I excitedly threw the boxes into my new room at the end of a long shotgun, inflated my air-mattress/ emergency evacuation raft, and immediately made my way toward the French Quarter. I could not wait to begin exploring my new city; and there is no better place to start than New Orleans’ cultural hub. The French Quarter, also known as the Vieux Carré, is famous for its cast iron balconies, colorful French, Spanish, and Creole cottages, Jackson Square, and Bourbon Street. Although the entire city is open for its visitors, tourists are mostly concentrated the Quarter. I headed toward the French Quarter with my camera around my neck, laminated map and to-do list in hand, and my purse clutched tightly under my arm. I know I looked ridiculous; but little do they know, I am a local.
Embarking on my aimless journey, I began on Canal Street’s large boulevard facing Bourbon Street. I made my way through the crowds of people, cautiously avoiding the rutted sidewalk. I stopped in the middle of Bourbon Street, slowly turning in a circle. The bright lights, the faint sound of jazz, foul smell of urine, sight of overexposed women, and the taste of a strong drink began to blur together, making my senses suffer from information overload. I wearily weaved through more crowds while attempting to drink in all that is Bourbon Street - tacky gift shops, walk-up bars, scattered beads, hustling bouncers, stumbling patrons, exotic dance clubs, and music pouring into the street. I felt myself lose balance, unsure whether it was the drink or a pothole.
I made my way from Bourbon to Royal Street, walking passed a grimy emaciated woman that played a homemade amalgamation of instruments, a washboard, tin can, cymbal, and cowbell combination. Her rough hippy appearance and apparent love for her street music drew me in to watch, but the beautiful music was only in her head. Next to her bare feet was a half empty gallon of water and a tall beer can. Glancing further down Royal, I noticed similar looking street performers with their own instrumental concoctions, suggesting a bohemian lifestyle unique to New Orleans, but a stark contrast to the quintessential Uptown lifestyle that I would soon uncover. I snapped a few photos, threw a couple dollars in her hat, and stepped into the adjacent mask shop.
The woman behind the counter glanced up from behind her bifocals. “Hey baby, whatcha lookin’ for today?” she kindly asked. I answered, “Oh, nothing really - just admiring the masks.” She nodded, “Well, where ya come from?” “Indianapolis,” assuming my camera and map gave away my tourist status. I tried on a black feathered and gold sequence mask, adding, “But I just moved here for school. To study architecture.” The woman’s face lit up as she clapped her hands together, making hundreds of thin gold bangles clamor together. She exclaimed, “Oh! How wonderful! This is the perfect place to be. Welcome to New Orleans, babe. You’re one of us now.” I smiled at my first welcome since moving to New Orleans and set the mask back on its hook. I was excited to be a local in a new city, but I was not ready to relinquish my ‘visitor’ label yet.
I left the mask shop and walked to Café Du Monde where I ate one of their famous French doughnuts or beignets and sipped an iced coffee. I watched people pass, wondering where they are from and what brought them to New Orleans. After finishing, I crossed the bustling street with the tourist herd to Jackson Square. Merchants hailed my attention from all directions. “Hey babe, come here and take a seat. I’ll read ya palm for fi’ dolla,” a robust gyspy proposed, revealing two gold teeth. I smiled and shook my head. Then, without warning, an eager man jumped out from behind a white donkey masked with blinders. “C’mon for a ride, girl. Me and my horse Big John been doin’ this for sixteen years. I take you all aroun’ the French Quarter and give you the hist’ry of N’Orleans and show you e’rything you need to see. Only twelve bucks for a pretty lady,” he persuasively offered. However, I did not want to fall for a senseless tourist trap. On the other hand, my feet were tired and I my new city kept calling me to explore the lay of the land and its history. I excitedly hopped on the carriage, deciding it would be a perfect way to become acquainted with the French Quarter.
We trotted along Decatur to St. Louis, passing restaurants, bars, shops, and galleries. Although Darrell had been driving a carriage for sixteen years, he had only mastered recitation guidance, pointing and reading the names of each establishment’s sign as we passed. Realizing my mistake, I leaned forward and asked him to explain the city’s history and the significance of the French Quarter, hoping he had just not gotten to that part of the tour yet. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. And to the right is that Hollywood couple Brad and Angeline’s house,” he responded, pointing to a home that I knew was not Brad and Angelina’s. I chuckled and scooted back in the seat. “Now, this is Johnny’s Po-boy shop. Best po-boys in the city! Man, you need to try them oyster po-boys, hoo wee!” he went on. I could not help but laugh by the end of the ride. Darrell gave me a tour of the French Quarter as he sees it. Instead of the distinct architecture and history that make the French Quarter feel like a living museum, he sees it as another neighborhood with great restaurants, famous residents, and the best block parties on Bourbon.
