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.

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.

Real Life, Real People, Real Stories.

Having spent the past week exploring the mythical side of New Orleans, full of ghost stories and vampires, it became evident that this week has been completely different. Everything this week has been real, full of emotion everywhere I looked.

We started by watching 12 Years a Slave, which tells the real story of Solomon Northrop, a free man who was sold into slavery. This film was deeply moving as it highlighted the injustices that were faced. Having only read about slavery, it became much more prevalent for me after the film and the visit to Whitney Plantation. Walking around the land and seeing the terrible living conditions that these people faced was eye-opening. For me, the most moving part was the statues of the children who once lived on the plantation and the harsh realities of their lives. We were given lanyards with someone's name and information. Henrietta Butler spent her childhood on the plantation before she was set free in 1864 under the Constitution.

"I was born in slavery. I'se not ashamed to tell it either and knows somethin' about it."

The audio at the end of the tour explained that this was not to make people feel sad but to educate. I realized how important it was for people to tell their stories—from Solomon, Henrietta, and Sarah.

The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom is an autobiography and the first book of this trip that I couldn’t put down. She details her mother’s life and her own, throughout the years as she shares her story. The struggles she has had with defining home, whether it is a place or the people. She shares with us, the audience, what matters most to her.

“When people tell you their stories, they can say whatever they want.”

— Sarah M. Broom

Clyde’s Bar

What someone shares with you matters. I had the pleasure of stumbling upon a bar with Mardi Gras colors on the walls and chairs, and pictures of a dog on every wall. I got talking to the man sitting next to me, who turned out to be the owner. He told me that it had been his dream to open a bar his entire life, and he finally did it in December after moving to New Orleans 30 years ago from San Francisco. He introduced us to Clyde, his dog, who is also the name of the place and the face on the walls. While I didn’t get his name, I got his story. When he asked what brought me to New Orleans, I explained Bookpacking. He got excited and said that A Confederacy of Dunces was his favorite book and it inspired him to move here.

On a ride back to the hotel, the Lyft driver Terrance shared that he was born in the Bayou an hour outside the city but has since moved to New Orleans. His passion for the place he calls home was inspiring, as he provided recommendations and ideas that we might enjoy for the rest of our time here. What stuck out to me most was how he talked about his friends: “When you meet a friend in New Orleans, that’s a lifelong friend.” This made me think of my home, the Isle of Man, where I have been lucky enough to make lifelong friends from the age of three.

Expression is another form of storytelling, providing an insight into who you are. I observed this firsthand at Preservation Jazz Hall during a performance where improv was a large part of the music. They worked together to highlight every single player during the performance, giving everyone the spotlight to express themselves through music. From the trombone to the piano, they managed to draw the attention of everyone in that room, despite the unwavering heat.

Earlier in the week, I had been to a drag show, where I watched the queens express themselves through dance moves and skills. The confidence and love for what they did shined through. The energy throughout the hour-long performance was never lost. I was left incredibly impressed and in awe of the talent and skill that it takes for both the drag queens and the jazz musicians.

This has made me think about what I would share, what’s my story? Is it where I came from, my family, my friends? Sarah grapples with what it meant to leave "home"—New Orleans for her—and how it changed her. I couldn’t help but notice that people often share where they came from in conversations I had, from San Francisco to the Bayou.

“What the gone away-from-home person learns are not the details that compose a life, but the headlines
”

— Sarah M. Broom

I find myself relating. Having chosen to go to university so far away from home, I find myself missing and at times regretting being so far away. I worry about the events I’m missing or the dates I’m forgetting, but I can’t let this control me or define me.

“I did not yet understand the psychic cost of defining oneself by the place where you are from.”

— Sarah M. Broom

My story is not the Isle of Man, but it has shaped who I am, influenced the ways I behave and view the world, and I think this is no different from Sarah and her relationship to New Orleans. I think a place does not define one’s story but instead informs it.

I still don’t know what I would say my story is. It is something that is forever changing and evolving. Perhaps my story is rooted in performance, like the musicians and drag queens. Having studied and been a part of theatre my whole life, I hold a deep connection to it. Maybe my story isn’t written or through words like that of Sarah. This week has taught me the importance of listening and learning from the people around you. These people inform a place; it is only through people that a place’s story can be told.

