Too Late, I Realized How Romantic the French District’s Doors and Windows Are
New Orlean’s French District is full of so much wonder and delight that it took me a bit to turn my attentions to their doors and windows. By the time I did, I had little time left so I have a small selection. MUST GO BACK if only for more doors and windows.
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- Doors and Windows No. 01
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- Doors and Windows No. 02
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- Doors and Windows No. 03
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- Doors and Windows No. 04
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- Doors and Windows No. 05
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- Doors and Windows No. 06
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- Doors and Windows No. 07
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- Doors and Windows No. 08
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- Doors and Windows No. 09
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- Doors and Windows No. 10
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- Doors and Windows No. 11
And Suddenly, Just Like That, I’m Done
The spell cast by New Orleans is broken. I am released.
Funny thing is, I didn’t know I was under a spell. I didn’t know how compelled I was to write about New Orleans. I didn’t know how completely immersed I was in it, ignoring almost everything else around me.
Not until this morning when I woke up and realized, I’m done.
That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything more to say about New Orleans. Heavens! The colors! The sounds! The places! The tastes!
Oh, the tastes! The absolute smorgasbord of taste experiences. Delicious. Wild. Exploding. An orgy for the mouth!
Riverwalk No. 3 Crawdad Boil. This is one of the more common dishes you see. It’s definitely one of the more interesting to look at.
I didn’t tell about the downpour raging around me while I ate beignets and drank coffee at Cafe Du Monde.
Cafe Du Monde No. 4 Looking out from under the Cafe du Monde canopy.
Cafe Du Monde No. 5 I’m sitting under the canopy at Cafe Du Monde. My camera is clicking away. A woman dares ask, “What are you taking pictures of?” “Feet,” I reply.
I didn’t talk about Riverwalk and its touristy flair….
Riverwalk No. 2 Food Court; where I had Crawdad Boil
Riverwalk No. 4
….and its distant relative on the other side of the riverfront, the French Market.
French Market No. 1
And there is so much more I could say about the cemeteries.
But I’m done. I’ve been released. And now I’m going to go quiet for awhile so that I can reclaim my everyday, mundane life. And that’s a good thing.
Tales of the Crypts
I didn’t sign up for a tour of the The Cities of the Dead, as the cemeteries are called because of their resemblance to cities with houses and fences and streets and all, but I didn’t need to. I stumbled upon tour after tour and caught bits and pieces of cemetery history. For instance, the above-ground vaults are rooted in French and Spanish burial practices. Due to the high water table after it rained and the chaos it caused with floating corpses (you can’t keep a corpse down), the people of New Orleans decided to imitate the French and Spanish burial practices of using vaults. At least, that’s what many believe. But a tour guide will tell you that’s wrong, that the French and Spanish brought their burial practices to New Orleans and that it has nothing to do with the water table. My thoughts? I’m sure the French and Spanish influence is great because they settled New Orleans, but I also suspect that there were below-ground burials that resulted in floating corpses when the water table rose, giving credence to those stories, also. Whatever the reason, we have the Cities of the Dead.
Occasionally, I would find an open vault, and as I passed one tour group (I never stayed to listen because I wanted my own experience of the cemeteries, but it’s hard to turn off your ears), I heard her say, “Families will inter the deceased for at least one year and a day, after which, if there’s another person to be buried, they will open the vault, burn the coffin, and push the decomposed remains to the back of the tomb or to the area below. This may sound strange to us, but this was common practice of the French and Spanish settlers.”
Cemetery No. 35
I came upon this vault and found it intriguing with resurrection ferns growing around it’s opening.
Cemetery No. 36
I stepped close to it and peered in. I felt like an intruder and wondered if I had disturbed the spirits of the dead by taking a photo.
Cemetery No. 37
I quickly moved away and wandered down another small path. A couple of lanes away I could hear a tour guide saying, “You will notice open vaults. We strongly suggest that you don’t go near them. You don’t know how recently they’ve been opened and the exhumed air could still be present. Illness may then result.”
Well. Now I find out! By the way, I’m still alive, and I’m not sick—yet. My skin is still in tact, and I’m not craving brains so I’m not a zombie, either. Good news.
On a bright, sunny day, I visited the oldest cemetery in New Orleans, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, established in 1789. It is located just beyond the French District near the Iberville Housing Project…not a safe area, and I was told not to wander through the cemetery alone. I went alone and had no problems, but I can see the possibility of being mugged. On the other hand, with all the tours going through, I doubt anyone was in danger.
