The Big Easy
Background tune: Low Rider - War
After wrapping things up in Fort Lauderdale, I booked a last-minute bus to New Orleans. I wasn’t originally planning to go there but I heard that the French Quarter Festival was happening over the weekend so I couldn’t resist a detour to the Big Easy. Because it was such late notice, the flights were a little pricey and I wanted to make sure my bank balance survived the whole trip with at least a little breath left in its lungs, so I convinced myself that a much cheaper 23-hour bus ride would be the better option. I’m still not sure if I was right…
A Madi Gras Indian in full dress
About halfway into the journey, I got talking to a New Orleans native who’d jumped on the bus somewhere between Orlando and Atlanta. He was a kid in his very early twenties who’d been on the road working with a construction company for the past 6 months. We got talking about New Orleans, his recollection of Hurricane Katrina, and the local spots he said I should check out. He also gave me a heads-up about an underground street race that takes place every week and told me the location of the next one. We chatted sporadically between several attempts at sleeping, before finally arriving at the final stop around 8am.
I hopped on a streetcar and made my way to the Hi New Orleans Hostel. I dropped off my heavy stuff and headed straight out to find some breakfast and one of the city’s famous Café au Laits I’d heard about. I needed some fuel to keep myself awake. After a few minutes of walking, I found myself strolling into the French Quarter for the first time.
I could smell the sour, lingering scent of last night’s alcohol-soaked shenanigans mixed with the sweet aroma of the morning’s freshly baked beignets (which, incidentally, taste incredible and for anyone planning a trip to New Orleans, I’d definitely recommend visiting Café du Monde).
I followed the faint sound of jazz music until it led me to a small hidden cafe that had exactly what I was looking for. Cajun sausage hash was my first taste of authentic NOLA cuisine, and it was fucking great!
Despite the fact I was severely bus-lagged and running on about two hours of sleep, I still wanted to see if the New Orleans nightlife was everything I’d heard it was. I got talking to a Mexican guy named Carlos who was in town for a work conference. He’d flown over a few days early and was keen for a night on the town. We picked up a couple of pre-game beers from the Walgreens around the corner and polished those off before venturing into the neon noise of Bourbon Street.
I don’t know if it’s saying much because I’m not exactly a well-travelled globetrotter but I’ve never been anywhere quite like New Orleans. Exploring the French Quarter at night is like wandering through a carnival of technicoloured chaos where all of your senses are bombarded at once. It’s somehow overwhelming and undeniably intoxicating at the same time. Only a few blocks in– after already seeing a 12-piece percussion band, a contortionist and a snake handler floating around on a hoverboard– I soon realised that in this town, the street is the stage.
A dusk ‘til dawn venue where every night the performers of New Orleans step out under the glow of neon light and tread the concrete boards of the French Quarter, bearing their weird and wonderful souls in hopes of entertaining, enchanting and freaking the fuck out of any intoxicated tourists that might wander into their section of sidewalk.
It’s the kind of place where visitors come to escape normality and leave their nine-to-five lives behind. As dusk squeezes out the last drops of sunlight, the natural order of things becomes distorted and irrelevant. The rules of the real world disappear into the Louisiana sunset and, under the influence of the voodoo moon, travellers from all four corners of the world are transformed into the happiest, loudest, filthiest versions of themselves.
As the night got louder and the beer count got higher, we hopped in and out of different bars following the sound of trumpets and drum hits. The jazz players of New Orleans live and breathe music and you can’t help but find yourself possessed by their rhythm. I’ve never seen passion like it. I don’t remember exactly what time I finally decided to call it a night but I can say for sure that my first hit of NOLA nightlife isn’t one I’ll soon forget.
The next couple of days were spent strolling around the city with my camera in hand searching for someone or something interesting to shoot. Luckily, there’s no shortage of quirky folk in New Orleans. It’s a land of walking caricatures.
Taking pictures of strangers on the street doesn’t come without a little risk and a healthy heap of awkwardness but on this occasion, I felt surprisingly comfortable shoving my lens in people’s faces. It’s like everyone in New Orleans has performer blood in their veins. Even if they’re not putting down a hat to collect tips they’re still ready to give you a show, if just for a split second as the shutter clicks. On more than one occasion, a passer-by would clock the camera in my hand and goad me into taking their picture. I can’t complain, it got me some great shots.
