stripped from him as a husband, as a father, and as he later finds out after he is freed, as a grandfather. In the powerful scene when he returns home, his little kids have grown into adults, in the blink of an eye. His daughter has gotten married and has a child, a child she has named Solomon Northup. Tears uncontrollably flowed down my face. Solomon represents the thousands of enslaved people stripped of these memories, stripped of opportunities, stripped of love and every other positive emotion. These are years Solomon and people like Solomon never got back. The memories that burned into history, burned into sites like the Whitney Plantation. Frozen memories stripped of life.

The black trauma did not end with the abolition of slavery. As we have seen in our study of black history, the system has time and time again failed African Americans. The legacy of slavery was continued through the Jim Crow South and sharecropping. Moving into the 2000s, in New Orleans East where The Yellow House was based, many houses destroyed by Hurricane Katrina still have not been rebuilt. This is due to deep economic and political issues of the area, such as the subpar insurance in the region that left many in desperate situations. Driving through these communities in 2024, I had to do more research to get the full story. One way the government failed low-income black communities in southeast Louisiana was by failing to replace the fragile levees near these communities, causing them to collapse during the hurricane, which inflicted immense damage and pain. The pain that persists throughout generations.

“Without that physical structure, we are the house that bears itself up. I was now the house.”
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

For The Love Of God, Write!

Only a week left in New Orleans and I haven’t written anything.

Okay, that’s not exactly true—I’ve finished two five-page essays now, and this is my fourth blog post on our site. I’ve journaled nearly every day since getting here, jotting down all my observations of people and places and moments I find interesting. During this trip I’ve put a respectable amount of words on paper, maybe somewhere in the twenty-thousands if I had to estimate. But I haven’t written anything.

Inspiration was never a struggle for me in high school. I saw stories everywhere: in old couples on the street, in peculiar perfume shops, in ads I saw at Costco. Words used to leap out at me. Now I chase them, and when I manage to catch them I have to wrangle them, wrestling them into the right shapes as they bite and kick. It feels like a fight every time, and I’m getting tired.

Logically, I know that there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for my writer’s fatigue. My screenwriting major requires me to write constantly for classes—fifteen pages of a feature due one week, a full act of a television drama due the next, more outlines and ideas than I can count. Logically I know it’s enough consistent output to wring any artist dry of creativity; logically I know that I’ve not completely lost my ability to write books. The problem is that I am not a logical person, and all of my instincts are screaming in terror and clanging alarm bells: I have no inspiration, I’m never going to write again, and the world is ending.

““Not to be onto something is to be in despair.””
— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

Coming to New Orleans, an entirely new environment, I hoped that I’d finally be able to reset my brain, rewire myself and get back to my roots, churning out ideas by the dozens. In The Moviegoer, Binx Bollings is on a relentless pursuit of self-discovery and personal fulfillment, which he calls “the search”. “The search,” Binx declares grandly, “is what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life.” He describes exactly what I was looking to find in New Orleans—a big Eureka moment, a realization that this is what has been missing from my writing the last few years.

““Everydayness is the enemy. No search is possible.””
— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

I wanted to escape the everydayness of L.A. and Orange County, the two places that have cradled all twenty years of my life, and to venture deep into swampy, glitzy New Orleans, which has seen the birth of countless literary greats. We stand in Jackson Square and rattle off the names of enormously influential writers who spent years drawing inspiration from this city. Tennessee Williams, Mark Twain, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Charles Bukowski—it’s the wet dream of any pretentious, grammar-correcting, scarf-wearing English major.

Faulkner House Books (thank you again to Alice for taking pictures while I’m zoning out)

It makes sense why New Orleans would speak to a writer; this city touches all of the senses. Streetcars rattle past windows. Jazz saunters down streets. Galleries and antique shops and colorful bars pack every corner. And if you’ve had a beignet here, I don’t need to explain that it’s something of a religious experience.

