Past the feeling of restlessness that is hidden within the marshes, beyond the lily pads and pond skaters, there is New Orleans. Eeriness veils the heavy air. I get called ‘baby,’ ‘ma’am,’ and ‘miss mamas.’ There is a waft of musk mixed with sweat and smoke and soap. It is where the strange and the peculiar reside.
A small French courtyard.
My head is on fire. It is my first morning in New Orleans. The French Quarter is hot and humid and sticky. I wear Yves Saint Laurent (Libre, to be precise), which finds itself unable to penetrate the atmosphere. Notes of lavender, orange blossom, and white tea accord—just cannot compare.
The streets are crooked and misshapen; narrow paths that are cobbled and lined with moss. I hear the clack clack clack of clattering feet and hooves. There are bloodied pelicans and sickly pigeons and inky crows. Beads hang from the scraggly limbs of trees that cast shade. Pots are perched precariously on iron-wrought galleries. The fountains and fences are French. Wisps of flame take up space inside black lanterns. Church bells ring every hour. All I see is pastel stucco; cornflower blue or banana brûlée yellow or powder pink. Occasionally I find speckled caladiums. Everything reminds me of Mexico.
I walk around in a slight daze. It is my third morning in New Orleans. A deep pounding resides in my chest; the heart a tremor. I feel like running past the sun; in a desperate, morose way. Just running and running.
““But this sadness was not painful, nor was it passionate. It was something rich, however, and almost sweet, like the fragrance of the jasmine and the roses that crowded the old courtyard garden which I saw through the iron gates. And this sadness gave a subtle satisfaction and held me a long time in that spot; and it held me to the city; and it didn’t really leave me that night when I went away.””
Mary—my, oh my.
At the New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum, the trembling stops. My heart is at ease and at a gentle rest. Portraits of priestesses mark the thin walls. I stop by the sculptures to take a look. Carved figurines are standing still and firm; made from teeth and shells by the Ekoi people. In another room, there are working altars set and displayed; saints closely surround and guard the center. Candles and crucifixes are adorned with dollar bills, particularly on the main altar. It’s me and Mary. I leave some coins on the lace mantel scarf.
I approach the altar made for Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. She’s a healer, it says on the display. Using the sheet of paper I was given earlier, I write down a few requests for her. I stuff and wrap a few more coins before tucking it away on a small stump, knocking at it nine times (one of my lucky numbers). Closing my eyes, I begin to pray. Do I believe? I would like to.
““It was as if the very air were perfumed and peculiar there, and I felt an extraordinary ease walking on those warm, flat pavements, under those familiar oaks, and listening to the ceaseless vibrant living sounds of the night.””
The heat follows us well into the night. The moon is hung high. I follow my tour guide, hoping to dance with ghosts. I find no such thing, but the shadow of Jesus on the back of the St. Louis Cathedral; its silhouette nearly touching the sky. We continue walking, passing through a crowded alleyway. It smells like sweat and smoke and soap. “Pirate’s Alley,” she says. Of course.
The ceiling of the St. Louis Cathedral.
Near Muriel’s in Jackson Square, we listen to stories of the ghost that haunts the establishment, a spirit named Pierre. A small table is set out for him to eat. For a $50 reservation, anyone can join him for dinner and some wine. Someone in our group claims to have snapped a picture of what looks to be an orb; the ghost of Pierre. We gather to look at the picture as the phone moves around from person to person. I inch my face closer, aiming it towards the screen. It looks like a glare or speck of dust to me.
As the tour closes and I make the walk back to the hotel, I hear faint whispering in my ear. I look back—and no one is around.
On a Saturday, I make the effort to explore Bourbon nightlife. I set out to find the secret vampire bar that is only accessible by password. I quietly slip away from my cohort, leaving them at the Cat’s Meow. I walk over to the bar next door, a snazzy and densely crowded pub named Fritzel’s. A jazz band booms. I move towards the back, exiting a rotten-looking door.
In the outdoor corridor, I find a fellow dressed in black sitting in a chair, smoking a cigarette. He looks up at me silently, his eyes piercing my skin. Hair wavy, long, and disheveled, as if he had been sleeping in deep, green waters. I tell him the password. He presses me for more. I add that I received it from Boutique du Vampyre. We make further eye contact; his eyes an electric blue. I tell him I have no other thing to give to him. “Then there is nothing for you here,” he says. I nod, turning back towards the pub in shame.
I like your nose, Nosferatu.
That had been my first mistake—lying to a vampire.
On a Monday, I make my way to the French Quarter for my tarot reading, scheduled at 6 pm. I come across Boutique du Vampyre, land of vampire galore. I quickly scan the shop, chatting up the shop employee. I leave with no password.
Inside Voodoo Authentica, the walls are painted an ochre red. They are covered in feathers, African masks, jewelry, beaded tapestry, and other Haitian trinkets. The shop is fragrant and aromatic. While I wait, I ask the employee a few questions regarding their gris gris (talismans). He manages to pronounce my name correctly; the only person to do so. The reader then calls me for my reading.
I sit down and introduce myself. Before the reading starts, she prepares by dousing me in Florida Water, spraying it all over my hands. It smells aquatic; citrusy. It lingers. My finger had a small cut; the scent of the wound masked by orange blossom. She begins to shuffle.
“You are an old soul,” she says. I nod.
“And you’re in your head too much,” she adds. I nod again, this time quicker; a little more colorfully.
As I leave the shop, a lone saxophonist starts to play.