Too much sugar for a dime

A little lonely in New Orleans

Before I finish writing about Montgomery, I need to add a footnote. After I left, a clip went viral in early August of what is now known as the Alabama Brawl. At the Montgomery River front, a group of white people first attacked a black security guard and then other black people came to his defense. Fortunately no one died, but by all accounts, this fight was anything but racial harmony. After I wrote last week’s post, I realized the brawl actually happened in Montgomery, which did surprise me. The people I’d interviewed in Montgomery had touched on improving race relationships. I would love to touch base with everyone I spoke to and hear their perspectives. Of course social media has no shortage of opinions.

Lately I’ve been wondering how much benefit there is to watching footage of actual violence. Is it good for us to do so? Does it matter? Is it comparable to playing violent video games or watching movies? In the last few years, violent videos have become far more prevalent in my Twitter feed, crimes by people of every demographic. I blame the algorithm and I wish it would stop. I don’t believe we should hide ourselves from the realities of the world, but I worry that watching them regularly can’t be great for our mental health either. Then again, maybe sensitivity is overrated. Maybe we all need to toughen up. I remember being in Mexico years ago, hastily looking away from a newspaper with photos of bludgeoned bodies across its front page. Could news like that encourage violence? Or maybe, we should see it and be bothered by it, so we can act and vote accordingly.

When in college, I once fought for a television to be in the student commons area so everyone could watch the news. I kinda wanted people to be forced to watch it! I envisioned every news source on a rotation, so you could understand how differently people were viewing the world based on their channel. Sadly my mission failed. People adamantly did not want to know what was going on, and they were particularly alarmed that they might have to view media they didn’t align with. This frustrated me; everyone seemed to miss the point entirely.

I digress, as always.

Anyway, Montgomery is clearly still figuring itself out. I wish I could have stayed for longer, but New Orleans awaited. My birthday was on Saturday, and I was looking forward to letting loose.

The bus ride was a fairly noneventful, right on time, a double decker again. This would mark the final long-distant bus trip for me, from New Orleans I went on to Mississippi and Georgia via Amtrak. If you want a shorter recap of my experience below, I wrote a 500-word version about my time here in the Newcastle Herald.

Sadly the most memorable things from the Megabus trip into New Orleans were the tents under the bridges that were everywhere. After regular discussions about the increasing poverty problem throughout America, this was another example. This is just a photo in one direction; you could see plenty more if you turned your head.

The tents depressed me and spooked me too. I could not believe how many people were living so rough. I had planned to walk the 15 minutes from the Greyhound station to my hotel in New Orleans’ CBD, but instead I got an Uber. In retrospect it was probably unnecessary, but I felt unsure about my location.

I believe this is my third time in New Orleans, and I can’t tell you why this city speaks to my soul so much. The role of the tourism industry is to make folks imagine a physical location you hardly know is actually a kindred spirit. The marketing for New Orleans always goes straight to my heart. I love the idea of running away to New Orleans. I want to fall in love with a depraved, talented blues musician on the streets. I love the swampy, southern, hedonism, the multiculturalism, the music, the drinks and food and constant happenings.

I fell in love with the idea of New Orleans, like one does with a bad boyfriend.

I started out at the Blake Hotel, two nights in one of the cheapest options I could find. It was fine, smudged windows, but pretty, a bath tub, a comfy bed and the occasional smell of weed in the hallways.

I arrived and took myself out for a greasy glorious dinner nearby. I walked home, talking on my phone to Chelsea. I watched the glowing sun go down with a Bloody Mary in my hand. I realized this was my second night in a row completely on my own.

I had been around so many friends and family for the last two weeks, sharing bedrooms and bathrooms. Things were suddenly getting more expensive. Was I getting lonely? Impossible! Maybe I was just worried about money. Either way, I went to bed happy to have made it.

When I woke up the next morning, laundry was the first thing on my agenda. Of all the things I experienced this time in New Orleans, the laundromat was my favorite. I walked 22 minutes from my hotel to the French Quarter, enjoying the views along the way. The laundromat itself had almost a block party vibe. Music was playing, the woman who ran the place had a no-nonsense-but-fun attitude. It felt like, for a moment I was hanging out in an actual community. I didn’t take any photos, (seemed a little strange to do so) but Suds Dem Duds on Bourbon Street is where it’s at if you ever find yourself needing a wash in the Big Easy.

I walked home with my freshly cleaned clothes talking to Ivey who called with birthday wishes. Excited to speak to her and distracted, I tried to chat and navigate. I wanted to get to the river front, but I didn’t make it and also managed to get a little bit lost, incredibly unsurprising. The heat smothered me, but it was always contrasted with icy cold air in every store I went into. Air from the shops regularly poured from open doors onto the streets, playing teasing temperature games.