City of Vampires

I have relied on TV and film as an escape for as long as I can remember. I would come home after school and escape into various landscapes, different times, and new cities each night on my screen. I fell in love with the ability to lose myself and be immersed somewhere else in the world. New Orleans had become a place I thought I knew well after watching The Originals with my sister during the pandemic. I became captivated by vampires and all things mythical, but I had never been able to experience this place until now.

On my first day in New Orleans, halfway through Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice, I became invested in the characters, excited to see the city through the eyes of Louis and the eerie atmosphere Rice portrays. Armed with my prior knowledge of the city, I was patiently waiting for the mystery and dark undertones the city holds. Having never feared ghost stories or menacing creatures, I developed a fascination with vampires. From Dracula to Twilight and modern shows like The Vampire Diaries, I enjoyed the slight variations in supernatural creatures. Rice’s vampires provided depth and emotion while still managing to evoke fear in the world around them.

“There was something forever savage and primitive there, something that threatened the exotic and sophisticated life both from within and without.”

— Anne Rice

I went searching for the darkness in New Orleans that the shows and Rice depict. However, I was left disappointed, or so I thought. I discovered the beauty of this city through hidden entryways. Behind rusted metallic gates that acted as bars for the light peeking out from them, lay a contrast with the vibrancy of green. Fountains in the middle were surrounded by bricks leading up to them. The vividness of the bushes, the buds of flowers, and the trees provided quiet moments in this bustling city.

Croissant D’Or courtyard

Moments of magic were felt. On the first day in the city, sweaty and tired from the intense heat after walking around, we looked for food. The French Quarter was packed, tourists filling the streets, making it nearly impossible to get in anywhere for lunch. We found ourselves at the edge of the quarter, the street suddenly bare and quiet. Along this residential street, tucked away amongst the rows of houses, stood a coffee shop. Croissant D’Or saw us all relieved as we were met with the cool air conditioning and refreshing tranquility found in the courtyard. We had found a hidden gem. Since then, I have tried to return but have been met with closed doors twice, despite the website saying it is open. Perhaps it was luck that we found it that day, or maybe something else.

During the days, we explored the city, from the mansions in the Garden District, visiting Anne Rice’s house, searching for cowboy boots on Magazine Street, and admiring the architecture of the Quarter and St. Louis Cathedral. I had fun exploring this city with my friends, but still, something was missing. It didn’t feel like the New Orleans that Rice had painted for me.

“The moon that rose over New Orleans then still rises.”

— Anne Rice

Klaus Mikaelson’s house

That was until one night, just after sunset, I ventured out, and suddenly my body tensed. Crows were flying above, cawing as if producing warning cries. The humid weather provided a never-ending heat, but the breeze did nothing to chill. The lights overhanging buildings, still with a gas flame, flickered in the night as I watched the shadows of trees dance on the ground. It was everything I had imagined and more. I began to picture the apartment Louis and Lestat lived in on Royal Street, the corner Claudia ran off to cry, and the places they’d stepped. New Orleans suddenly became the perfect place for vampires to be.

During a ghost tour of the French Quarter, we walked around the streets, quieter than I thought, with only streetlamps and shadows of people around the corners, creating a more sinister feeling as people analyzed their pictures to see if they captured any ghosts. I found myself excited as the tour guide pointed out filming locations of The Originals. Suddenly, what I had seen on the screen was in front of me; I had arrived at my perception of this city.

“In which a vampire, richly dressed and gracefully walking through the pools of light of one gas lamp after another might attract no more notice in the evening than hundreds of other exotic creatures.”

— Anne Rice

Band on Frenchmen Street

While the fear that darkness often brings exists, I saw another side of this city. Bourbon Street was lit up with neon lights and upbeat tourists. On Frenchmen Street, local musicians performed on the street. As I listened to one of the bands, a man with a trumpet joined in, not a part of the band but welcomed as if he was. The spirit and culture of this city can’t help but leave you smiling.

This city is multifaceted, offering something for everyone, with history and culture in every corner. But if there is one thing I must recommend, it is seeing this city at night. How one street can be so full of life with music bouncing off the walls while another may be empty with only those gas lamps to guide you. While I can’t guarantee that you will see ghosts or vampires, there is still something eerie down those dark alleyways. Who knows, maybe it is Lestat.