St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 has interesting people associated with it. I stood before this huge pyramid, obviously newly built but I assumed it was replacing an older vault. A tour group started to converge, so I took a photo and turned to leave.
Cemetery No. 44
“This is the tomb of Nicholas Cage,” I overheard. “The banks can’t take this away from him! Burial vaults are not subject to repossession to repay debt.”
Wow.
One of the main attractions in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 is the alleged tomb of Marie Laveau, one of the most powerful Voodoo Queens to ever live.
Cemetery No. 39
According to overheard snippets of tour guide wisdom, voodoo legend says that to awaken Marie Laveau’s powerful voodoo magic, go to her tomb, knock three times (to wake her from her sleep of the dead), mark the tomb with XXX in chalk or brick (tour guide said you can just use your fingers and draw the X’s), knock three times again, make your wish, then leave an offering. I’ve heard other versions that include turning around three times or rubbing your foot against a cup. What is consistent is to knock three times, draw at least one, but mostly three X’s (however, not with your finger, that’s something that is new to help keep the tomb from vandalism and disrepair), make a wish, leave an offering.
Cemetery No. 41 Dried flowers as an offering. Notice all the XXX’s on the tomb.
Cemetery No. 40 More offerings.
Cemetery No. 42 Other drawings on the vault.
Cemetery No. 43 This man is not a tour guide. He’s a volunteer and I’m sure he has to remove offerings from the tomb frequently. But he’s also a wealth of information not associated with tours.
Off and on I passed an old man dressed in ragged clothes, mumbling to himself. I assumed him to be homeless and rather harmless since he would avoid people when they passed him. As I was leaving St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, I noticed this bizarre tomb painted in garish magentas and blues. It’s as if a crazy person was given a brush and paints and they slathered the colors over everything, including rocks and silk flowers. Fascinated, I took a couple of photos. A tour moved in. Being rather tired of them interrupting me, I continued to take photos of this craziness.
Cemetery No. 45 Painted rocks.
Cemetery No. 46 Painted silk flower.
“A demented, old man takes care of this tomb….” the tour guide began.
I left.
I didn’t need to take a tour. I garnered information everywhere I went just by overhearing the tour guides. I’m sure I missed out on other interesting information about the Cities of the Dead, but I wasn’t there to take a tour. I wanted my own experience. Now that I have had my own experience, maybe next time I’ll take a tour. Maybe.
Ode No. 4 to Wrought Iron: Ornamentations
Photos taken at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, Greenwood Cemetery.
Ode No. 3 to Wrought Iron: Details
Photos taken at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, Greenwood Cemetery.
Ode No. 2 to Wrought Iron: Finials
Photos taken at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, Greenwood Cemetery.
Ode No. 1 to Wrought Iron: Fences
Photos taken at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, Greenwood Cemetery.
Let’s Wander The Cemetery, Shall We?
Overcast. Misty rain. Solitude. Perfect day for a walk in the cemetery.
Cemetery No. 3
Cemetery No. 4
Cemetery No. 12
Cemetery No. 13
Cemetery No. 14
Cemetery No. 17
Cemetery No. 19
Cemetery No. 20
Cemetery No. 24
Cemetery No. 31
Cemetery No. 33
Cemetery No. 34
Today I wish I’d had someone else with me to help me select photos. I love so many of them that it was difficult to choose a small selection to represent the whole experience. Initially, I picked 34 images for this post thinking everyone would be as fascinated by them as I am. But then, reason brought me back to reality. Thirty-four is too many for one post, so I cut the selected photos down to twelve. I have a Flickr account where I’ll post them all. You can find them in my New Orleans set or my Cemetery set.
I Ride a Streetcar and Discover I Have a Bucket List
No. The streetcar is not on my bucket list. I know, because my stomach didn’t get giddy with butterflies and I didn’t break out into a huge smile and tears didn’t well up in my eyes when I saw the streetcar.
Streetcar No. 1 If a streetcar makes you all giddy, then go for it! New Orleans has some nice ones.
Friend: What are your plans today?
Me: The cemetery!!!!
I love cemeteries, especially old cemeteries. Wherever I go, I visit a cemetery because I love the sense of place, of history, of life and of death, of ritual, and of meaning. I’ve learned a lot about the evolution of the belief towards the afterlife just by wandering through cemeteries and noting death dates. The older the date, the more horrifying the afterlife depicted in the iconography. At least, that’s how it is in the States. Skull and crossbones, skeletons, skulls with wings; it’s all very fascinating compared to the more contemporary imagery of laser-cut portraits of the deceased or of deer and nature or whatever the deceased’s interest was.