I walked north on St. Louis and across Rampart to the Saint Louis Cemetery Number 1, a cemetery tour destination that highlights the famed Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau’s tomb. Refusing to pay for another guided tour, I snuck to the end of an existing tour group, imperceptibly following them while listening to the guide describe Marie’s life. Then, imitating the group members before me, I picked up an orange rock, nervously marking three X’s and knocking three times on her tomb. Finally, I lifted the camera from my neck and proudly snapped a picture before leaving. I crossed the cemetery, Bourbon Street, and Café Du Monde off my New Orleans to-do list and made my way back to my home Uptown.
I began another adventure further up the Mississippi river from the French Quarter in the section of the city known as Uptown. Starting in my neighborhood I meandered down the undulating sidewalks along Magazine Street, stopping to peer through windows that were attractively decorated with whimsical displays, luring the shoppers in to sort through their one-of-a-kind treasures. I stepped into an enchanting stationery store just beyond Magazine and Jefferson. The bell above the door graciously jingled when I pushed it open. The wood floor creaked under my feet as I crept around the room, gazing at the bookshelf ladders that accented the high ceiling and the array of beautiful merchandise. I ran my fingers across each sheet of paper, feeling the different textures and embossment. I fell in love with everything the store held, selecting a simple pale blue card set with my initials. As I stepped out with my bag in hand, I looked to my left and right, realizing it would take weeks to rummage through each store on Magazine like I had done in the stationery store. I have seen three boutiques open within the few months I have lived here, constantly offering delightful surprises for Magazine shoppers.
The excitement of the unknown drew me further down the street. I strolled through art galleries as if I had every intention of purchasing a piece. I tried on designer dresses at Azby’s and musty vintage costumes at Miss Claudia’s, stopping only for a drink at a local coffee shop between stores. In the meantime, I made note of the local restaurants and bars that I wanted to return to during my stay in New Orleans in my mental to-do list.
On the other end of Magazine Street, further east, I toured the numbered streets also known as the Garden District. I ambled down the Garden District with the self-guided home tour pamphlet, stopping at each listed address, reading the brochure’s caption, and observing the home’s architecture, landscaping, and current uses. The homes were elaborately decorated with delicate wrought iron, freshly painted, and immaculately landscaped. I immediately thought of the woman on Royal Street, playing her concocted instrument barefooted, wearing tattered clothes and drinking a beer. Her life seemed so distant compared to the perceived lives of the mansion owners in the Garden District. I could only imagine the antique European furniture, custom molding lining the walls, and adjacent guest homes that were once slave quarters.
Then, I began to wonder about the family history of each of the homes. Unlike the French Quarter, the Garden District is the result of American citizens swarming to New Orleans after finalizing the Louisiana Purchase in 1803 (Louisiana Purchase). Due to the city’s geographic location at the Mississippi River Delta, many American settlers acquired their money from shipping, trade, and cotton. Because New Orleanians value family heritage and tradition, many Garden District mansions are believed to be heirlooms passed down for generations. Once again, my camera was around my neck and I had an opened map as if I was a stray tourist lost from my group. I am positive the neighbors were peering through their lace curtains laughing at the silly tourist.
By the end of 2007, New Orleans will have seen almost one and a half million tourists (Romig 2007). However, most of them are concentrated Downtown and in the French Quarter, where most accommodations, restaurants, and attractions are located. I felt a distinct line between Downtown and Uptown, tourist and resident territory. However, my perception of a clear separation changed on Saturday, November 10, the day the St. Charles Streetcar opened. With the reopening of the St. Charles Streetcar line Uptown was once again more accessible for tourists while downtown was more accessible, and more inviting, for Uptown residents, blurring the perceived boundary.
My roommate and I were at the intersection of Marengo Street and St. Charles when we peered to our left. Squinting our eyes and straining our necks, we saw a high school marching band, masses of people, local news vans, and a line of streetcars decorated with thick red ribbon and garland. We immediately shot each other look, grinning, when we realized a historical New Orleans event was taking place at the end of our street. Since Katrina’s massive flooding two years ago, the St. Charles line had been down for extensive repairs on the rail as well as the cars. The Canal streetcar line was launched immediately after the storm in December 2005, making a leap to restore hope and pride to the city (Reed 2007). The opening of the St. Charles line was no different.
After being interviewed by a local television station we hopped on the third streetcar. The St. Charles neighborhood residents came prepared, carrying cocktails and cameras and wearing smiles. Pedestrians threw Mardi Gras beads and waved signs reading, “That’s How I Roll,” and “Streetcar: 1, Katrina: 0.” The Columns Hotel along St. Charles Avenue hung a banner welcoming the line back while neighbors formed house parties, watching the inaugural procession from their porches.