Later that afternoon, a bus picked me up and we rode away from the city for a Ragin Cajun Swamp Tour. My darling partner back in Australia sent me on one as a birthday present. I had never ridden on an airboat before, and I felt like I was on some new-aged helicopter dirt bike. Our tour guide had a great New Orleans accent. I watched him throw marshmallows at baby alligators, and I listend to him talk about the creatures, the culture and the nature of the region.

(Technically it was the bayou, not the swamp. It was built by early settlers.) I enjoyed every moment, but I was feeling the hustle of New Orleans. Tourism makes New Orleans a lot of money and from the other visitors, to the busy staff to even the disinterested baby alligators, I felt like a cog in a machine. The tour lasted two hours and I rode the bus back to the city with the same guests I came in on, none of us speaking much.

Despite feeling more and more like a lost baby alligator in an enormous, big city bayou, I was determined to have fun on my birthday. I picked a place to have drinks that evening based on it being an easy walk, (always so conscious about safety and my surroundings) but it had a private function on, so I found a new bar, two minutes away. I met Jessica and Sydney, Jessica from Brazil and Sydney from New Orleans. We immediately had something to talk about because of Sydney’s name. I had a spicy margarita and a plain Caesar salad, because, as I was also coming to realize, as a vegetarian I had limited food options. Everything was gumbo, everything was fish.

It took a little while to get Jessica and Sydney talking but by the time I’d finished my first margarita we were chatting away. When I told them it was my birthday, suddenly we were all having tequila shots. I was talking to the man at the bar next to me; he was American with Cambodian/Chinese heritage, and he was telling me about his experiences being accepted by white Americans. We talked about what it means to be American, political division, civil war, the fall of the American empire, etc. It all started to get a bit hazy as I ordered another margarita (after a free shot, truly it was the polite thing to do.) Warm and fuzzy from the booze, my mind was getting sentimental, thinking about how wonderful it was to be here in New Orleans, listening to so many different cultural perspectives. Four people with different backgrounds but open minds, all trying to have hope in the United States. Or at least, that’s how I interpreted it. Of course, it is never that simple, but I felt a lot of love in the moment, and I hope I wasn’t alone.

After my third drink I made my way to some sort of gelato and spirits bar next door which was much busier than the first. The host and the server were a bit patronizing, one asking me how I could possibly be there alone and the other just dismissing my writing aspirations and saying my partner would support me? But maybe I just came across as an enthusiastic tipsy idiot; this happens sometimes. Wannabe writers probably pass through this city every day.

After my champagne gelato I skipped back to my hotel where I ran a bath and was in bed before midnight. Fairly mild 36th, all things considered. The next morning I was awake way too early, no doubt a result of the alcohol. I decided to seize the day and once again try to make it to the river front. This time I was successful, but it wasn’t what I imagined. It was empty. There was a clear separation between the railroad tracks and the water. Like so many times on this trip, I was not sure if I was safe or not.

I wandered around aimlessly, yet again feeling like a misguided tourist. I wanted coffee, but it was not as easy to find as it seemed it should be. New Orleans sleeps in on Sundays. I eventually found my way to a bustling brunch place on Magazine Street called Ruby Slipper. It was after 8am and people were waking up. I sat at the bar, sipped my coffee and read a book. Soon a man and woman sat down beside me. She said “good morning” to me, which made me smile. We got to talking. At first I thought they were a couple but, as it turns out, Nissy and Shim are sister and brother from Baton Rouge. She was here on the weekend for a conference, and she brought her brother along. How sweet.

Baton Rouge is the capital of Louisiana and just over an hour’s drive from New Orleans. Country singer Garth Brooks also wrote a song many people love called “Callin’ Baton Rouge,” but sadly I can’t link that with you because Garth Brooks is impossible to listen to unless you’ve purchased his music.

Shim said the best thing about Baton Rouge is it’s a small town that fakes being a metropolis. Crime and ignorance were the worst things. Nissy has lived all over the world and only recently returned. She hadn’t personally experienced crime, and she thinks that the worst thing is people’s keeping-up-with the Joneses attitude. She has teens in her life, and she’s unimpressed with educational programs for teens. It’s going to be interesting in ten years time when the same youth are running things. She said Baton Rouge doesn’t have a lot of fun things to do for free, and better use of taxpayer dollars could bring people together.

Like many folks in Alabama, she believes education is neglected where she lives. Shim then told me about a local controversy where their mayor had denied the gang violence was happening in the city only to be forced to later confront it after eight different gangs caused trouble in the city. Nissy and Shim both agreed Baton Rouge had a problem with potholes.

Shim said despite the problems, southern hospitality is real.

