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.

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.

The Whitney

Photo Credit: Alice Gibson

Walking through the plantation was an unforgettable experience. We did a self-guided audiobook tour, following a set of carefully curated instructions which led us around the plantation. The tour began with a memorial, dedicated to the enslaved persons on the Whitney. From here, I already knew that this tour would be different from anything we’ve done so far. The message was clear: this plantation tour is to be focused on the lived experiences and realities of the individuals who lived on the plantation, rather than focusing on making a comfortable, easy to digest tour. 

Following the memorial, we walked through the “titular” plantation elements. We passed under the enormous trees framing the luscious walkway, leading up to the home itself. Inside the home, we explored the amount of sheer luxury and leisure the slave owners held, with every facet being designed for their convenience and pleasure. Our tour truly began once we departed from the cool shade of the home, into the oppressive heat of the plantation grounds. The grounds were dotted with plenty of shade and benches for us to sit while listening to our audiobooks. However, I remained painfully reminded that this shade and rest granted to us was a privilege to enjoy, especially on these grounds. 

““I had not then learned the measure of “man’s inhumanity to man,” nor to what limitless extent of wickedness he will go for the love of gain.” ”

— Solomon Northup

From there, we toured the various structures built for enslaved individuals. These were buildings dedicated to cooking, laundry, and blacksmithing. There was even a plantation store, operational up til less than a century ago, designed to financially entrap enslaved individuals into a work structure post emancipation. Enormous sugar vats dotted the walkway, reminiscent of the treacherous conditions these individuals were subjected to for the sole purpose of turning a profit for their white owners. I was especially moved by the final exhibits of the tour, a selection of statues and memorials. Each of these immortalized nuanced elements of enslavement, such as rebellion and family dynamics. The final memorial was wall after wall after wall of thousands of inscribed names and written experiences of enslaved African Americans, one of the largest of its kind.

The Whitney is meticulously constructed and curated to remember this horrible chapter of history. However, remembrance and retelling is an unbelievably complex topic, one which we have discussed in depth. We had the incredible opportunity to chat with one of the interpreters of the Whitney. He revealed how his dedication to history and interpretation stemmed from his Native American heritage and their particular emphasis on oral storytelling. He explored the various forms of storytelling in relation to the Whitney and the American story of enslavement as a whole, also referencing a whole collection of “plantation movies”. This in depth analysis into the very nature of storytelling reminds me closely of something written by Sarah Broom in her memoir, The Yellow House.

““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

New Orleans is first and foremost a city obsessed about place. The French Quarter’s charm comes out of the history which runs its course through a place, prescribing it different architectural influences. The very city itself was erected to capitalize off of a strategically advantageous place. Enslaved individuals were forced to work and live in certain places, and even post emancipation were often trapped to those same places by an oppressive financial model. Place matters, particularly here in New Orleans. 

So who deserves to tell the story of a place like the Whitney? Who should? I left the experience with these two questions ringing in my mind. As I continue to educate myself on the topic of race in historical and contemporary America, I am increasingly cognisant of just how difficult the answer is. The idea of a place in history, as we know it, regularly changes the more we discover and analyze. Even the plantation tour itself was different a few years ago, the exhibits being in opposite order. Such a minor change makes all the difference in the overall experience of somewhere like the Whitney. However, I am also aware that such a change would never be approved without extensive research, dialogue, and consultation by a team of experts. The efforts of these sorts of experts are then appreciated by people such as myself who see the evident result of their hard work. As our interpreter emphasized, a story remains alive as long as it is told, thought about, and interacted with. 

““The mythology of New Orleans—that it is always the place for a good time; that its citizens are the happiest people alive, willing to smile, dance, cook, and entertain for you; that it is a progressive city open to whimsy and change—can sometimes suffocate the people who live and suffer under the place’s burden, burying them within layers and layers of signifiers, making it impossible to truly get at what is dysfunctional about the city.”
”

— Sarah M. Broom

I finish my reflection in the contemporary New Orleans which I’ve been living in for the past couple weeks. The glamor and intrigue of this city is most definitely a “burden”, as Broom asserts. Enslavement and racism is a fundamental building block to this city. The business district which our hotel is was the epicenter of it all, home to slave pens and industry fueled by unpaid labor. Our exploration of the city made the effects of systemic racism all too clear: from widespread gentrification to the still economically disenfranchised neighborhoods from Hurricane Katrina. 1000 words is not even close to enough words to explore the hardships and atrocities, but it is definitely a start of a lifetime of learning and listening which I am eager to continue. 

love and beauty in a tragic and finite existence

“New Orleans, though beautiful and desperately alive, was desperately fragile. There was something forever savage and primitive there. Something that threatened the exotic and sophisticated life both from within and without. ”

— Anne Rice

Nothing about this city makes sense. The city is quite literally under the water which surrounds it. It’s surrounded by swamps and alligators and way too many mosquitos. It’s constantly battered by storms and hurricanes. Yet through it all, the region has always been occupied, whether by Americans or Europeans or the Indigenous Peoples to the land. Despite it being so utterly inhospitable, there have always been people who have tamed the land, forcing life into it regardless of its circumstances. How vampiric. 

