Art: A City Speaks

Art is found in everything from architecture to dance. New Orleans speaks through expression.

Each artist in New Orleans is unique and hones their best skills, in order to perform on the streets for a living.

Human Art, as some paint and pose for the self-expression and the tips.

Dayona Johnson, a local artist who uses cooking tools to create her one-of-a-kind-art and sells it on Jackson Square

Dayona was a true story of inspiration, as her art came through self-expression. Dayona was once known as Daniel, a marine who cooked. Daniel was unhappy and could not find himself in cooking or in his environment. Transition through reflection started Dayona's progress through transgender from male to female. Dayona was excited to tell me that she is now legally female, which is reflected by her birth certificate and identification cards. Finding her true self is what brought her to New Orleans, to pursue a unique form of art. Her paintings are all one-of-a-kind, as she creates a series of similar works, only once. Each as its own story to tell, with imperfections, colors, and themes. The series I saw showcased was called The Seven Seas. Dayona explained that she creates her art using cooking tools. It makes her art more original than those created by paint brush. She used mixing spoons and cake frosters to move the background paint into place, with as many as twelve layers. Next she used frosting designer bags, that one would use to decorate the details of a cake. This is how she created flowery borders around each piece. Her story is inspirational because she found herself and her place in life through her art. Many students were inspired by her, and I think I am only one of maybe ten who chose to write about her. 

Dayona, like many other artists and street performers, rode a bike to carry their supplies.

Pete the Cat, by James Dean

A second artist that inspired me was local artist James Dean. I purchased some prints of his work from a Gallery on Royal Street called Gallery Rinard. Advertised by a purple dog with sunglasses, hanging from metal chains in front of the doorway, the dog exclaimed "Bienvenue". The proprietery of the gallery told me that the cat, found in James Dean's works of art, was actually turned into a children's book character. He first painted the cat for enjoyment and later it became a cat with a story to tell. This inspires me, as every writer has that inkling to try a children's book. Children have the innocence and unique development that can be difficult for an adult writer to connect with. Because I am a writer and a painter, one of my personal goals is to write and illustrate a successful children's book. His cats were also alluring to the adult eye, as they were seen creating adult puns and in amusing situations. Although the author now resides in Savannah, Georgia, I was assured that he is from New Orleans and that is why he keeps a gallery on Royal for some of his works. His cartoony pieces of art spoke to my humor and love for cats. I grew up on a farmhouse with twelve cats and I know they have many "misadventures" as James calls them. I was inspired by this artist who grew his passion from his personal inspiration and tales of a cat and became a famous children's author and illustrator. I appreciate that he pays homage to his roots of New Orleans and the French Quarter, by placing some of his originals and prints for purchase here.

A link to Pete the Cat Books Website!

The city's art spoke to me through every aspect. I chose not to pick a specific artist because I felt there were many that deserved highlighting and recognition. The galleries that lined almost every street of the French Quarter were full of a variety of artworks, from gritty tellings of poverty, to the elegance of family and innocence of childhood. Realism to abstract, oil paints that were layered for a rich texture, to acrylics and watercolors that were spread to a fine point. I purchased a total of 15 pieces of local art while in the city. Some other favorites included Clay Davis, who painted the characters Pierre and Penelope, in enriching love tales of two voodoo dolls. Karim, from Nigeria, who is also drawn to the music and paints about Collective Improvisations, city street performers, and the movement of the music within each person. There were many couples in the city who where drawn to each other by their love of art, which was an endearing touch to the story the art can tell. Reggie Davis hand-painted each piece that was sold, and he sold pieces of classic musicians and "hot topics" but also of abstract pieces of a trumpeter in the sun, jiving to the music. I noticed that many artists painted both pieces that inspired them and spoke to their soul, and more touristy pieces that were easy to sell and pay the bills. Almost all the art I purchased was found hanging on Jackson Square, although I found artists in the French Market and hanging within the many art galleries as well.