Friend: Ok, you’ll want to take the streetcar. Get on at Gravier and not Canal Street. Locals know to get on before Canal Street.
I nod my head.
Friend: To get to Gravier, go out and turn right, then cross over to…..
Ok, I admit it, I’m directionally challenged. If I can’t picture it, I can’t follow it. And since I don’t know the streets of New Orleans, I couldn’t picture it, and so I stopped following it.
Friend: Did you get that?
I nod my head.
Friend: Ask the conductor to let you off at the cemetery stop.
I nod my head.
Then I set out and wander around the CBD where I was staying (Central Business District—CBD for short). I hope to run into Gravier.
I cross a small street where I stumble on the uneven pavement. When I look down, I notice streetcar rails. I look up at a street sign. Gravier!
Me: I’d like to get off at the cemetery stop.
Conductor: I’ll announce it.
Streetcar No. 2
A little later
Conductor: Washington Street.
I sit there.
Conductor: Washington Street!
I sit there.
Conductor: WASHINGTON STREET!
I look up and see him looking at me in his mirror. He nods. Oh!
Me: Thank you.
He waves in a vague direction and says, “Just down the street. Please walk in front of the streetcar when you cross.” No, he didn’t run me down. He was very polite.
There are many cemeteries in New Orleans. For my first cemetery, I chose Lafayette No. 1 in the Garden District. As I walk in the general direction of where the conductor waved, I notice remnants of Mardi Gras in the trees.
Beads No. 01
Beads No. 02
I notice tree roots that refuse to be contained.
Tree Roots No. 1
Then, from a distance, I notice rooftops, and my stomach gets all giddy with butterflies and I break out into a huge smile and tears well up in my eyes, and for the first time in a long time, a dream comes true. My first New Orleans cemetery!
Cemetery 01
I have a bucket list but it wasn’t until this moment that I realized I had one. It feels good to visit a dream.
It Wasn’t Wine That Made Me Weep. It Was Pirate Ships.
One evening after having many drinks, we went down to the river where I burst into tears.
Sigh. No one cries when they see ships, Dezra. he said.
I do, if they look like pirate ships rising up like skeletons into the darkness of a New Orleans’ night sky.
Down By the River; Tall Ship 01 Click on this image to get information on how and why I created it.
Years ago I realized I lost my sense of awe, my sense of wonder. Nothing seemed to make me wonder anymore, at least, not in its original, spiritual sense. I wanted, needed to be filled with the immensity of something bigger and more powerful than me. I needed to know I am still capable of wonder.
When I saw these tall ships towering over me, their skeletal masts jutting high into the night sky, I felt overpowered and in that instant I wept. I’m sure the wine had something to do with it, also. But in that moment, I felt the very thing I yearned to feel, something bigger than me and more powerful. It was awesome!
I went back the next day to see if the power of the night still held. It was a different experience, of course, but still impressive.
The week I was there was NOLA Navy Week. Nine ships, including three tall ships and the USS Wasp, docked along the East Bank of the Mississippi River. New Orleans served as the inaugural city for the U.S. Navy’s bicentennial commemoration of the War of 1812.
Crossed the Mississippi on a Ferry Then Returned
I heard that ferries are magical. It’s true. The magic lies in their restorative powers as they protect you and help you cross over watery depths. I love the symbolism of the ferryman, of the water, of the transition from one state to another. I took the Algiers Ferry across the Mississippi River, then returned, just so I could feel the breeze on my face and sense the water under my feet, not because I needed to cross the river to go anywhere in particular. It was magical. I didn’t plan anything by way of photographs. Instead, I enjoyed what I found.
Crossing the Mississippi River
Down By the River; Ferry No. 1
Down By the River; Ferry No. 2
On the Ferry
Down By the River; Ferry No. 3 Very thick rope that ties the ferry to the dock.
On the Other Side
Down By the River; Ferry No. 4
Down By the River; Ferry No. 5
Down By the River; Ferry No. 6
View on Return Trip
Down By the River; Ferry No. 7 St. Louis Cathedral
Docking
Down By the River; Ferry No. 8
Down By the River; Ferry No. 9
Down By the River; Ferry No. 10 The ferry pressed against the dock.
