New Orleans, Louisiana. A city of porch swings and porch sits, of music spilling from every bar door, of sunshine and greenery and voodoo and of the sort of roads/pavements you would expect to find on a small tropical island with quite a small road building budget. As a friend said to me when I tripped over tree roots protruding from the sidewalk- 'Nature always wins here,' and when you build your city on a swamp there are going to be quite the nature-related consequences. While the swamp tries to shake the city atop it free though there is sunshine and warmth and a people who are ready to celebrate at the drop of a hat.
My lazy weeks in NOLA passed in a haze of late nights and glaringly bright days, as my friend that I was there to see is a professional musician (and a phenomenal one, you can check her and her band Rebel Roadside out here) and describes her schedule as 'vampiric'. I have never met such a concentration of incredible skilled and talented musicians as I did in New Orleans- the passion, drive, and sheer skill is both inspirational and kinda intimidating. It is a true smorgasbord of musical offerings- be your taste bluesy singer-songwriters, or you're a dead-set trad jazz aficionado, there is something to suit every proclivity (except maybe my love for country pop) playing every night somewhere in New Orleans. And then the next day when you manage to drag yourself from bed, there is a plethora of quaint cafes with great coffee (yes turns out that is possible in America after all who'd've thunk) and vegan treats, and rivers to sit by and read, and huge parks with huge oak trees whose limbs dip into the ground and back out again just begging to be climbed. New Orleans reminds me in a lot of ways of Cairns- the same blanket of humidity, and the same verdant abundance. Jasmine curls around fence and windows, perfuming the air with its heady scent. There are turtles sunning themselves on rocks seemingly all over the place, and you could spend an afternoon just watching the hijinks of squirrels in City Park (still no raccoon spotting though, sigh).
And when the city gets too much as cities tend to do, you can jump in a car and blast some tunes and road trip right on over to Florida, where white white sand and rolling waves await. Alison and I took such a mini-break, and just relished being able to sit on the sand and totally relax... which lasted all of ten minutes, until I saw the first kite bobbing around in the air at the very far end of the beach. My book was dropped, and I was half-jogging towards the horizon almost before I managed to communicate where and why I was suddenly hustling away, leaving a bemused Alison in my wake. I helped a few guys launch and land their kites, enjoyed hanging out and talking shop, and then even got to go for a blast on one of the guy's gear which was absolutely fantastic. He was a good foot and a half taller than me and a quite a big heavier so his gear was certainly too big for me, but I hunkered down and held on and rocketed around with a huge huge grin on my face.
All too soon our beach days were over, and it was back to the Big Easy we went- in time for the New Orleans Jazz Festival, one of the biggest events on the calendar and also one of the biggest tourist drawcards. The city exploded with colour as people decked out their houses for the big event, and more and more people poured in every day. My friend lives in the neighbourhood adjacent to the venue for the Fest, and hosted some gigs on her porch- so I spent three nights watching her amazing friends and her amazing self playing for people coming and going from the Fest, dancing in the street as the night fell, still in a dress because it was just that warm. Her neighbour's 9-year-old daughter made me a necklace of two copper hearts entwined and brought it over to me on my last night, as the closing band for the porch gig series filled the night with soaring guitar and soul-wrenching vocals, and Alison turned to me with a knowing smile and said, 'New Orleans isn't going to let you go you know.'
I think she was right.
However my immediate plans were already set in concrete, so I left on a bus the next morning with a heavy heart but the knowledge that having left, I can be on my way back.
My second Greyhound journey was far more intense than my first, with a shooting in the Atlanta Greyhound Station as I was transferring and a sheriff bus search in the middle of the night. I had a seat to myself the whole way to NYC so curled up and slept for most of the journey, processing and resting and preparing myself for New York, New York, with jazz pouring from my headphones...
...NOLA ain't seen the last of me.
My lazy weeks in NOLA passed in a haze of late nights and glaringly bright days, as my friend that I was there to see is a professional musician (and a phenomenal one, you can check her and her band Rebel Roadside out here) and describes her schedule as 'vampiric'. I have never met such a concentration of incredible skilled and talented musicians as I did in New Orleans- the passion, drive, and sheer skill is both inspirational and kinda intimidating. It is a true smorgasbord of musical offerings- be your taste bluesy singer-songwriters, or you're a dead-set trad jazz aficionado, there is something to suit every proclivity (except maybe my love for country pop) playing every night somewhere in New Orleans. And then the next day when you manage to drag yourself from bed, there is a plethora of quaint cafes with great coffee (yes turns out that is possible in America after all who'd've thunk) and vegan treats, and rivers to sit by and read, and huge parks with huge oak trees whose limbs dip into the ground and back out again just begging to be climbed. New Orleans reminds me in a lot of ways of Cairns- the same blanket of humidity, and the same verdant abundance. Jasmine curls around fence and windows, perfuming the air with its heady scent. There are turtles sunning themselves on rocks seemingly all over the place, and you could spend an afternoon just watching the hijinks of squirrels in City Park (still no raccoon spotting though, sigh).
And when the city gets too much as cities tend to do, you can jump in a car and blast some tunes and road trip right on over to Florida, where white white sand and rolling waves await. Alison and I took such a mini-break, and just relished being able to sit on the sand and totally relax... which lasted all of ten minutes, until I saw the first kite bobbing around in the air at the very far end of the beach. My book was dropped, and I was half-jogging towards the horizon almost before I managed to communicate where and why I was suddenly hustling away, leaving a bemused Alison in my wake. I helped a few guys launch and land their kites, enjoyed hanging out and talking shop, and then even got to go for a blast on one of the guy's gear which was absolutely fantastic. He was a good foot and a half taller than me and a quite a big heavier so his gear was certainly too big for me, but I hunkered down and held on and rocketed around with a huge huge grin on my face.
All too soon our beach days were over, and it was back to the Big Easy we went- in time for the New Orleans Jazz Festival, one of the biggest events on the calendar and also one of the biggest tourist drawcards. The city exploded with colour as people decked out their houses for the big event, and more and more people poured in every day. My friend lives in the neighbourhood adjacent to the venue for the Fest, and hosted some gigs on her porch- so I spent three nights watching her amazing friends and her amazing self playing for people coming and going from the Fest, dancing in the street as the night fell, still in a dress because it was just that warm. Her neighbour's 9-year-old daughter made me a necklace of two copper hearts entwined and brought it over to me on my last night, as the closing band for the porch gig series filled the night with soaring guitar and soul-wrenching vocals, and Alison turned to me with a knowing smile and said, 'New Orleans isn't going to let you go you know.'
I think she was right.
However my immediate plans were already set in concrete, so I left on a bus the next morning with a heavy heart but the knowledge that having left, I can be on my way back.
My second Greyhound journey was far more intense than my first, with a shooting in the Atlanta Greyhound Station as I was transferring and a sheriff bus search in the middle of the night. I had a seat to myself the whole way to NYC so curled up and slept for most of the journey, processing and resting and preparing myself for New York, New York, with jazz pouring from my headphones...
...NOLA ain't seen the last of me.
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