The dancers and musicians were artists of their own kind. One street performer danced a modern piece to the sounds of other musicians playing in the square. I could see that he improvised based on the tale the musicians were telling. The architecture spoke its own story as well, as I now know the difference between rod iron and cast iron, and why Pontalba is also credited for the art she added to the French Quarter. Each artist spoke to me the story of their creations, the pictures held within their mind that they were brave enough to share, the expression that was enough to make a living. To sell one's art for a day's work is every artists dream. It is hard to imagine a life where one could profit upon their passions. New Orleans makes this dream a reality for those who are willing to venture here.

Modern dancer, a Jackson Square street performer!

Walking Tour with Milton and Presbytere

Saint Louis Cemetery One

Open 24 hours! Hey baaaaaby!

View of Jackson Square from Washington Artillery Park

I struggled to roll out of bed for the early morning walking tour, feeling the pangs of Saturday night out in New Orleans. I managed to arrive in the French Quarter with enough time to stop in to Cafe Du Monde, the coffee establishment with chicory coffee and beignets that are to die for. Gray pigeons with orange legs have no shame waddling onto the beige-tiled floor to find the crumbs and fill their obese bellies with fallen powdered sugar. Bundled up in 2 coats, gloves, and a white-woven scarf wrapped around my head to keep out the wind, I walked the block over to Washington Artillery Park, fighting my fatigue and the bitter chill. The class of twenty people circled around Washington Artillery Park, to meet the tour guide, Milton. He arrived in a yellow jacket and purple hat, an African-American in his 60s, heavyset and a New Orleans native. His personality showed through, as his knowledge was paired with clever traces of humor and charm. He explained that the easiest way to blend in with the NOLA natives is to say "Hey baaaaaaby, how-you-mom-an-em." Milton's personal experiences were even further fascinating, as he lived through segregation, integration, and the racial disparities of New Orleans' past. Artillery Park was raised above two flights of stairs, looking at one end onto the beautiful Spanish-modified architecture of Jackson Square, Saint Louis Cathedral, Cabildo, Presbytere, and the brick-layed and cast iron of the Pontalba apartments; at the other end the mile wide Mississippi reflecting the remnants of a colorful sunrise, a large bridge to allow people out of New Orleans, and an aged barge which may be used to deliver the seafood caught from the river. Milton was a wealth of knowledge that paired with his personal stories of living in the city. As he showed us Coffee Pot and described how the large double doors on each building were once used to allow horse-drawn carriages to enter, he also told us that his aunt works their. It was impressive to meet so many people that had pride in their home, as I can promise I have fewer nice things to say about Illinois. The passion that poured from Milton's description of the city's history was profound. He brought us to the Preservation Hall, the place that was created to preserve classical musicians. The aged brick surrounded the sage green door, a sign hanging above the door with smudged lettering.

We continued to walk, to view the city and its natural morning order of quiet. The most interesting part of the tour was the Saint Louis Cemetery One. Located at the edge of the French Quarter, it was in a rough part of the city. I noted more littering, more beggars, and more police cars in this area, as we passed through. Arrival to the cemetery was coupled with an intriguing sign attached to the rod iron fence "Cannot enter without tour guide". It struck me as odd, can people not visit their loved ones without paying a fee? Milton explained that the vandalism was so high in this cemetery they closed it to the public. You can enter if your family is buried here or if you are part of a tour group. The view of row after row of cement tombs, families entombed above ground, immaculate in their aged stucco and beautiful in peaceful rest. The tomb of Marie Laveau was located here, although controversy exists about which of the three tombs she is actually buried in, within the cemetery. This Voodoo Queen is still sought after today for her powerful spiritual energy and visitors place XXX on her tomb to request her help with a personal matter. If the XXX is later circled, Marie has acknowledged and approved the request. Milton laughed as he explained that a tour guide like himself was likely the one who created this spooky tradition. He also warned us that writing on or stepping on any tomb is a felony offense that he would not recommend. The tour ended in the soul of New Orleans and the birthplace of music, Congo Square. I had researched Congo Square prior to coming on the trip and I was excited to see the grounds that functioned as a marketplace for colored people in the 1700 and 1800s.