I looked out the gaping window at a streetscape that I have seen dozens of times. However, St. Charles’ businesses, hotels, and restaurants began to make more sense while riding the streetcar. For example, I could not understand why a row of shops and a well-known restaurant were in limbo in the inactivated space between Uptown neighborhoods and Downtown. Yet, the two areas of town are joined with the St. Charles streetcar, activating the otherwise isolated establishments along the vein.
“I feel like a tourist!” an impeccably dressed older woman giggled. Her friend raised a toast, “Here’s to riding the streetcar after two years of not being able to and too many years of not wanting to.” Then, they vowed to ride the streetcar more often as their gentleman friend swore he would ride it to work everyday. They had stepped into my world of tourist wonderment, but I knew they would eventually revert back to more efficient modes of transportation. However, I hoped they were inspired enough to continue viewing at their city through different lenses.
Inevitably, I had acquired a daily routine, too. I could not avoid less adventurous trips to the grocery store, pharmacy, and gas station. My exciting life as a city voyager hit a wall in mid-November with the onset of the holiday and finals. I needed several small items but was pressed for time before picking my family up from the airport. Naturally, I reverted back to my suburban roots, making a stop at Lakeside Mall in Metairie. With New Orleans at my back and Veterans Boulevard ahead of me, I felt the edge where living history and Anywhere U.S.A. met. Contrasting the small local businesses and historic monuments in Orleans Parish, national chains line Veterans Boulevard within a typical mall that acts as a magnetic node, serving the suburbs.
Because many commercial buildings in the United States are built based on efficiency, economy, and proximity, I predicted the mall layout before I even walked through the doors. I hastily maneuvered my way toward a large anchor store. However, I slowed my pace when I saw Café Du Monde in the food court. I knew Café Du Monde was historically significant in the French Quarter, but it did not cross my mind that its significance would translate to suburbia, much less the food court in a modern shopping mall. I appreciated the slight change in an otherwise universal mall.
Between the mundane daily tasks and schoolwork, I pushed myself to keep discovering the city. My limited time in New Orleans hung over my head, reminding me not to take the city for granted. When my family came to visit for Thanksgiving we unintentionally strayed from our structured agenda. Thursday morning we slept in, watched the Thanksgiving parade, and leisurely got ready for the day. Once we were dressed and had reached the lobby, the hotel was no longer serving breakfast. With limited options due to the holiday, the concierge suggested Petunia’s, one of her favorite local dining rooms in the French Quarter.
“No! Don’t open the door. They’re like the Soup Nazi,” the couple from Chicago snapped as we stepped into Petunia’s narrow entrance. “They will seat you when they want to seat you,” his wife chimed in. We awkwardly stood in the tight space, looking doubtfully at each other while our stomachs hoped Petunia’s would accept our patronage. “Oh, but it’s worth it! We’ve already been once this week and it’s our favorite place,” the woman from Chicago unabashedly proclaimed. After a ten-minute wait, we were finally seated in a cozy corner booth beside the burning fireplace. The walls were painted with a bright Caribbean pink and sea-foam green. We knew we had just found a small gem in the French Quarter, and we would have otherwise missed if not for taking a local’s advice. In fact, it was one of our most memorable meals not only because of the delicious New Orleans dishes, but the unexpected journey.
Another well-kept secret is the Bywater, an artsy neighborhood located in the Upper Ninth Ward. The Bywater’s colorful bohemian lifestyle, sagging porches, graffiti-art X-marks, abandoned warehouses, and leaning houses contribute to the neighborhood’s collective nuances, making it unique and full of character. Everyday I make the drive across town to the KNOA studio in the Bywater, but I still find that nothing is too strange for the Bywater and to expect the unexpected. The Bywater contains some of the most unpredictable and unexplainable characters in New Orleans. Hippies, Goths, hipsters, artists, and blue-collared factory workers coexist in the eclectic neighborhood.
Hidden within the Bywater’s leaning walls, behind a ramshackle corner bar facade, Vaughan’s lights up the neighborhood on Thursday nights. After following a native New Orleanian’s suggestion to visit Vaughan’s on Thursday, I was hooked. Kermit Ruffins and the Barbeque Swingers shake up the rickety tavern while bar owners serve barbeque from the back of a pick-up truck, embodying the spirit of New Orleans. The walls are lined with Bywater arts and crafts that reflect neighborhood camaraderie and New Orleans pride. The exterior looks like a deserted building by day, but the crowd overflowing in the street and the clumsy dancing makes the dilapidated building come alive at night. I breathe in all that is New Orleans when I am at Vaughan’s. Maybe the best kept secret from tourists, only the savviest visitors find this Bywater treasure.
