A New Orleans Moment

I hate flying. I know it sounds childish, but it feels surreal to me that such a heavy machine is floating in air. Nothing above or below it is holding it up and every now and then it would shake and we’re supposed to remain calm? Think happy thoughts: “Away from work, away from work, away from work.”

We squeezed our way down the narrow aisles to the very back row and sat next to someone we would later refer to as ‘Jasper’. Dressed in a long-sleeve plaid shirt, and topped with a black leather vest, he had shaggy brown hair and a rugged face. “Take me home!” he hollered as the captain prepared us for take off.

It was hot and moist when we first stepped off of the plane. Hand in hand, my boyfriend glanced over his shoulder at me to say, “Finally, a vacation.”

The smell of history, the taste of the Old South, a place I had never been to before is staring me right in the face and welcoming me to explore. He was calmly excited as we walked through the airport to the baggage claim area. As we got our bags, I made my quick phone calls home to tell them we arrived safely still in shock that I got away for the first time in a long while. As we were about to exit the airport, an elderly African-American man with a black, driver’s cap came up to us asking us if we needed a ride. There were no cabs around and he had an air-conditioned Suburban. No hesitation there. Little did we know that this man would be our tour guide. He knew the ins and outs of this city and began giving us a history lesson as we drove alongside the highway. The streets dipped slightly and in both directions a Cemetery stood. I held my breath as we crossed.

The hotel looked nothing like the pictures: small, squished building in the heart of the city with a heavy glass door and brass handle. It smelled like a new car, a refreshing change from the heat. The lobby had a Victorian motif, a vintage sofa with olive green cushioning, large mirrors with gold trimming and marble floors. A refurbished, decorative gate hung against the back wall. We hopped onto the elevator and made our way up to our room. A comfortable and quaint setting tucked away in the corner. A shear, white sheet was neatly pinned as the backdrop against the bed frame and the television set conveniently hid within a tall, wooden dresser. A wall of windows was draped with thick, green curtains. A writer’s desk with a glass top overlooked the city. Across the way, graffiti marked the perfect word for our adventure, “ESCAPE.”
A sour stench of fresh garbage thrown onto the backs of rusted trucks, a mixture of overcooked seafood lingered in the air. Sewage water spilled beneath 17th century Spanish-style homes where the front displayed the back, large shutters against a stained wall. Horse manure lined the cobble-stoned paths of the French Quarter as the carriage made its way around this battered city. The dampness of New Orleans displayed an overcast of misfortune, but it was here, under a new sky, in the midst of strangers, that I found my heaven.