Tomb of Marie Laveau

Later in the afternoon the class met at the Presbytere, an old building that was erected during Spanish rule of New orleans, now exists as a museum. The current exhibits display history about Hurricane Katrina and Mardi Gras. My knowledge of Katrina was pretty basic, as the event happened when I was fourteen and I did not frequently watch the news. The most interesting room of the exhibit allowed viewers to watch news stories and interviews from survivors, related to a variety of topics: communication breakdown, superdome, first responders, rescued but stranded, ordinary heroes, hospitals, fear and chaos, etc. The morose image that Milton described of coming back home and every one of your items had a certain gray matter imbedded into it, faired true. The somber image of the exhibit was a teddy bear on display, covered in gray, soot madded into the fur. I imagined the crying child, looking for their best friend. The parents more worried about a home to come back to then a toy, having a difficult time consoling the child.

The tone of exhibits completely changed, as I walked upstairs to view the Mardi Gras history. Actual costumes were the majority displayed, with every color, feather, jewel, and mask imaginable. There were rooms devoted to advertisement posters, invitations, and even the crown and scepter the Rux King and Queen. Mardi Gras was the most elegant and simultaneously the most rowdy and rambunctious event of the year.

After the week of history lessons and visiting historic sites, I felt that I understood New Orleans and its way of life. The strength of the people and the diversity that they share was very welcomed. New Orleans is the place of rebuilding and never giving up. The place of music and art on the streets and supporting the local artisits and their homeless comrades. New Orleans is a place overrun by tourists, like myself, that are consistently introduced into the city each day with friendly smiles and suggestions of where to eat. I was inspired by the intricate past and how they became the city they are today. I was inspired by the many artists who migrated to New Orleans, from a place less accepting of their nonconformism and expression. I learned that this city suffers from similar crime rates and aversions that any other city does, but the difference is they fight back. They acted on the vandalism in the cemetery, as this population has high-regard for those who have passed and their tomb sites are sacred ground. The common thread that combined Katrina and Mardi Gras, a simple fact that people who had become homeless after the wreckage still celebrated Mardi Gras, parading around piles of debris. Tradition is a god to this city. They are innovative and they finish anything they have started. Tragedy does not silence their music or stop their hands from creativity. Instead they breath and live the experience until it shines through as beauty, embedded in their art.

Free Day

On my day to roam the city without structure, I chose a laizze faire approach. Free day really began Friday night, as the girls and myself dolled up and ventured to El Gato Negro and then to Bourbon Street. I was impressed that a city known for its Cajun and Creole cuisine could also surprise me with the best Mexican cuisine I have ever eaten. Bourbon Street was already a beehive of diversity and eccentricity when we arrived at nine at night. Bodies congregated into the doorways of each bar and it was easy to spot those who had been barhopping since high noon, as they were dancing in the streets, with red-hued cheeks. Daring to seek out the unconventional and progressive ways of New Orleans, we decided it was appropriate on a place like Bourbon street to venture into an establishment for male exotic dancers, a change of pace from the typical gentleman's clubs seen in the north.

Sugar Skull art that dressed a hallway in El Gato Negr

I slept in on Saturday morning and then made time to reflect on my experiences of the trip thus far. The rest was needed as I have been averaging a few hours a night of sleep. New Orleans was covered with a bitter cold today. It was below freezing, with a high of twenty-eight degrees and a windchill that felt like twelve. Nevertheless, we chose to discuss our experiences thus far in the hot tub. Venturing down the elevator in swimsuits, we found that the hot tub was in a separate building across the canopy. We had to run outside, across the valet parking area, blasted by a brisk wind and biting cold. Entering the next building covered in goosebumps and full of regret, we find the hot tub and realize it is hardly above room temperature. We turn on the bubbles and climb in anyway, feeling indignant and determined to at least try it out.

