Arrival

New Orleans is saturated with history at every corner. The initial impression stepping into the train station terminal were the large mural paintings, covering wall to wall. People of every walk of life were displayed, from Carnival dancers, masked with jarring expressions, to soldiers of the War of 1812 in battle, with embroidered shoulder pads on their distinguished navy blue uniforms.

The city was on a calmer rhythm than I expected. The people as a whole had a vibe of relaxation and defined expression. Passion reeking from their mere existence. They utilize Carpe Diem, focusing on the eye of the artists, absorbing surroundings as inspiration. My goal for the trip. The downtown area was also very well kept. I expected to see garbage littering the streets, but it seems the residents respect their historical masterpiece of a city. The marble wall of the train station had a faint impression of an old, classic styled clock. It reminded me of the time passed, an amusing irony. Lasting imprints of ourselves are influential beyond our lives. 

Traveling to the hotel was easy enough, as I taught my classmates to use Uber app. Our driver picked us up in a black Honda Odyssey, as we requested an UberXL, to meet the needs of three students lugging four bags each. The driver made me hypervigilant about how driving in this city would be a terrifying adventure. Driving in cities is a race between pedestrians, streetcars, bicyclists, pedicabs, and the variety of automobiles. I am enormously relieved I do not have to drive anywhere personally. My car accident last March has affected my true desire to drive anywhere, with a sense of pessimism of other people that have a need for speed with a lead foot.

My first streetcar ride!

The streetcars were a luxurious crimson red with bronze-gold bordered windows. Entrance included the swipe of a "jazzy pass", stamping my first experience onto this alien transportation. In reality though- I was the alien, as the transportation has been in place long before I even existed. As I saw daylight transforming into a darkness, the time of the day had escaped me. The train ride distorted my perception and I realized it was already Wednesday evening. I was ready to eat from any given street vendor, as I was painfully hungry. I held out during the rapid snapshot walking orientation of the historic French Quarter district. Jackson Square was more alluring than my first love. I had walked into the 1840s, with brick and cement buildings, dressed with cast-iron galleries and balconies. The off-green jaded iron was a masterful elegance of aging; perfectly paired with gas-fueled-flickering-flamed streetlights. The Saint Louis Cathedral caught my eye from a mile away, with the tall pointed central tower, octagon and arched windows, and almost three hundred years of history in the French architecture looked back at me.

Next, dinner! On the walk to Pierre Maspero's, I was "holding up the group" as I recorded the many street performers, artichetural heaven, and diverse inhabitants. I did not feel the guilt, as I captured my first impressions of the city. Although I had a grumbling hunger within me and when we arrived at the restaurant I wanted to seat myself. Waiting was consoled with a specialty cocktail called the Gator Popper. Katie, the red-haired Louisiana native, had spectacular menu suggestions. She hinted that my vegetarian palette would enjoy an off-menu item- the fried tomato po-boy! Once I learned that Pierre Maspero was originally a place for slave trading, it did concern me; however, the history within the location and building, paired with the traditional New Orleans meal, formed a successful fusion of this aged city. New Orleans is often an elegantly deteriorated exterior with a shamefully interesting historical interior, at heart.

After full bellies and prominent food baby showing, we began to walk to our final activity of Day One, the ghost tour. The class grouped in Pirates Alley, awaiting Brittany, the New Orleans native. She was African American, with French Creole roots, a large smile, and a lengthy, slender build. Brittany spoke of her Nanny, her Great-Grandmother, raised Catholic, who lit candles at every church visit, in order to respect her lost ones; a spectacular image explained in passing, Brittany apologized for her personal interjection, but I appreciated its value and considered its meaning. The history of the tour guide native is simply as relevant as the history of New Orleans, as her life journey began in the city that I seek to learn about. The stories she told in each location were easily spotted as legends that were beefed into native beliefs, for tourist economy. Nevertheless, I appreciated her thoughtful and knowledgeable storytelling. The Jazz-axe Murderer was my favorite of the tales, an additional story told in the back alley of Fritzels, in order to accommodate our small bladders. Only murdering women and those who did not play jazz, this ghost had a vengeance against someone who stopped his musical aspirations. I pondered if the age-old ghost story is was began the slang term of a saxophone being called "the axe". 

The mixed emotions that brewed within me over the course of Day One were confusing and tantalizing. I felt love for a city, like the love of first site of a stranger. The connection of passionate souls. Simultaneously, I experienced anxious racing thoughts, exhaustion of a long train ride, overwhelming fear of a new course running ahead of my abilities to master time, and a nostalgic sense that I was yet again an outcast. Always the student that is viewed as a know-it-all because I have a love for learning and I am a sponge of acquired information. I experience life on a deeper level than most and it affects my emotionality. I feel the vibrations and emotions of others, swarming around me like clouds of pure energy. Auras of emotion were not positive on the orientation walk. Grumpy and depleted souls morphed us each into snapdragons with a short fuse and their was a clash among wants and needs. A group of twenty is expected to have some lack of congruence, as personalities are unique and not invariably compatible. My anxiety spiraled out of control and into a mist of consistent annoyance. Bad jubies circled the entirety of our company. Ghost stories fencing us into tales of horrific partial truths, while we brewed a bitter taste of indignation, was less than ideal. Imagining Madame Delphine LaLaurie in a torture room, with slaves caged-in and wounded was not a picture that brightened already dampened spirits. As the tour wrapped up, myself and three friends were exhausted, feeling jet lag from a 17 hour train ride and weekday confusion. Our sore piggies from a few miles of walking tours caught up with the restlessness of train-ride-rest. A friend decided to Uber again and I hitched a ride. I was amused by the Uber Driver, Tammy, as she proudly invited us to a parade, meanwhile texting and driving and coincidentally getting us lost. My elation to cuddle up with pillows and visit dreamland finally came true. Thank you day one, as New Orleans requested betrothel to my heart and anxieties of travel encouraged my optimism and maturity.