For the first while that I am here, it feels uncomfortable to refer to the city as “NOLA.” The term seems reserved for people more well-acquainted with the city. As a white girl from the Pacific Northwest, I feel awkward using this abbreviation in texts and Instagram hashtags. It is also a mere six hours into being here when Mother Nature begins to wreak havoc on my womanly body (it is, after all, approaching the full moon.) And it is with these tidings that I begin my four-day-long stay.

The first morning I wake up here, the kitchen at the hostel is closed while much of the space is renovated. I order a Buddha Bagel at Good Karma Cafe, a vegan stop located underneath a yoga studio two blocks from the hostel, then return and ask one of the desk staff where they would visit in the city as a traveler. The woman’s name is Jen. She carries a relaxed, guardedly sweet demeanor and becomes the person I talk to the most during my time in the area. 

Jen tells me to visit the section of Magazine Street that borders Garden District. The French Quarter is absurdly popular, but Magazine Street promises vintage shops and a lesser-reported on part of New Orleans that holds a quieter, gentler charm. After dragging my butt forever on leaving the hostel--at this point, the humidity and ninety degree weather is beginning to take its toll on me---I take a series of streetcars and busrides to find that she was absolutely correct. It’s in this neighborhood, with its tree-canopied streets, funky shops, and neighborhoods built on allies, that I really begin to soak in New Orleans.

The Garden District is every bit as historic and stately as the French Quarter, however, it lacks the mid-city confusion and replaces it with a whole lot of well-cared-for yards. Magazine Street itself is home to a mix of chain stores, locally-owned shops, and variety of food offerings, from Korean to Ethiopian to Cajun. Like I alluded to in an earlier post, there’s something about this town that makes its cultural mishmash seem perfectly harmonized and nearly intentional, even though the aesthetic organization does not always give this away at first glance. 

I walk Magazine Street forever, but eventually no amount of ibuprofen can squelch the storm in my ovaries (insert bad hurricane jokes here at your leisure.) I finally give out when I find the Hey Cafe, a coffee shop that boasts air conditioning and Hibiscus Arnold Palmers, to relax and wait until I maybe feel better. This never happens. I surrender to the nearby bus stop, head back to India House, and curl up in bed for hours, convinced I can power-hydrate this off in time to catch a friend’s band at ten that evening. 

I met Jason when I was thirteen and his family moved across the street. Years later, we re-acquainted ourselves in the context of a DIY-punk scene that bloomed in Spokane for a small but productive period, and for a short time shared a house in Peaceful Valley. His band Bad Hex is an emo/lo-fi punk aesthetic, and it is very good. On tour this year he brought Ellie, a wonderful magical creature who he happens to date, as well as Chase, a drummer I had never met before. When I find them at their gig in New Orleans, it holds an element of surreality to it, brought on by loneliness I’ve been in denial about, as well as the novelty of seeing old homies thousands of miles across the country. The act that opens the show sports the most aggressively obnoxious lead singer possible, boasting a swag he doesn’t actually have. Bad Hex, suffering some technical difficulties, sets up afterwards. 

“Don’t go on tour,” Jason tells the audience multiple times while tuning his guitar. It's his brand of endearing pessimism, to which the crowd laughs nervously. He begins the set with raw noise, the kind he used to make with loop pedals perched on our living room floor at 2 a.m. It leads into an impressive show overall, and The Willow is a decent venue for it. Around midnight I know I’ve lost the war with my body and call a cab back to the hostel, bidding my pals luck on their trip to its ultimate destination-- The Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Universal Studios.

There is a moment the next day when I am wandering aimlessly around the French Quarter Facetiming one of my best friends back home when the rain begins to violently pour. I hang up the phone and continue to walk in it while folks nearby scramble for the cover of awnings or businesses. Rain holds such a fascination for me, in its ability to somehow completely trigger a feeling of calm joy anytime I experience it. And as I walk through the emptying streets, completely soaking in my tank top and shorts while occasionally being cheered on by those less bold, I think about how this moment is something I’ve wanted my entire life. It’s not even an exaggeration. It’s a cosmic combination of everything that makes living special for me---the raw power of nature, the spark of inherent joy in being human that makes the rest of it worth staying awake for, the fulfilling of a wish, and the freedom of adventure. 

Later that night, I assemble myself for a 5-in-1 tour with Haunted History, a guided walking tour company out of New Orleans. “Five-in-one” entails the inclusion of locations pertaining to “Ghosts, Vampires, Witches, Voodoo, and Unexplained Mysteries.” This is the kind of stuff that they show on the Travel Channel specials that I even have the patience to sit in front of a television for. The two-hour-long trek does not disappoint. My guide, Lisa, was incredibly knowledgeable and articulate. She wove the story of each location in with a solid amount of background historical information pertinent to the city, a couple of humorous personal anecdotes, and an overall handle on the crowd that displayed a great deal of commitment to her job. 

The route of the tour takes us through several pockets and sidestreets of the French Quarter that one might otherwise miss when strolling through, and at each stop we are given what feels like a loaded ten-minute lecture about its significance and the supernatural occurrences that have taken place there. What you have to understand about New Orleans---in case you aren’t already aware of this---is that the city possesses such a range of character that even tales of a vampire that has haunted the city for decades becomes imminently believable. Though it does have a reputation as one of the most paranormally active locations in the world, I view this as just another component to the innate magic of the city itself. 

It’s the kind of magic that isn’t born of fairytales. Much like being human, New Orleans embodies the spells and curses that come from pain, shadows, and a lust for life that feels almost voyeuristic for someone like myself to encounter. But it all lives here, in harmony and balance, without hiding or pretending to be anything else. The entire time I am around, barely anyone speaks of Katrina, yet you still see her footprints in certain spots, in small ways, even a decade later. Certain parts of the city are so bleak in their being that I didn’t want to even pass near them. And yet, NOLA apologizes for none of it. It just wears all of these facets of its nature proudly and demands you to love it for such. And I do. 

The last night I’m here, the city is sold out of hostel rooms and cheap hotels as it is slowly invaded by visitors for Independence Day. I have moved my ticket to NYC two days early at the behest of these circumstances. I stay up all night waiting for my train, walking downtown with my pack on my shoulders, trying as much as possible to keep off the streets. My ultimate savior is Deja Vu Bar and Grill, where the waitress assures me I am welcome long after I have finished my food. 

At some point, I’m outside with the bouncer. The full moon that has thrown my body into such a huff is perched right above me, hidden behind dark gloomy clouds; the brazen picture of Southern mystery. I tell the bouncer that I feel selfishly privileged for the moment I am living--the intimacy that exists between myself, the sky, and the ground I am standing on. He tells me that he likes my ability to appreciate it. I take a picture and post it on Facebook. It is something precious that I can share a tiny bit of. 

Three hours later, I’m on yet another train for another long voyage somewhere else, my pack hoisted into the carry-on storage and my earbuds drowning the noise in my head. New York City is two days away, and I’m ready to be rocked to sleep by the movement of tracks. New Orleans prepares itself to handle rowdy chaos like the expert it is as the distance between us grows, however, not before I have a chance to look back and whisper “thank you.”