You can't even tell from this picture that it is cold. Some good selfie photography right there. Keeping those at home jealous while I'm on the trip.

The rest of our "plans" for the day included possibilities. We wanted authentic New Orleans food, a dose of art, and a glimpse of the Joan of Arc Parade. We did not want to feel rushed, scheduled, or obligated to do anything specific. As class trips tend to come along with scheduled blocks of time that trap us in with our anxiety. Stepping off the streetcar, which had finally arrived after several unexpected and lengthy stops, we spotted the preparation of the Joan of Arc Parade. Approaching the actors, I was able to speak to Bobby, who had participated and organized the parade for over ten years. He described the importance of Joan of Arc to New Orleans, stating "Without the bravery of this 19 year old girl, New Orleans would not exist. The French Quarter would not exist. Louisiana would not exist. And really the United States would not exist as it is today." They celebrate her birthday annually with a parade, to kick off Carnival season. She turned 605 this year.

Joan of Arc is of high-regard, because without her act of bravery, New Orleans would not exist.

New Orleans: A Dark Past

The Pharmacy Museum

            

Sarah and I, poncho-ed up!

Day whatever on the trip (as I begin to lose track) started by a tour in the Cabildo, a historical structure that is now utilized as a museum. Its organization was chronological, by devoting rooms to decades and floors to centuries. Getting to this central location in the dense downpour was only successful due to preparation with ponchos packed previously! The clever structure through time of the Cabildo made my obsessive-compulsive tendencies smiled with gratitude. While reading through New Orleans history and witnessing artifacts first hand, I began to see a clear picture of New Orleans dark past. Native Americans were pushed out of their land, and their ability to cook by gathering, fishing, hunting, and combining such into edible dishes was actually "adopted" by the French. Sounds more like some type of historic plagiarism to me, as Creole and Cajun dishes are almost always combining vegetables that they learned to grow and cook from the Native Americans. And of course the wealth and success of New Orleans was literally built on a thriving slave-driven economy. Referred to as the "black ivory" market, New Orleans was the slave-trading hub of the South. It is discouraging to see such religion paired with the greed and violence that slavery held. Slaves were viewed as sub-human, and there are artifacts to prove it. The most disturbing image found at the Cabildo was a Slave Collar, adorned with bells. This made it easy for slave masters to find a slave that could try to run. Of course these slaves were actually people with intelligence and finesse and they found ways to muffle the bells' sound by stuffing mud into it. Many intricacies of the museum were still beautiful though, such as a soldier surgeon's chest, with compartments separating corked-glass medicine bottles and metal scapels that made me cringe of thoughts of tetanus. I also found an outfit that I would love to purchase, if it were only a bit more affordable (and not owned by a museum).

Surgeon's chest from War of 1812, preserved and on display in the Cabildo

The Pharmacy Museum further confirmed my concern of New Orlean's dim-lit history. The museum was the location of the first licensed American pharmacy in 1816. It was easily spotted, as the aged jade colored doors were holding up an enlarged, white, round teacup that read Pharmacie. Entering, my eyes evaluated the wall-to-wall shelving that held tinctures, glass medicine bottles, and other authentic found and purchased medical artifacts from the 1840s-1940s. I envisioned the people infected by metal syringes that were reused without cleaning and needle free, as they were inserted into an incision. Of course, in the 1840s, Germ Theory and any inkling of the understanding of infection was not developed. Mind wandering, I imagine the cannons being shot in the air to deflect and prevent disease from surrounding an area (yes this was actually done!!). By 1910, they did sterilize needles by placing the tips into flame, which by the way was not very effective. I was amused by the fact that prohibition laws were not placed on pharmacy prescriptions. Those roaming the streets of New Orleans in 1920 could walk into a pharmacy and pick up their nervousness tonic (literal heroin in a bottle that was recommended daily use) and their pain ailment (alcohol, opiates, and cannabis dilution!). It was cheaper and more legal to gather drunkenness supplies from the pharmacy than the bar. The shelf that held tattered voodoo dolls and a potion for the Goddess of Evil, were dark treats that I enjoyed reading about, sold in the 1930s-60s in Voodoo Pharmacies.