During the day, the Bywater is host to several art festivals and farmer’s markets. I found that New Orleans locals experience their city on a weekly basis through festivals and neighborhood markets. No New Orleans event would be complete without music, good food, Abita beer, and local vendors. In fact, New Orleanians need little excuse to throw a festival. In November, I volunteered to help serve drinks at the Bywater’s annual Mirliton Festival, celebrating the local Louisiana squash with traditional dishes and baked goods that featured the mirliton.
At the end of the month, my roommates and I attended the New Orleans Po-Boy Preservation Festival on Oak Street Uptown. The theme of the festival was, “Save our Sandwich”. Well-known restaurants served traditional and innovative sample sized po-boys. Once again, food, music, alcohol, and local art enticed the crowds. Though the two festivals were open to anyone, the small neighborhood festivals rally a local populace. Larger festivals such as Voodoo Festival have a more global pull, bringing in large quantities of visitors. I found that I shed my tourist devices with New Orleanian pride at festivals.
Residents inherently establish daily routines and become desensitized by their surrounding. This summer, the Convention and Visitor’s Bureau of New Orleans launched “Be a Tourist in Your Own Hometown” campaign to encourage New Orleanians and regional residents to visit the city’s cultural attractions. “For decades, visitors have flocked to the city to take part in the timeless and vibrant New Orleans experience and now it’s the city’s residents’ turn to experience the art galleries, museums, shops, boutiques, hotels, restaurants, special events and attractions unlike anywhere else in the country” (New Orleans City Business 2007). The campaign featured coupons to local restaurants, clubs, museums, and hotels, ultimately supporting the recovery of the city of New Orleans and the tourism industry. Essentially, it encouraged residents to vacation in their hometown.
Prior to the local campaign, the New Orleans Convention and Visitors Bureau created an international marketing campaign to encourage more global tourism, ultimately helping the economy and rebuilding process in New Orleans. “We tell the world through our advertising that New Orleans is a city like no other, where culture bubbles up from the street, where when you wake up and look around, you realize you are in a place that is truly unique and authentic, a place where your molecules get rearranged,” said [Stephen] Perry. “We sometimes need to remind ourselves of that, and there is no better way to do that than by being a tourist in your own hometown.” (New Orleans City Business 2007). To increase their marketing team, the Convention and Visitors Bureau is looking within the city for recruiters. Indeed, New Orleanians are the city’s best ambassadors.
Though New Orleans enjoys playing host to over a million tourists each year, opening the gates for the world to experience this irreplaceable city, I often try to discard sightseer tendencies in an attempt to earn respect. I still enjoy Bourbon Street, though I prefer the more low-key local scene on Frenchmen Street. Instead of walking through Bourbon Street with “tourist” plastered across my forehead, I confidently stride down the street filtering images and sensory stimuli that had once overloaded my senses. I carry myself with the pride and confidence of a local, but do not take the city’s charming qualities for granted. I am now an ambassador for New Orleans and will continue recounting stories and describing this enthralling city to those who have visited.
I went to Tipitina’s, a music venue and bar in my neighborhood, two days after I moved to New Orleans. After showing the bouncer my ID and getting a wristband a man handed me a Dirty Coast sticker that said, “Be A New Orleanian. Wherever you are.” Though I was unaware of the message’s significance at the time, I have defined what it means for me to be a New Orleanian today. I have a relationship with the city that was cultivated upon discovery, interaction, and my own curiosity. I began by touring an unfamiliar city, getting acquainted with the cultural atmosphere before slipping into daily monotony. However, I refused to relinquish my freedom and curiosity to the daily grind inevitably occupies our lives. I will miss the New Orleans spirit found the in the people, architecture, food, and music and I will cherish the unexpected excursions generated by the dynamic city. I have achieved a balance between monotony and stimulation that has made my life more interesting in New Orleans. While New Orleans remains one of the most unique cities in the world, the idea of duality can be translated to every hometown, encouraging residents to rediscover the place they thought they knew.
Bibliography:
Louisiana Purchase. 2007. Encyclopedia Britannica. Encyclopedia Britannica Online: http://www.britannica.com/eb/article-9049100 (accessed November 25, 2007)
New Orleans City Business. 2007. New Orleans Metropolitan Convention and Visitors Bureau Urges. May 14, FindArticles.com. http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qn4200/is_20070514/ai_n19114038 (accessed November 25, 2007).
Reed, Molly. 2007. Streetcars We’ve Desired: Beloved New Orleans icon reaches Napoleon. The Times-Picayune, November 11. http://www.nola.com/timespic/stories/index.ssf?/base/library-136/119490241575540.xml&coll=1 (accessed November 25, 2007).
Romig, Mary Beth and Erica Papillion. 2007. New Orleans CVB Issues: State of the City Report, November, 2007. New Orleans Convention and Visitors Bureau. http://www.neworleanscvb.com/articles/index.cfm/action/view/articleID/1598/typeID/1 (accessed November 20, 2007).
