This is New Orleans

Jazz music playing from every speaker and instrument.  Crooked, colorful houses stacked side by side along narrow, windy roads full of potholes.  Residents look out from their balconies, watching the world beneath pass by.  The Mississippi River flows on, a mighty force of destruction but also a source of peace for those strolling down the Riverwalk.  The tastes of spicy jambalaya and crawfish étouffée escape restaurants and draw in customers, their mouths watering in anticipation.  Scents of beignets, café au lait, smoke, and beer permeate the air of the French Quarter. 

This is New Orleans.

The Superdome, the Smoothie King Center, The House of Blues, concerts, sports, and celebrities.  Fans from across the country book their hotels months in advance, ready to invade the city and dance the night away.  Drunk attendees call ubers to take them back to their hotels or to cruise down Bourbon Street to drink a famous hurricane from Pat O’Brian’s. They will go home tomorrow, but who knows if they’ll remember tonight.

This is New Orleans.

Voodoo, dark magic, and demons.  Marie Laveau’s spirit still wanders the streets, drawing the curious into her trap.  Gypsies dressed in shiny, dark, loose clothing clad in gold and jewels set up their tables around Jackson Square, jingling bells and calling out to pedestrians. They point to their decorative poster board signs advertising “Palm Reading” and “Fortune Telling”.  Most avert their eyes, some discover their fortunes, but everyone walks past making judgments. 

This is New Orleans.

The Garden District.  The St. Charles Avenue streetcar transports tourists through the wealth that makes up Uptown. Visitors upload artsy walls, clever captions, and cute poses to Instagram, each notification lifting their self-esteem one notch higher.  Tiered pastel houses shaped like wedding cakes and castles tower over magnificent magnolia trees and pink rose bushes.  Couples walk their little fluffy dogs down the sidewalk, discussing business meetings and trivial family matters.

This is New Orleans.

The 9th ward.  Flooding, poverty, homelessness. Ripped tents full of families under every bridge. Needles and drugs poke the veins and fill the lungs of the hopeless, seeking an escape from present troubles.  People, covered in dirt and their own blood (or maybe someone else’s), holding cardboard signs at intersections: “Please help. Need food.”  Drivers pretend they don’t exist but will remember their face before settling into their comfortable beds that night. 

This is New Orleans.

Excitement, despair, wealth, hardship, magic, music.  People with stories waiting to be told, people with souls longing for hope. 

This is New Orleans.