The darkness of the history continues though, as the Exchange Market was located across the street from the pharmacy. Yes, this would be to purchase and sell humans. The first pharmacist, Louis Dulifilho, was not the first pharmacist. He was merely the first licensed pharmacist. This white, rich male was the epitome of what we probably do not like about this time period. We hear about his lovely wife and children, but the story of his nine slaves was unshared and caused no unease for others to shop at his business. His ability to gain licensure to practice medicine, coincidentally, made it illegal for anyone without a licence (everyone else) to continue with their life profession. Many women lost their positions due to their inability to get accepted into medical school. And anyone of lesser means was not going to be able to afford it. And guys like him are the ones who created theories like the one I learned about today. The Brain-Uterus Theory was thought up and written by men, and it analyzed the possibility that female body is in constant battle with itself. It proposed that women can only use their brain or their uterus at one time. If a woman thinks too much, it would lead her to "hysteria". If a woman was pregnant, they were hardly allowed to leave the home because it was assumed they were unable to think during gestation. Naturally, with this theory under high-regard by men of this time period and culture, women were not allowed to attend school in most instances. Mind you, these were the same men that created the cure-all concoction of Mother's Quietness for teething infants, diluted opiates. I am positive it made the infant stop crying, though it probably did not help improve the infant mortality rates. Women could also buy opium-soaked tampons. They had painless menstrual cycles, I would wager. This method was also a prescribed cure for gonorrhea, and no it does not work. Women had other great luxuries, such as ground-butterfly eye-shadows, maybe in every color? They even color-coated the poison bottles, for those who were illiterate. My favorite of exhibits of course were the healthy medicines they sold and ingested which included: chocolate-coated arsenic, silver and gold-coated pills (indigestible but the status symbol was that of an iPhone Apple), alum (basically poison). And the adminstration process was even better, with soda being invented for medicinal purposes and mixed with cocaine, lithium, and opiates and served from a soda fountain with lead pipes! We also fed infants from lead bottle-nipples, injected medications with lead syringes, and our birthing tools were all made from lead. The metal catheters injured me from sight alone.

Delicious, illicit drugs in carbonated water, served through lead piping!

Yes, they inserted those into your urethra... OH NO!

It is fascinating to see how far we have come. It is easy to mock these practices that were common practice one hundred to two hundred years ago, but think of the horrible crap we somewhat knowingly ingest. Hydrogenated fats were created for taste, even though it is a cholesterol that we cannot breakdown. We still eat it, knowing it will clog our arteries and eventually end our life by some method of embolism or thrombosis. The chemicals in all of our processed foods and hormones used to grow our factory "cattle" to overweight proportions are mindlessly overlooked due to convenience and an apathetic consensus of society. We mock such insane childcare practices, meanwhile our infant mortality rate has hardly improved and it one of the highest in the world. We jarringly laugh at those who were swindled by the belief that medications became more potent and effective with dilution (they basically sold people tap water), but Big Pharma has an obviously fradulent agenda when testing medications and deciding what is going to become "approved". New Orleans spoke a morose story today, as I heard the side of the less fortunate and how the city prospered because of it.

A Great Deal Experienced

Statue of King Louis

St. Louis Cathedral

Local palm reader!