As I walk through Faulkner House Books—William Faulkner’s old home, transformed into a tiny but enchanting little bookshop—I feel overwhelmed by both awe and jealousy, surrounded by pages upon pages of boundless human creativity. These are all real writers, people who were able to channel their surroundings into tangible things, things with spines. When I get back to the hotel I spend an hour staring at an empty Google Doc. Go, brain, go, I chant at myself. Do the thing you’re supposed to do. You’re a writer, for the love of god, write.

I don’t write anything. There are no big flashes of inspiration, no Eureka moments, no brilliant, mind-blowing concept that will become my next book. But in all the time I spend not-writing, I am living, soaking up as much of New Orleans as I can. I try jambalaya, beignets, gumbo, andouille, beignets, shrimp and grits, beignets (have I mentioned how many beignets I’ve eaten?). I stroll down Frenchman Street listening to live jazz bands playing through the twinkling night. I go to the Vampire Apothecary and drink a fluorescent violet elderflower martini, served to me by a fanged waiter, which will later give me a headache that is totally, completely worth it. Really, I think as I sip at yet another iced latte from PJ's, which has quickly become my Business District sanctuary. What's so wrong with everydayness?

Vampire-approved drinks

Nobody judge me for what I’m about to do…

Late night streetcar rides!

““I had discovered that a person does not have to be this or be that or be anything, not even oneself. One is free.””
— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

New Orleans is too vibrant and magnificent to waste time in torturing myself over the search—sorry, Binx. I want to explore, not with the intention to find anything, but instead to just experience. Only a week left and I want to use every moment appreciating this city and enjoying myself—who knows when I’ll be back, or when, if ever, I’ll get the chance to do something like this again?

I could spend tonight agonizing over blank pages, wracking my weary brain for an idea that’s worthwhile. I could spend tonight searching, trying to write something; but when I think about it, writing is really all that I’ve done since coming to college. Words and books and inspiration still live in me. Tonight I’m going to a movie with my friends, and I’m going to have a good time.

4121: the story that remains

A spray-painted number is the only remnant of what used to be The Yellow House.

To most people who somehow manage to stumble upon Wilson Ave, “4121” is just a meaningless, random number on a curb. In fact, these people will probably pass by without even noticing that it’s there at all. To me, seeing the number before my very own eyes is like going on the Universal Hollywood Studio Tour and physically being at the filming sets of movies I’ve only watched on screen. It felt unreal. But, to Sarah M. Bloom, the spray-painted “4121” is the crumb that contains all the memories of Ivory Mae’s “unruly child” that she was very much ashamed of.

Out of the three perceptions of “4121,” Sarah’s is the one that hits closest to home, even more than my own. The house being an embarrassment to her reminds me of my mom. See, as cool as my mom is with having guests over at our house, she always greets the idea with, “You better clean the house before they come. Aren’t you embarrassed?” Maybe it’s the effect of my grandma’s upbringing on her, maybe it’s the pure Asian blood rushing in her veins, or maybe it’s just an excuse to get me to clean the house for her—whichever the reason may be, a part of my mom is seemingly ashamed of the state of shambles that characterizes our house.

In Indonesian, we have the phrase “kapal pecah,” which literally translates to “a broken boat.” This is my grandma’s go-to phrase when describing the state of her children’s houses because no matter how squeaky clean the houses look in our eyes, it will never be up to her ‘Asian grandma’ standards. But… hear me out. I swear our house isn’t that bad. Sure, there may be mails sitting out on random surfaces around the house, or cups, or our dogs’ toys… But, you know, we also try our best to clean them out every couple of days when we’re all not too exhausted from our jobs and schoolwork. So, really, it’s not that bad. And, frankly, I think my mom knows this too. Despite the slight shame she may have, a bigger part of her always cherishes that house because there are more valuable aspects than the (infrequent) messes around the house—all the memories it carries, what she had to go through to purchase it, and the most important of all, her gratitude towards it. That last part? That’s the advice she always gives me whenever I’m going through a difficult time. “Always be grateful for everything that comes your way.” So I guess that’s how she views our house too, because having a roof to sleep under each night is, in itself, something to always be grateful for.