”I walk up and down the street and I always say hello to everyone. There’s no New York mannerisms,” he said.

Nissy chimed in that she lived in New York and if you talk to people, they usually respond in kind, for the most part.

She said she wished people knew more about the history in Louisiana, the real history, which is getting lost in commercial, monetary success. She hopes people will come and visit, and she hopes it’s still around for centuries to come.

Sometimes I find after I turn off the recorder, that’s when the best conversations happen, and this was the case with Nissy and Shim as we got deeper into discussion of poverty, safety and the question of whether or not to give begging people money on the street. They also kindly bought my coffee. I walked back to my place thinking about how beneficial it is to talk about important issues with people face-to-face rather than behind a screen.

I got back to the hotel and packed up my stuff and got ready to return to the French Quarter, a place called Chateau Hotel where I would be staying Sunday and Monday. I was so glad that earlier on in this trip I was able to stay with generous friends and family, because these last few nights were absolutely destroying what was left of my budget.

As soon as I walked into the hotel, a lovely staff member welcomed me, so of course I had to interview her. Her name is Elaine, and she loves the food and the people of New Orleans.

“We are down South, and we show love to everybody. It doesn’t matter who you are. We say honey, sweetie and baby. We’re not flirting, but people think we are, that’s just our culture,” she said.

She thinks worst thing about New Orleans is the crime. She left in 2005 because of Katrina and has only been back for two years. In some ways, she’s learning the city all over again.

She talked about how growing up in New Orleans, hearing warnings about hurricanes and weather was always normal, until it wasn’t in August 2005. When she was four months old in 1965 she and her mother experienced flooding from Hurricane Betsy. At that time, they lived in the lower 9th ward, the only area that flooded. Everyone fought for their lives to get out.

Then when she was 40 with Hurricane Katrina, she had heard so many different storm warnings, she didn’t take this one too seriously, at first. When Katrina hit, she and her husband tried to leave, but the traffic was too bad and they couldn’t. She and her husband (who has sadly since passed) made it home. They went to bed dressed and ready to go if they needed to. They woke up at 4:30 am when the wind broke their window pane. At the time she was working at The Dauphine Hotel in the French Quarter, and she and her family left their home immediately, driving through downed powerlines to make it to her work. They thought the hotel might be a safer place to stay, but as soon as they arrived, the power went out. Then, the sun came up.

”The power is out, it’s hot, there’s no TV. Nobody knows what’s going on,” Elaine remembered. “By 12:30 or 1pm, the manager comes and tells everyone ‘I don’t know where you’re going, but you’ve got to go.’”

Elaine advised many of them to go to the Convention Centre. She and her family had to make some big decisions and were able to make it Alexandria where her life changed drastically. She hadn’t been back until two years ago.

She said the flood waters never touched the French Quarter.

“I really like telling the story, because I want people to know so many people lost their lives. The police department, a lot of people resigned. Some people committed suicide. There were so many bodies; people were jumping in the Mississippi River. Just like 9/11, if you have empathy, if you have love, you’re going to feel the pain of others. If you care enough, you should, it could very well be you at any time,” she told me.

I remember when Katrina happened of course, I was 19 years old. The whole country was shaken by the repercussions of a hurricane which resulted in nearly 2,000 fatalities. It was different hearing her talk about it than watching it on TV, though.

I asked her what she wanted the rest of the world to know about New Orleans.

”We have good, genuine, loving, kind people, just like myself, today. I’m a prime example. I don’t want to boast, but when you walked in the door, I’m like that every day. They tell me I’m too much sugar for a dime, that means you’re too sweet, but I’m like ‘no!’ It doesn’t matter your race or your religion or your creed, it doesn’t really matter any of that, because we love people,” she said.

I wanted to leave Australia and come live at Hotel Chateau with her forever. I was thinking about my own job in hospitality in Australia, my time working as a tour guide in Kentucky, and how much a kind person makes a difference to exploring a place. She took me up to the hotel’s penthouse and showed me a few other nooks and crannies. I regret that I never exchanged details with Elaine, she told me to find her on Facebook, but I can’t find her. If you are reading this Elaine, thank you again for that Sunday morning, and please get in touch! I would love to see you again some day.

I checked into my lovely room, and then Elaine sent me off to the French Markets where I wandered around listening to live music and talking to interesting people. I met a recovering addict and author who took trains across America. His name was Brian Paul Brightdawn, and he let me take his picture.

Then at the Market Cafe I had a piece of pecan pie and a poinsettia (like a mimosa but with cranberry juice instead of orange). There I met legendary musician Guitar Slim Junior. He and his band were putting on quite the show, and he let me do an interview of sorts during their intermission.