Day Two was packed full of historical cathedrals and convents, the taste of New Orleans, and walking past street performers- artists, bongo-rappers, jazz bands, guitarists, drummers, knife-wielders, and palm readers- distracting me of class tour guides. The St. Louis Cathedral was the first stop; a monumental building that was originally erected in 1727 which had celebrated and suffered often. The Cathedral had been a victim of the 1794 Great Fire of New Orleans French Quarter. The current building has been standing since 1850. Entering the grandiose doors and stepping onto the marble tile flooring was an immaculate view. At initial glance I saw the innumerable rows of wooden pews and I imagine the Cathedral at full capacity, with crowds of men and women in Sunday best. The history of St. Louis Cathedral is what landed the name, as King Louis of France is highly regarded for his work on the 13th Century Crusades and he reached sainthood. The arcitechture and art in the cathedral were all related to specific beliefs that the Catholic Church has held for centuries. Three women stood above the alter to represent charity, hope, and faith. Elongated stained-glass windows were placed every few feet along the wall, telling the story of King Louis, his family, and the crusades. The Bishops are also revered for their faithfulness, as a Bishop's wooden throne is seated to the left of the altar and tombs of many bishops can be found within a vault below the Cathedral's wall. A ghost story can be heard at almost every location in NOLA, and Cathedrals are no exception. Some French Aristocrats had a strong dislike for a priest and when he died they refused him the honor of burial beneath the Cathedral. He commonly gathered with congregation members to sing next to the Cathedral, in Pirates Alley. His ghost is said to be heard singing in this alley, in order to remind people of his undying faith. An enormous shell is mounted above the mahogany podium, which represents the holy trinity, referring to the belief that God is omnipotent and can scoop up the entire ocean in a shell. After this tour we walked to Ursuline Convent, a place that was used to house nuns in the 1800s. The chapel here was possibly more beautiful in its own way, glistening in gold and silver. An enormous medallion, made from authentic gold, silver, and sapphire was posted in the center wall above the altar. It was estimated to cost five million dollars.

Ursuline Convent Chapel and its 5 million dollar medallion

Stained-glass of Henriette Delille in St. Louis Cathedral

Some NOLA natives make a living by on point mannequin challenges!

Progression is often unconventional; instead of being offended, consider why he may have chosen such a pose

The immaculate murals of St. Louis Cathedral

Our cuisine tour allowed me to continue to walk and see more of the French Quarter. Ears and eyes were fighting over where to concentrate, as I passed street musicians and performers, art, and the beauty that is French Quarter architecture. I even met some pirates on their way to something on-edge I am sure. My vegetarian palate prevented enjoyment of many of the foods, but the history and knowledge gained was well worth the trip. Two fine-dining restaurants are at the cornerstone of New Orleans high-end eating, and popularized fine-dining in the United States. We first visited Antoine's, built in 1840, it was the first restaurant in the United States and continues to be run by the same family, making it the longest family-owned business. The fame associated with this establishment was alluring, as gifts are brought by those who visit. Signatures and items were displayed by Groucho Marx, multiple US Presidents, Alex Trebek, Don Knots, Thomas Edison, and many more. The light bulb that Edison left for the establishment was larger than my head. Entire rooms were devoted to French Royalty Mardi Gras, the Rux King and Queens posted on many walls. Second was Arnaud's, established in the early 1900s and successfully staying open during prohibition, despite the fact that Arnaud was fined and thrown in jail for his continuation of alcohol sales. The upstairs of Arnaud's was a home to the 22 dresses of a Rux Queen, an Arnaud family member. The elegance and glistening jewels were fascinating, and I was blown away by the fact that each was hand-sewn. Once she had children, they were adorned expensive and luxurious ensembles as well. The design of the dress had to be specifically altered to hold the immense weight of the dresses' caboose, as each dress had regal trains to follow the queen.

I found Pirates!!!