One thing I did immediately notice in New Orleans (and pretty much everywhere else I ended up visiting in the States) was the shockingly high number of homeless people. Every corner I turned, there’d be a rough sleeper perched in a doorway or sitting on the edge of a curb.
During my patrols up and down the city streets, I noticed a group of regulars that would hang out on the central reservation of Canal Street. They never seemed to bother anyone or draw any attention to themselves. In fact, to the hoards of wide-eyed tourists and apathetic locals, they didn’t even exist.
But they were there. Shooting the shit, passing around drinks, sharing cigarettes and fixing each other's hair. An unlikely family brought together by hard times, that island in the middle of Canal Street was their world inside of the world and in spite of the obvious reasons not to be, they still seemed… happy.
The Canal Street crew were just a few of the homeless people I’d take pictures of during my time in New Orleans. I spoke to a lot of them and listened to the stories they had to tell. One guy named Jonas (he looked to be somewhere in his early sixties) noticed me taking pictures and was excited to tell me that he used to be a press photographer in his formative years.
Originally from California, he ventured east to join the political paparazzi swarm in DC and spent his early twenties snapping shots of the suits on Capitol Hill. That was until the work became harder to find and his drinking took priority. He eventually tumbled southward through the Virginias and landed in New Orleans. He was a really nice guy, I hope he’s doing well.
The next day, while eating lunch and editing a few photos in the hostel cafeteria, I met a fellow photographer named Gal. He was the first person I’d ever met from Israel (but he wouldn’t be the last) and he was also on a solo journey across the US. We immediately started nerding out over photography stuff and sharing stories of the pictures we’d taken on our respective adventures. That evening we charged up our camera batteries and hit the streets to see what we could shoot. This would be my second experience of the French Quarter after dark but this time I would see it from a slightly more sober point of view. It still didn’t disappoint.
I spent the following morning emptying out my memory cards to see if the night had yielded anything good– it did! Of course, there were still a few hundred shit pictures to sieve through in order to find the keepers. I’ve learned to come to terms with this inevitability when my trigger-happy hands get hold of the camera.
Over the last couple of days, I did some more ‘touristy’ things and explored the history of the city. On a voodoo walking tour I found out that apparently, New Orleans is the location of the first public pharmacy and commercial coffee shop to open in the US. It’s also home to several buildings that are said to be cursed, one of which is the LaLaurie House.
According to legend the original tenant, Madame Delphine, was a lady socialite, vicious slave owner, infamous serial killer and all around nut job (I may be paraphrasing what the tour guide said). After going through two husbands, both of which had died under mysterious circumstances, she became the richest woman in America thanks to the healthy inheritance her late husbands had left behind.
It’s said that since Madame Delphine left her home and fled to Paris, every tenant of the infamous New Orleans residence has since either died or become bankrupt. Nick Cage, the man who’s starred in every film ever made, famously bought the LaLaurie House and within two years lost all of his money and had to sell it. Spooky! Whether you choose to believe it was because of the curse or because of his excessive spending addiction and aversion to paying taxes, it’s still a pretty interesting story!
I couldn’t have picked a much better time to spontaneously rock up to New Orleans as it just happened to be the weekend of the French Quarter Festival. This meant that the streets were literally filled with live music and I was completely in my element. One minute I’d be tapping my feet to a 3-piece blues band, completely mesmerised by the lead guitarist’s insane skills, and the next I’d stroll around the corner to find a crowd of musically-intoxicated spectators being serenaded by an RnB a cappella group. The city was alive!
New Orleans really is its own beast, unapologetically unique and always moving to its own rhythm. When you’re in the city, you’re really in the city, you feel part of its culture and part of its history.
My time in the Big Easy feels a little similar to waking up from a good dream that you weren’t quite ready to wake up from. It was one of the most memorable and vivid experiences of my life but I’d still be completely content if I never got the chance to visit again. Everyone knows that once you’ve woken up, you can never fall back into the same dream and I think if I ever tried, it wouldn’t quite be the same.
I decided to ride the rails for the next stint of my journey up the East Coast and treat myself to a few extra inches of legroom with an Amtrak ticket. It was a straight shot north through Alabama and Georgia. A 16-hour ride to my next stop, North Carolina!