We spent the first few days of our travels in New Orleans reading Anne Rice’s Interview With a Vampire. The novel, largely set in New Orleans, follows a cast of vampires over centuries in New Orleans. Through the immortal eyes of Louis’ the vampire, we see the city of New Orleans as he questions his morals and the developing world around him. 

Much of our time was spent in the French Quarter, a historic part of New Orleans characterized by lively streets and historic architecture. We walked the same streets which Rice’s vampires prowled at night for kills, and peered through the countless alleyways in which they eventually escaped from onlookers. 

““Our eternal life was useless to us if we did not see the beauty around us, the creation of mortals everywhere”

— Anne Rice

The French Quarter’s beauty is best encapsulated through the lens of a vampire. Vampires span across time and constantly force periods of rebirths. The beautiful architecture of the Quarter is made possible through history, the architecture receiving Spanish, French, Creole, and American influences. The Quarter famously endured through fires which damaged much of the city during the early 19th century. In our contemporary period, the city has also seen devastation through historic hurricanes. In the Quarter, many of the intricately designed buildings stand side by side with dilapidated buildings. The city’s unique complexion is equally defined by its historical influences as well as the catastrophes it survived. 
Having strolled among such architecture, I have reflected upon vampirism and immortality, as Anne Rice has. What does it mean to live forever? Immortality is surely glorious, the ability to mighty withstand the unrelenting blows of time. Immortality means not only surviving through it all, but outliving those around you. New Orleans has certainly outlived the thousands of different physical, cultural, and ideological influences thrust upon it. Its current state is because of its immortality through it all, the good and bad. But does it ever get lonely? Infinity is an unfathomably large concept, so we tackle it in ways our own minds can start to comprehend it, like sucking blood and sleeping in coffins.

But why can us humans create so beautifully in a finite existence? Is our mortality the key to it all? Throughout the city, beauty is showcased itself in every which way. We’ve seen dozens of moving street murals, painted straight from the heart. We’ve sung along to street performers whose powerful voices come from the soul. We’ve eaten in the most incredible places, chefs pouring every ounce of passion into each dish. Even little chalkboard signs outside boutiques and coffee shops are drawn with exquisite attention to detail.

My favorite testament to this is Frenchman street, a quick streetcar ride away from us. It comes to life every night: drag shows, street music, staged music, painters, jewelry makers, and even a late night bookstore. The majority of these artists are people of color, queer, and/or marginalized in some way. We’ve learned in depth how this very city was built off of the marginalized. Beggars and coined “undesirables” were shipped off to populate a tiny French colony which then became a horrifying slave hub––New Orleans history. Yet, through it all, the city never stops radiating culture and celebration.

Mortality is perhaps the key to it all, a limited existence for which there is always room to create joy out of suffering. 

““‘You gave me your immortal kiss,’ she said, though not to me, but to herself. ‘You loved me with your vampire nature’. “‘I love you now with my human nature, if ever I had it,’ I said to her”.”

— Anne Rice

Why is it so special to love as a human? Why does Louis feel the need to explain that he loves Claudia beyond his vampiric nature? A vampiric love is rather romantic. It’s a love that’s so utterly physical and carnal. It’s a love that transcends generations and civilizations. So why would a vampire feel the need to justify that his love is human? Perhaps it’s how humans can produce such intense love, in spite of the tragedies and imperfections of humanity. 

This city is a testament to how humans love amidst hardship. NOLA’s beauty is bred out of suffering and tragic chapters of history. Even today, those effects are still seen, interwoven with the beauty. We watch and hear street artists, talented beyond belief, who must tirelessly perform to make ends meet. We embarked on a ghost tour which packaged the devastating tales of homicides, tortures, and suicides throughout the Quarter all into a two hour walking tour for some $ a head. We walked through the stunning Garden District with houses upon houses which would make Jay Gatsby jealous. This area was once plantations, and then became the escape for wealthy Americans from the Quarter. My next blog will continue to explore the darker sides to this city, as we bookpack through the black experience, dotted with unrelenting discrimination and systemic oppression.