Rux Mardi Gras Queen Outfit

Inspiration from the city confounded me at every corner. The city spoke volumes through its art and music, and I found myself dancing to the beat of unaltered expression. My free spirit ran wild with excitement, and my soul had growth as I was moved to walk to the beat of my own drum, continue in my pursuance of art and poetry, and find inner peace. Stressors were lessened by these experiences, but the day did grow long and my feet tired. Minor annoyances were distracting from the overall experience at times, as I was seemingly unaffected by copious amounts of caffeine and occasionally daydreaming about bed. The history of this city is phenomenal and incomparable, as each building has history, and every action speaks to progression and eventually inspiration for thinking beyond status quo. I was shouted at and discouraged by one street artist, "Don't take pictures of art. We are here to make money." In my defense, I only wanted to photograph the Jackson Square side view, which had some art at a distance. I hoped that this unfriendly occurrence was an exception to the rule. I desired her harsh words to be untrue, that artists sought the city for acceptance and not just fame or a living in their trade. I respect art and I have purchased from four different local artists already, with a plan in mind to buy from two more before departing the city. I did have some guilt, as the money-lacking-and-money-driven-soul of mine did understand the concern for such photograph. Some people are out there for money and will steal your ideas or copy. Many artists of New Orleans produce and sell originals, and refuse to make prints. This adds value in rarity.

Another learning experience was the profound bravery of many inhabitants of this city. They had such devotion to their religion and were often diverse in nature. The churches I toured were utilized by the Spanish, Creoles, German, Irish, and Italians. Even throughout slavery, each slave was baptized and they received Sundays off. The development of Congo Square, a gathering place and market in Jefferson Park, enabled many slaves to make enough money to buy their freedom. Free Persons of Color had many of the same rights, as they could open businesses and thrive. Henriette Delille was especially inspiring, as she was able to purchase herself out of slavery and continued her life with utter devotion to children, impoverished, and Catholicism. These acts of immeasurable compassion will lead her into the first black and first black female Saint in Catholic history. The women of New Orleans inspire me, with their ability to stand up for their dreams and then fight for rights that are deserved by all. I was inspired by the nuns that traveled from France. They taught young girls and offered services to many children who had no one else. They promoted education in women that was not previously offered.

However, I also have difficulty relating completely to some actions of the church and its members. Slavery is not congruent with any kind of religious belief and I cannot separate the ideas that such devout people would buy and sell other humans. They rectify the monumental city with funds earned from TRADING and PURCHASING other humans. By enslaving others and profitting off of the sweat of their back. And the sad part is they thought they were humane because New Orleans had specific laws banning the "poor treatment" of slaves. It was essentially illegal to beat or torture your slave, but if "it" misbehaved you could punish "it", basically rules for dogs or pet-owners in modern day. I am disgusted at times by the immense beauty of a city that allures me, due to the means used to meet such end.

Jackson Square and the crowds of art, music, and performers in front of the Saint Louis Cathedral

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.

Departure and Train Time

The Observation Car

The literal act of traveling may be the least enjoyed part of a trip, but there is a lot to gain from point A to point B. The departure began with an arrival to Illinois Terminal in Champaign. Introductions and bag checks from Sarah, the Amtrak staff member. Unsure of her title, I would call this sturdy and curly-box-dyed-red-hair attendant a sort of travel and boarding compendium. Her voice incongruent to her appearance, as her carroty-red lips spoke with confidence and eloquence. The vocals of overhead announcements contained a passion for her work and comprehensive knowledge of items to address. I perceived a fervor for travel within her words. The train was late by eleven minutes, with plenty of time in nearly three hours of train station gossip to introduce myself to classmates. As we lined up to take our seats, the humming roar of the train was heard prior to view of bright lights donning the train’s face. Conductors guided us by the wave of a gloved hand, wearing classic hat and uniform of navy blue. A unique automatic door folded open into two halves, as we breached the paved platform. People shuffled and paired off, finding seats where they were available. In mere minutes, the train sought motion. Images of the countryside flew passed the metal borders of the panels of windows. I was able to snag a seat next to a slim woman in her 30s, with plain blonde hair that touched down to the small of her back. She was pleasant and crafted small talk well enough to help me feel at ease.