Waves of Discovery

As the bus continues towards Grand Isle, the road narrows and we become the only vehicle in sight, drifting further from civilization. All I can see are marshes and the murky sea, with grass that almost seems to hover on top. In the distance, I spot a solitary fishing boat, with a man sitting alone, hard at work trying to catch his latest haul. The houses stand on wooden stilts, as if preparing for the coming storms. I feel as if I’ve been transported to a different time, as the sounds that flood my senses are the waves crashing against the shore and the cicadas in the trees. This is no longer the busy, industrialized city that I left behind. I sit quietly, looking out. The fear of the unknown rises within me and I retreat into myself.

Having not met anyone prior to this experience, I’m nervous about what the next month will look like. Too scared to approach people, I remain quiet. We all sit on the bus in silence, apprehension filling the air, until the radio, blasting through the speakers, starts playing country music. We all listen intently to songs we’ve never heard, as they tell stories of love and heartbreak. It wasn’t until a song about a tractor played that the mood lifted, and I found myself laughing with these strangers, soon to be my friends. The shared experience instantly brought us together, and we made jokes for the rest of the drive.

Life on Grand Isle seems slower, with the long beaches that stretch the island providing a relaxing atmosphere for moments of reflection. On my first day on Grand Isle, I go to the beach, kindle in my hands, feet in the sand, as I look out onto the shore and begin reading Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. Grand Isle serves as the vacation destination for the Pontelliers within the novella, with Edna finding solace in the sea, away from her obligations as a wife and mother. She searches for her own identity and sense of belonging within the book.

“The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in it’s soft, close embrace”

— Kate Chopin

The attachment that Edna feels to the sea entices me, as it holds so much meaning to her and represents the idea of freedom. Back home, I avoid the water—often it is too cold to withstand—and the inability to know what is truly in the waters, combined with watching movies like Jaws growing up, instilled this fear. Today, however, I watch as the sun bounces off the waves, and while the waters aren’t crystal blue, the white foam encroaches closer onto the sand. Hesitancy remains in the back of my mind as I turn the next page of the book.

That evening, we gather as a group, playing cards as we get to know each other better, creating our own little familial bond. While in Grand Isle, the people Edna meets inform her awakening, from the desire she feels when she meets Robert to the influence of Mademoiselle Reisz, an unmarried, childless woman who devotes her life to music and embodies what Edna hopes to someday achieve: independence and freedom. I am a firm believer that people are what make an experience great, and I think this is true for Edna too, as she looks back on Grand Isle fondly, associating it with the start of her liberation.

“I’ve been seeing the waves and the white beaches of Grand Isle; the quiet grassy streets of the Cheniere; the old fort at Grand Terre”

— Kate Chopin

The next morning, after being told of the peace of the sea visible from the porch, I wake up early to meet my new friends as a few of us venture onto the beach, getting closer to the gulf. The water is warmer than I expected and the sand soft on my feet as we walk deeper into the ocean. I submerge myself fully into the salty waves as they try to overpower me, but I stand strong, my eyes stinging from the salt and my hair now messy and wavy. While I didn’t experience any huge revelation, I did find myself in a state of calm, refreshed as I walked further up the beach.

The quick connection that Edna feels to the people in Grand Isle resembles that of my fellow peers, as we all prepare various dishes one evening to create a massive meal with everything you could want. We sit around the table, sharing in the joy of being able to share this experience. Though it has only been three days, I feel like I have known these people all my life. The location of Grand Isle serves as the perfect place to connect with others, with the quiet town allowing for meaningful and deep conversations, as well as moments of silence. Chopin writes in a way that makes Grand Isle a desirable location, and while the beaches aren’t as white as described, Grand Isle provides an ideal setting when you want time to feel like it’s standing still.

“On rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought the society of the friends she made at Grand Isle”

— Kate Chopin

I will look back on my time here with feelings of joy, reflecting on the moments shared with my friends, the laughter over songs and terrible movies, and the fascination we held during the thunderstorms—from standing in the pouring rain to going into the sea, which I wouldn’t have done by myself. This experience allowed me to develop a newfound contentment with the ocean and the peace that comes with taking things slower.