“This is the place to which I belong, but much of what is great and praised about the city comes at the expense of its native black people, who are, more often than not, underemployed, underpaid, sometimes suffocated by the mythology that hides the city’s dysfunction and hopelessness. If the city were concentric circles, the farther out from the French Quarter you went—from the original city, it could be reasoned—the less tended you would be. Those of us living in New Orleans East often felt we were on the outer ring.”
— Sarah M. Bloom, The Yellow House

Personally, I think this sense of gratitude didn’t struck Sarah herself until the Yellow House was gone. While I do think she could’ve given the house more credit, I also must admit that her deep feeling of shame towards it was very much justified. I mean, the Yellow House itself was the epitome of the New Orleans nightmares that were always quickly coated by the city’s Big Easy image. Granted, the house had walls that were peeling, wirings that were exposed, sink that was collapsing, and rats that were roaming around in every corner. Besides these, though, the main issue was that the Yellow House was never built on a solid foundation. Rather, it was built on a swamp and grounds that were way too soft for its own good. From today’s perspective, we can easily ask, “what happened to mandatory house inspections?” From their perspective, the answer was simple: negligence. It was the negligence of the neighborhood, the city, and the government that was to blame for the fall of New Orleans East. Even pre-Katrina, the authority never cared enough to put into place infrastructures that would be safe for living, let alone to build neighborhoods that would allow its people to thrive. Not to the locals’ surprise, during and post-Katrina was exceedingly worse.

It's true. The locals weren’t too surprised with the whole Katrina disaster. Unfortunately, for outsiders like me, we might’ve been more ignorant to the truths that overshadowed this catastrophe, so the whole thing was quite shocking. For me at least, it wasn’t until I visited the Hurricane Katrina exhibition at The Presbytére that I learned of the truth. Throughout my visit, as I went around reading and watching eyewitness accounts, I couldn’t help but shake my head, make “tsk tsk” sounds, and furrow my eyebrows at the absurdity of it all. So, what is the real truth behind Hurricane Katrina? Hell on Earth—dead bodies floating on the flooded streets, people screaming for help, and those who were “evacuated” being transferred into locations which had even fewer resources. Yet although these truths existed, they were otherwise told by the media. Much like how the locals were not made aware of the situations at the time, outsiders were also told lies by media coverage of complete and successful evacuations throughout. We weren’t told that hospitals were falling apart and more people were dying; we weren’t told that the entire state was undergoing shortages of food, water, and supplies; we weren’t told that all locations of refuge were losing power and electricity, thus causing a deadly increase in temperatures.

“Without that physical structure, we are the house that bears itself up. I was now the house.”
— Sarah M. Bloom, The Yellow House

As for New Orleans East, all that remained following Hurricane Katrina was the “physical wasteland” it had then become. Lacking its physical structures, the Yellow House and its memories now exist only within Ivory Mae and her children. So while this mass of land has come to represent the loss and suffering of its people, it might have also been Sarah’s freedom from the house she detested.

After all, the physical structures which she felt a deep sense of shame toward had all fallen apart then, and “the story of [the Yellow House] was the only thing left.”

Pockets of Joy

It’s been a hot, sticky, rainy week in the city. One that has been most enjoyable. It’s been a calm week, one that I feel has had a lot to offer in terms of exploring and where I have found the most fun pockets of the city.

“But there is much to be said for giving up such grand ambitions and living the most ordinary life imaginable...”
— Walker Percy

I’ve now seen Lake Pontchartrain, something I had been looking forward to seeing since we arrived in New Orleans. It’s a bit underwhelming, there is no beach or clear blue water to be found anywhere, but I was also not expecting that. There are only steps leading to a dark, vast expanse of water. You cannot see to the other shore, only the horizon. A good place to start the search for the meaning of life, although I advise the opposite.

