The Magic of Living in New Orleans

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Growing up, I would visit New Orleans (my mom and family is from there), and I would be enchanted by the French Quarter, warm beignets fluffing my face with powder sugar, music wandering down the charming alley ways, and shielding my eyes as I walked down Bourbon to my uncle’s house as a 10 year old.

Fast forward a couple of years, and I was deciding where to go to college. I had on my list, a range of international colleges that I ended up being to lazy to figure out to apply to, a couple of schools in my home state of Colorado, and Tulane down in the Big Easy. I’m not sure what made me choose this school (other than the fact it was a huge family school and I had two older brothers there), but I wasn’t positive I wanted to live in New Orleans.

Arriving there, I was distracted by New Orleans’ greatness, by the bells and whistles of college. Football games and dining halls and overcrowded parties caught my attention, but the literal fairy dust that is sprinkled in this city didn’t catch my attention until my sophomore year.

I began venturing out from my college bubble and exploring eccentric neighborhoods filled with antique shops and cafes that only accepted cash. I would explore the food scene, slowly checking off bucket list items, and eating cuisine of every genre, salivating at the talent of the chefs in this city.

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I began exploring the music scene, and running into second lines on a Sunday morning, and trying to go to the grocery store but finding a random parade blocking my way. I would fill my May weekends attending Jazz Fest, soaking up the sweat, the energy, and planting myself in amazement at the Gospel tent.

Riding my bike, I would watch as Willow trees would swish by me, and Snoball stands’ music would tickle my ear, and colorful houses being swallowed by plants with their owners nodding their head as they sat at their porch. I remember coming by various cemeteries, giving a shiver down my spine as the city’s mystical side would show its face, and the tarot card readers in the French Quarter would lock eyes with me as if they were seeing my soul.

I remember all the friendly people in the city, always asking how you were doing or where y’at with a thick NOLA accent. I remember zooming by random occurrences in my car like groups of people dressed in wigs, or people practicing parade routines in the Audubon park, and not thinking twice about it.

Every year, Mardi Gras would come around, and I would be in awe that the entire city shut down just to party, that people valued plastic beads like gold currency, and that a city could be so united in a moment. I remember going to drag queen brunch, and fluttering the streets of the ByWater in a drunken bliss.

I remember the week of my graduation, wondering how four years in this incredible city had flown so quickly, and wiping my tears as a jazz band played Do You Know what it means to Miss New Orleans. I remember watching my final multicolored sunsets dipping into the Mississippi, and eating my last Po’ Boy, and going to my last Frenchman performance, and wondering if it would ever be the same when I returned.

New Orleans is like visiting another country, so authentic to itself, truly you have to visit to see the magic. It gives me chills thinking about this incredible place I got to call home, and truly can’t wait to revisit my Louisiana roots soon.