Selfie Paradise

Our class was seated in Car 34114. My eyes paced, as I noted the green strip lights that pathed the floors, resembling a landing strip to guide air travel. Diverse individuals on route, with the majority already curled up in attempt to sleep. Relaxing on a train is a cruel joke, as the rickety turbulence bounces and jives to its own avail, as if it is joyed by our unrest. Visiting the observation car for a night cap with classmates was luckily a quick decision, as the beverage items would be closed for evening in six minutes. Windows from seat level scanned all the way up and curved part of the ceiling on either side, across both walls of the double length train car. Seats sat at an angle in pairs, with swiveling centers that jostled patrons at every rough turn. A black framed poster hanged on the wall, showing a silhouette of a man trumpeting in the moonlight. Louis Armstrong comes to mind as the words “The CITY of NEW ORLEANS” printed across the top are read. Seated behind our group was a stoic Amish man wearing a traditionally long, grayed beard and a large black hat. Surprisingly, he had found the car with similar intentions, as he pulled a metal flask out of a holster on his belt.

Silhouette Louis

The next few hours were grueling, with tight quarters in a seat next to a stranger. I self-administered a sleep aid and this allowed me to manage an uncomfortable four hours of “R & R”. I positioned myself in a backwards slant and unlatched the plastic tray, to utilize as an ottoman. Draped in my flower print Very Bradley throw and leaning into a downy pillow brought from home was not enough to create a complete illusion of my own bed. Tossing and turning has been a common dismay for myself, even with the comforts of home, so hopes of adequate slumber were dismal at best. I came prepared with ear plugs, pink skull candy headphones, and a black eye mask. Dimming the sounds and lights to a dull and unclear rumble, my eyes grew tired and I imagined I appeared to onlookers as a double-blinded pirate with steampunk headgear. As I finally dosed, it seemed that moments later I was jolted awake. A swipe of my phone was enough to learn that we were in Memphis, Tennessee. I stood, gathered some toiletries and swayed back and forth on my venture to the downstairs washroom. The soap and water felt refreshing on greasy skin. Toothbrush grinding away the taste of yesterday’s midnight snacks.

Hometel roomates

My anxiety had lessened, as the final preparations before travel had me frazzled. Stressors of leaving my companion for a week were oddly paired with excitement for ventures of a new city. Random thoughts of possibilities for the next week entered and exited my mind, as exhaustion and lack of sleep took its toll on my once clear mind. I ran through the mental checklist again, as I had completed my final tasks before leaving town. Medications, check, bank for cash, check, toothbrush, check. Fluttering anxieties, swathing my clarity. The trip to the train station was a poignant goodbye with a generous boyfriend who offered to drive me and decrease my concerns about leaving poor Wanda, my 2015 plasma purple Mitsubishi Mirage, in a foreign lot for a week’s time.

Waiting for the train to arrive to the station, began a worry that people on the trip would group off. As I looked around the terminal waiting area, students were seated three or four together and chatting only to one another. Worries of feeling left out were quickly replaced by thoughts of excitement of what the trip could be. I learned to be optimistic and choose to have a good time, regardless of how others behaved or treated me.

Roomates and cocktail hour

Anxiety was a theme of the beginning of the train ride, as the conductors failed to seat our group together. I was sat next to a complete stranger, after I had planned out the entire train ride with a friend, as far and sleeping arrangements, eating, and comradery. It is a stinging feeling of unease to be pushed out of a prepared comfort and into uncertainty. I noticed that the students who had gotten their way and sat where they had planned did not seem to feel any empathy for those who were put out. I began to wonder if selfishness of a few would take over the rest of our opinions. I hate to feel disbarred from the group, as I have always been an outsider. I connect with the raconteurs, the beatniks, and the subterraneans; I do not conform; I refuse to mold the mores of society or individuals that pressure others to see the world from their “superior” view.

The journey did educate me on the value of appreciating the moment. People get so caught up in the itinerary that they forget to smell the roses. To me, learning is more easily gathered by soaking in the culture, people watching, listening to the sounds of the night life, admiring the architecture, and capturing the moments. Photography is a passion of mine and I do not want to feel that I am burdening others by participating in a favorite hobby. I am learning to take deep breaths and brush off the surrounding emotions that seem to saturate my environment at times.