It is simply that, a lake. There are people on boats celebrating memorial day, no doubt having a better time than I am in the heat of the almost-summer. But still, I’m glad to have seen it and am ready to go back to the comfort of the AC in the van. To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure what else I did that day. Clearly nothing exciting.

Is this what Binx Bolling feels like in Gentilly? Bolling, the wonderful protagonist in Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer, lives in Gentilly and despises the French Quarter. Binx appreciates a simple life, one that I assume involves sitting on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain and searching for the meaning of life. He would hate to see what I have in store for the rest of the week.

Tuesday it seems the French Quarter defines my existence. Something that would cause Binx to roll in his grave. I saw a great performance at Preservation Hall, a humble and sweltering building that has no air conditioning. During a lull in the performance the trumpet player comments, saying it’s not that hot if “you don’t think about it.” All I do is think about it. I think of myself as a pessimist, a live performance in front of me and all I can think about is how hot it is in this room. No matter, I still enjoyed it very much!

A handsome man.

When we exited the small building my friends and I popped over to a bar across the street, truly a hole in the wall but it had the most delightful surprise. It was called Clyde’s Corner, Clyde being the owner’s dog. He was very friendly and wore a bright green vest. I would come in just for Clyde, but to my benefit they also had great frozen strawberry daiquiris. At this point it had started to rain, making me want to go home but the way the day continued, I’m glad I didn’t.

We ran through the rain, making our way to a favorite of ours: The Garage. Described as a music club, I have never seen more than a few people in there. There’s pool tables, hurricanes, and speakers blasting random pop music; maybe not everyone’s cup of tea, but it is mine. My friends and I share a hurricane and play a round of pool; I’m lousy at it. We only have time for one round, but it was still plenty fun. Still, there are only about two other people in the bar in addition to us, maybe a well kept secret. Or maybe I just haven’t seen it on a Saturday night. Something tells me Binx would despise this place. It is still raining when we leave so we decide to take a Lyft, something Binx would definitely hate; good thing I am not him and he is not me. The rain leaves with Tuesday; Wednesday is a new, sunny day. We leave New Orleans and escape to Gretna, Louisiana; there is nothing there, so why are we? A very important reason: to find cowboy boots. Gretna has two things going for it: a Waffle House that I will be going to before I leave, and Cavender’s Boot City, our target. It’s about a 10 minute drive until we reach boot city and, eventually, we are dropped off in a seemingly empty parking lot, the only thing there being the store and a Wendy’s that I will eat at later.

Boots are made for walking

I have cowboy boots but Alice needs some; we proceed to spend roughly an hour while she picks some out. I tried some on as well but the selection isn’t great. I still have a great time. She selects her cowboy boots and we are out of there, on our way back to the French Quarter where we do some more shopping and exploring.

Do you think Binx would wear cowboy boots?

Thursday and Friday are filled with more mundane activities of existence, but I think that’s the point. I’d say nothing this week was extraordinary, but filled with happiness; I did new things, tried new food, saw new places, nothing crazy. I think it’s important to fill your life with little things that you can look forward to; it doesn’t always have to be a concert, or a trip, or something big but rather shopping, a movie night with friends, dinner, anything! Just something to distract you from your mortality…

I’m just kidding. But really, there is joy to be found in the ordinary and I think that gets taken for granted. Binx searches for meaning in his life, unaware that he has found it through his walks, his movies, his opinions, yet he understands that his value does not depend on his contribution to society. Binx may be stuck in his own world most of the time, but it's his. The world revolves around Binx for all he knows, a sentiment I think we should all adopt at some point or another. Existence isn’t based on anyone else but yourself, and I think it’s time we start living that way.

“Don’t you feel obliged to use your brain and to make a contribution?
No’m.”
— Walker Percy