It marked a lot of firsts. The first destination I visited on my backpacking adventure last year. The first city I explored solo. My first taste of The Deep South and the first place where I felt so beyond my comfort zone and so thrilled to be so.
While I feel I have grown immeasurably in the last ten months, I was glad to arrive in NOLA and find it unchanged. As was the AAE Bourbon House Hostel where I stayed last year and where Molly and I would be spending our first night.
With the city feeling a little like my stomping ground, I was eager to show Molly a memorable time. However, she seemed to find it all on her own, taking all of 48 hours to confidently decide she wanted to someday call New Orleans home.
We scraped together enough energy to spend our first night wandering between the bars on Magazine Street in the Garden District, but our hostel beds were quick to claim us after a long day of driving. We returned in the morning for breakfast and to mosey from one vintage store to another. Despite my dwindling bank account (damn, those hard earned savings deplete quickly) and my already bursting backpack, I couldn’t resist buying yet another item of vintage clothing. This tends to happen when I see something I like (or simply fits) and the advice of my sister rings in my ears – “Don’t live to regret not buying something you wanted when overseas.” That and the thrill of wearing something, ANYTHING, that I haven’t been wearing for the last 12 months.
With our attempts to couch-surf leaving our accommodation wanting, Molly’s mum was kind enough to shout us a night in a hotel in the lower Garden District for our second night. After an afternoon of revelling in front of the cable TV, each on our own plush queen bed, we pulled on our dancing shoes and headed to the French Quarter.
Ah, Bourbon Street. Once again, her shock tactics were as resplendent as ever, never failing to astound and disgust. The night clubs, the strip joints, the flashing lights, the naked women – where’s the jazz again?
While I learnt my lesson last year, there are some things you just have to experience for yourself. I allowed Molly just long enough to get a good, hearty whiff of Bourbon Street’s beer, barf and bad decisions before we grabbed a bite of some southern-style cooking and headed to where the real music magic happens – Frenchman’s Street.
I didn’t spend nearly enough time here on my last visit and I was relieved to know better than to waste my time looking for the true New Orleans experience on Bourbon Street. While we got a little lost on the way there, once we turned the corner and I saw the seven-piece brass band playing for tips on the side of the street, I knew we were in the right place.
We visited my old favourite – The Spotted Cat Music Club – and listened to a sultry but sassy swing band. It was then on to listen to some jazz-infused reggae at Cafe Negril and then finally to the Blue Nile to watch The Brassaholics, where Molly had her first brass band experience.
The brass band experience is an essential encounter to have while in New Orleans. It involves being in the pit of a hundred sweaty bodies and finding yourself lost in the rapid beat and the blasting horns of improvising musicians. Somewhere between your throbbing feet and the mesmerising melody, the music reveals 'the answer' – to whatever it is you have been chewing over and over like cud. It reignites the weary and wandering heart. It’s incredibly satisfying. And incredibly sweaty.
Back on Frenchman’s at 2am, we got talking to Tristan the Street Poet. Tristan’s job, his soul profession in life, involves sitting on the street in front of his type-writer writing personal poems for people. Passers-by give him a topic, a 10 dollar bill and 10 minutes.
Molly and I salivated at his artistic affluence and could not have thrust ourselves, I mean our money, at him fast enough. In 10 short minutes, he had written us a road-trip inspired poem, carefully crafted with the memorable details of our adventure. We were delighted.
It helped that he was kind of gorgeous to look at.
So I think I’ve found my vocation. I'm considering Kings Cross. I’m sure the strippers would be inspired.
Ciao for now. xo
Loved this description of NOLA. Glad the hotel was restful and rejuvenating.
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