I had way too much fun talking to Guitar Slim Jr. I would have loved to have hung around for more of their second set, but I wanted to keep moving in my temporary home of the French Quarter. I found myself at the nearby Louisiana State Museum, The Presbytere where I was engrossed again in the story of Katrina downstairs, and then upstairs I read the less depressing story of Mardi Gras.

I stuck around the museum for nearly two hours and then went back to Bourbon Street, watching live music and people. My limited food choices were interesting. For dinner I had cheesy fries and fried okra with Louisiana hot sauce and a Jarrito. Later I had a fizzy neon green cocktail for dessert. After my birthday, I was planning on drinking less, but it’s hard to do in the Big Easy. I hope I don’t sound like a total drunk, but something about this city compels you to party. Perhaps it’s the heat, the live music, and the fact that every single person on the street also has a drink in their hand. I wanted to fit in here, in my kindred city, but I’m not sure if I really did.

As the sun began to set, I walked back to my hotel thinking of the cute pool as a perfect way to cool off after a strange, wonderful, lonely, hot day in New Orleans.

The next morning was my last full day in the city, and I had a long list of work and play to accomplish.

After working in my room until mid morning, I went to the famous Cafe Du Monde, which was awesome.

People were everywhere, and a band was playing. My parents took me there as a small child, but I barely remember. Cafe Du Monde is a quick and delicious dining experience as you have basically two options on the menu, your drink and your beignets. I had a Cafe Au Latte (coffee and chicory served with milk) and beignets of course.

I savored every minute of it, even sort of enjoying my awareness of how alone I was in the crowd. I finished my breakfast and walked further down the street. I fell in love with the way a woman called out her tours to people passing by. Her name was Annrita Robinson, and she let me interview her. After I booked a Creole Queen Cruise for the afternoon, she let me take her picture too. You can listen to her interview by clicking play. It’s so much fun.

After I booked the tour, Annrita told me that she sits in this little booth every day, but she only gets paid if someone books a tour! She started doing this gig when a church friend of hers got sick and asked her to take over. I asked her how she could survive on such unreliable income, especially in the heat. She said she was also on disability, so she did have some funds for survive. This job was good as it gets her out of the house and talking to others rather than herself. Sometimes she finishes with less money than she started with as she has to pay for parking.

I said goodbye and good luck to Annrita and I went back to the hotel to hastily finish my Substack. Then I powerwalked to Canal and Poydras Street for the river tour. It was a big ship with lots of people. The tour guide was knowledgeable and had a great, engaging voice. His name was Charles Chestnut, and I spoke with him after the tour.

The cruise didn’t go too far, just down the Mississippi River and back with a halfway stop halfway at the Chalmette Battlefield. I had a glass of wine, learning about the French and Spanish history of the city. I was reminded that I know so little about the places I’m visiting. Someone told me New Orleans’ founding with convicts is like America’s Australia. (Here’s a great article about how French convicts became founding mothers of the gulf coast.)

I got off the boat to have a look at the battlefield, but I confess I was not paying much attention. I somehow managed to meet a fellow-passenger named Dane, a Jamaican man now residing with his family in Florida. Dane wanted to talk about earthlings and ancient civilizations, and that seemed more stimulating than war history. With the wine and the heat, it kind of felt like we were both on another planet.

On the way back, Charles went into details about hurricane Katrina. They broadcasted outside only, guests had the options of going to the bar if they didn’t want to listen. I listened on the top deck, feeling emotional and thinking about where I was when it happened and also, Elaine’s story earlier. I remembered the news and the coverage and the moment when Kanye West announced to the world that “George Bush doesn’t care about black people.” It was a tragic disaster made worse by terrible management. There’s so much to unpack, and until this trip, I don’t think I’d realized how many people actually died.

The saving grace for many New Orleanians was an ax in their attic, so they could hack their way to help via their roof. I read about this with interest at the museum and then Charles brought it up on the tour. Charles also recommended the Presbytere Museum.

After the tour, Charles told me five years ago he quit his job as a lawyer, and now he is happy in life. He also makes a history podcast called Storied Histories, about history all over the world. Our chat was quick as he was heading to his house across the river, via bike and ferry. Of course I loved this. I was excited to ride the street cars later that night, but I hadn’t realized New Orleans had ferries. Of course they would.

“It’s not as dangerous as people think it is,” he told me of living in New Orleans. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

He also owns a pub across the river called the Crown and Anchor. He encouraged me to join him and meet some true southern locals. Sadly I’d arranged a meetup with someone else, but I wish I could have been in two places at once. A reoccurring theme in my life, it seems.

I’m going to have to pause for now, y’all; it’s almost 2:30am! Join me next week for my last night in Nola, and a train ride to Mississippi. There will be street cars!