I Like New Orleans Better

After Galveston we headed north, bound for New Orleans. We broke up the drive with a stop at one of the gates of hell, located in Sea Rim State Park, Texas. Sea Grim as we call it. Do not go there. Ever. For any reason. We had to abandon the bus there that night and retreat to a hotel. The next morning we went back, fired up the bus, and did not stop driving until we were safely over the state line in Louisiana — successfully escaping Texas again, but this was definitely our closest call yet.

We regrouped for a day at a little state park on a small bayou outside Lake Charles, Louisiana. It was good to be back in the bayous, swamp cypress, and most of all, warm humid air. Never thought I’d miss it, but I did.

We met an Australian couple there who have been coming to the US nearly every year since the early 2000s, traveling around in an older RV. It’s always humbling to meet someone from somewhere else who knows your country better than you do. We were headed in opposite directions unfortunately, but we were able to save them from Sea Rim at least. I look forward to our paths crossing again one day.

The next day we continued on, taking the beat-up, pothole-strewn back roads through the sugar cane fields and flooded rice paddies, past where we once spent Mardi Gras, on down into New Orleans. We arrived a little too late to head into the city that day. We had to stave off our New Orleans cravings with a few crayfish sausages grilled over the fire that night.

The next morning we headed over the river and into the city.

There is something truly remarkable about New Orleans. Long time readers may have noticed that New Orleans is essentially the only city we visit. Chicago? Drove right by as fast as we could. Atlanta? We’ve been known to detour hundreds of miles to avoid it. We did stop in Columbia, SC, and regretted it. We have been to Milwaukee, but that’s to visit friends, not because we love the city.

No, if we’re going into a city it has to be a city that’s alive the way a forest is alive, the way a seashore is alive: organically, miraculously, beautifully. Why waste your time on anything else? A good city should evoke the three transcendentals in you when you’re in it: goodness, truth, and beauty. The only U.S. city where I have experienced those things every time I go is New Orleans.

If you were just looking at it on paper, New Orleans probably wouldn’t jump out at you. It’s insanely touristy. It’s rough around the edges. It has a reputation for violence. And yet none of those things seem to affect the city or the people. It’s a mystery, but it’s not hard to see how living here you might come to think like Ignatius J Reilly when he rather famously says, “Leaving New Orleans frightened me considerably. Outside of the city limits the heart of darkness, the true wasteland begins.”

Picking apart what makes New Orleans great is likely as fruitless as trying to figure out how it got that way. Something about the collision of Afro-Caribbean culture, Acadian culture, French culture — among others — created something unlike anywhere else on earth. New Orleans is louder, more vibrant, and more alive than any other city in America and that, I think, is what keeps us coming back.

Just as we took the girls out for a birthday around Milwaukee, we had promised Elliott a day out in New Orleans. It started with an early lunch at a Thai restaurant.

Then we went to the thing the kids have been talking about ever since we where here in 2018: the New Orleans Children’s Museum. Alas, a lot can change in four years. It turned out the Children’s museum had moved locations and been “modernized”. The kids still had fun, though they all agreed the old one was better. The new one offered a few of the same things, but everything was new and clean and looked like it had just come off the Ikea shelf. The old museum had a rather more homemade charm about it.

This is what passes for progress in modern America though — taking good things, throwing them away, and replacing them with things that don’t work as well and generally suck. In that sense I’m glad the kids are getting a gentle introduction to the future now.

And maybe I am reading to much into it, but I found it interesting that much of what was missing were what you might call blue collar stuff: the exhibit showcasing what an electrician does, the sample bayou farm, the signage about lap boarding, and the example working fishing boat. Among the new exhibits were a fake laboratory where the kids could pretend to be scientists and a purely mechanical farming setup that moved crops from harvest to ship without the presence of a single human. Again, maybe I’m overthinking it, but I felt the distinct presence of a specific agenda at work when I compared the old museum with the new.

All that said, at least the kids had fun. And the legendary (in our family) giant bubble maker was still there.

After a few hours playing with all the stuff, we decamped for the French Quarter to get crepes at our favorite stand in the French Market. This first pic is 2018, the next 2022:

Aside from the jarring sight of my children getting older, I can’t help but notice that we’ve shed even more vestiges of civilization… forks? Who needs forks?

That was supposed to be the end of our day. We planned to wander over to Jackson Square, maybe listen to some music and then head back to the bus. In Jackson Square though we came across some street performers doing some amazing athletic stuff — standing flips, gymnastic-style flips without the padding, you have to stop and respect that. So we did. And that’s when they said “we need a few volunteers from the audience”. As soon as someone says that, I am volunteered. Not because I want to mind you, but because in any situation that requires a volunteer or random person to be selected, it’s not random, it’s me. Always. I think it’s a kind of penance I have to pay for being very lucky in games of chance. Whatever the case, yes, I was selected. And I had fun dancing for a crowd with a bunch of other people who couldn’t dance either.

That’s not the surprising part though. The surprising part is that Lilah volunteered — legitimately volunteered. She and another girl got up and did a similarly impromptu choreographed dance. More surprising is that the street performers gave her and the other girl $20 to keep. Naturally, since this is the most money she has ever earned in about 30 minutes, Lilah is convinced street performers are the greatest thing ever and she is going to be one. And who knows, maybe they are. Their job is certainly a lot more fun than mine.

By the time that was all over with though we were famished again. We headed over to the warehouse district to an Argentinean restaurant Corrinne had been wanting to try. A few arepas later we all felt much better. It was a long day in the city, but a good one. I still judge the success of our days by how quickly the kids fall asleep and I don’t think anyone was up past 9 that night.

We spent a full week in New Orleans, mostly exploring the city, though we did have one day of running errands. I even found a reputable Volvo mechanic and took the Volvo in to see about replacing the hose I fixed with some fuel line and other scraps back in Devil’s Tower. He looked at what I’d done, leak tested it with some brake fluid, and told me he wouldn’t touch it unless he had to. Good enough for me. It’s held up well. I did pay to have him clear out all the sensor codes and warnings though so we’ll know if something is going amiss from here on out.

So often what we do in New Orleans is just wander around. It’s a city that lends itself to wandering. We’ve got our favorite little spots in the French Quarter, some in the Garden District, some in the Marigny, some in the Treme. This time around though we also decided to visit some of the museums we’ve never bothered with before, like the Jazz museum. I don’t think I have ever been somewhere quite so disappointing.

Now granted, Jazz is a big topic, spanning almost 100 years, and even if you narrow it down to just New Orleans jazz… it’s a lot for any museum to cover. That said, the Jazz museum was a massive letdown. It didn’t really cover anything. There were some cool paintings of local Jazz legends. Or I assume they where, there wasn’t much signage to go with them. Then there was a room of mediocre portraits of local artists and a room dedicated to Louis Prima. I don’t think the kids came out understanding any more about the history of Jazz than when they went in, save for now they know who Louis Prima was (nothing against Louis Prima, but if I were narrowing down New Orleans Jazz to one person… well, I’d have already failed). They were more impressed with the tiny exhibit about the old Mint in the basement than they were with Jazz museum.

Oh well, we’ll stick to just wandering around, listen to the jazz you hear all over the city. Maybe that’s the thing, maybe you can’t stick Jazz or any other part of New Orleans in a building and try to explain it. It is what it is. It’s not rational. It’s on a different plane, approaching it rationally is the wrong move — it’s doomed to failure. I think the best thing to do is come out here and wander around, discover your own version of the city, connect with it on other planes. Have a beignets, sit in the shade, listen to people playing music all around you and you’ll start to understand what this city is all about.