I Hate Packing (And Birthdays)

I Hate “Packing”

While I have lots of practice with traveling, especially since I’ve moved to college, it’s never gotten easier. Moving living spaces, time zones, and of course beds is tough, but manageable. But there’s one element that seems to always take years off my life. How many shirts do I need to bring? Mostly long pants or shorts? Do I even bother with a jacket? Will there be a hair dryer? Do I bring an underwear per day or two per day and what happens if god forbid I run out?

I hate packing, all of my little overthinking tendencies packaged into a little activity. 

I hate the surprising physicality of it, bending my back for hours on end looking through my drawers and under my bed. I hate having to juggle a million and one different considerations, and still managing to forget something critically important. So why on earth would I uproot for an entire month and live in a hot, foreign swamp, subjecting myself to a Maymester called book-PACKing?

The reason starts with me. I love to pour love into specific places, curating a space for myself by myself. I love cultivating an environment filled with routine and familiarity.

A week in, I now understand that the reason we bookpack is to discover, in others, all of these reasons I love NOT to pack. 

Upon my arrival in both present-day Louisiana as well as Chopin’s 1899 Louisiana, I instantly investigated these elements of routine and familiarity. 

What is a day to day routine on the island of Grand Isle, where most of the events of Kate Chopin’s The Awakening unfold? Perhaps it involves an early morning jambalaya at the gas station, enjoyed only after petting the monarch of the island, Jo-Bob the cat. Or maybe it’s an afternoon treat from the teal little “Snowball” hut which serves shaved-ice stuffed with Ice-cream. But could I ever fit into this swamp filled with crosses and dune buggies and mullets? I didn’t know, so I turn to bookpacking and my new friend, Edna Pontellier.

“In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood.
”

— Kate Chopin

What does routine mean for the inhabitants of Grand Isle from a century ago in The Awakening? Would I have any place in such a society, filled with naps and music and privilege? How did someone like Edna feel out of place with her mother-ness and her woman-ness in a place which seemingly celebrated it? The more we read, the more of a prison routine became, as Edna increasingly clashed with her surroundings. Edna’s growing aversion to her routines can perhaps help explain how I felt so out of place in Grand Isle, despite once upon a time living in the South. The more we grow into a certain way of living, the more we grow out of another. And while my personal transformation might not be a progressive feminist metaphor of any kind, I can still find pieces of myself in the friction Edna feels in a place she once thrived. 

On the final day, it all began to click. Our day off, I elected to spend the majority of the day on our porch and take in the beach of Grand Isle. From here, I witnessed the air alternate from mighty winds to bolts of lightning to stagnant calm. Between it all, here I was. I breathed in the same breeze as Kate Chopin, Jo-Bob the cat, and a cashier with the world’s fluffiest mullet. I had come to peace with the fact I could never fully live here and assimilate; these same reasons I felt so other-ized are easily the reasons others feel at home.

Bookpacking is how will get over my fear of packing, by intimately exploring the reasons why others DON'T pack, and choose to stay. 

---

On Birthdays

2 days into the Maymester, I turned 21. All things considered, this was a great birthday. My new friends and I made a lovely assortment of drinks, food, and dessert. We ate and talked, telling stories about our once mysterious and unknown lives. However, I am far from original when I say that birthdays are strange days for me. I love being celebrated and appreciated, but I can never seem to shake off the existential dread which comes with this number increasing by one, forever. 

““In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her.””

— Kate Chopin

I couldn’t help but lean towards the side of existentialism on this day. Especially in this country where 21sts are seen as something especially monumental. 18’s seem to be mere trial periods to adulthood, but things get “real” at 21. But what happened between May 14th at 11:59PM and May 15th at 12:00AM which was so groundbreaking? Did I miss some kind of memo where the first time I purchase a 6 pack of Coors Light from the corner store, things would become okay? I still feel young and unbelievably afraid of the expanse of life that follows university. 

Edna spends much of The Awakening pondering her existence, feeling increasingly trapped by the roles she’s bound to. The more the novel progresses, the more she discovers means of liberation from her “old” life. However, the more she grows and finds such freedom, the more overwhelming it all becomes. As I progress through stages of my life, such as this new “21” milestone, I indeed feel the excitement for all the new horizons I have available to me. However, I can’t help but feel increasingly terrified for all of the mistakes I am going to make and the times I will feel lost. I don’t know if there are any true cures to how small I feel against the sheer size of the rest of my existence. But great food, drinks, and company are a good start.