Hello Mississippi River, Nice to Finally Meet You
The Boats
The Mississippi River is music at its most subtle. Wandering the river front, I soon fell into its seductive rhythm; the syncopated quarter note of the ferry, the half note of the steamboat, the thrum of the barges, the long whole note of the cruise ships. And darting through it all is the small, orange Coast Guard patrol boat. Other ships join in the rhythm, too, adding a nice counter to the regular beat. Together with the bull horns and splashing water, with the excited voice of tourists, with the laughing gulls and the silent pauses, the Mississippi River plays a lively river song.
Down By the River; Boats No. 1; The Algiers Ferry. Free to ride, it ferries people and cars across the river.
Down by the River; Boats No. 2; I don't know much about the workings of the steamboat, but it really seemed to me like the captain pumped the steam just for tourists.
Down By the River; Boats No. 3; The barge load is the slab of rocks and gravel in the foreground. Some barges will maneuver up to nine of these (that I saw). I'm sure they can manage more. I don't know what kind of ship that is in the background but I like it.
Down By the River; Boats No. 4; Coast Guard patrol boat
The Gulls
If the comings and goings of the river boats is the beat, the call of the gulls belongs to the tune. I have heard the term laughing gulls but until New Orleans I had never heard one, and this is coming from a gal who was born and raised in Utah where the seagull is the State bird!
I have a like/hate relationship with gulls. I say like instead of love because when you live your life dodging the damn things and yet have to respect them as your State bird, it makes it difficult to love them. In Utah, I have had my more-than-fair share of poop-bombing seagulls messing my hair and face. Over time, I learned to dodge and duck to avoid them. I learned to NEVER let them get above me, and if there was a flock taking off anywhere near, it was inevitable that some white grossness plopped down on or near me. Utah gulls are not nice gulls. I think it’s because they know they’re privileged. I really believe they have bombing competitions.
Down By the River; Gulls No. 1
So, here I am on the Mississippi River, tentatively side-stepping the gulls and horrified to see my fellow tourists walking calmly through them. GET OUT OF THE WAY! THEY’LL BOMB YOU! I yell in my head. The New Orleans gulls are gutsy, flying in and around the people. The Utah gulls stayed well above as they bombed, but the New Orleans gulls fly right at you. I duck and dodge all over the place. But I’m the only one ducking and dodging. And I notice that no one yells “Ew, gross” or looks down at their shoulders in disgust. No one wipes off their shoes or runs their fingers through their hair in surprise. What manner of voodoo is this? Do the New Orleans gulls hypnotize their prey so they don’t know they are covered in sticky droppings?
As I dodge the gulls, I decide I want a photo of one in flight UP CLOSE. I am not a nature photographer, but there are so many gulls that I most assuredly will get a decent photo. Right? Not if you keep ducking and dodging my inner voice says. Sigh. Ok. So I take a stance. I stake out a gull, and it sees me.
Hold steady, Dezra, I tell myself as the gull swings around to dive at me. I stagger back with one foot, catching my balance. The gull comes at me. My ducking instincts kick in and I’m screaming, HOLD STEADY, HOLD STEADY. Then the gull eyes me just as I get the shot. It suddenly banks right, and I hear it laughing as it returns to its flock.
Down By the River; Gulls No. 2; Insouciant scoundrel
After that I no longer fear the gulls. They aren’t out to get me, or anyone else, for that matter. They are perfectly content on the shores of the Mississippi River doing whatever it is that gulls do. Now that I think about it, those Utah gulls are landlocked and probably frustrated about the lack of decent water. No wonder they take to bombing people.
Although I took many photos of the bird in flight, only the one turned out. Here are a few more photos of the gulls:
Down By the River; Gulls No. 3
Down By the River; Gulls No. 4
Down By the River; Gulls No. 5 Don't they look like the cutest little gulls dressed up in business suits holding a meeting on the lawn?
By the way, if you’re wondering why there aren’t more people (tourists), I suspect it’s because a major event just happened over the weekend and most people (tourists) left when it was over. It’s also the weekday; most likely Monday since that’s when I took photos of the gulls. And, New Orleans has so much to see and do that the remaining people are swallowed up in other activities. At least, that’s my guess. But that’s ok with me because I can relax and get to know the Mississippi River much more personally. Hello Mississippi River. Nice to finally meet you.
Bourbon Street — Dezra’s Versions
Bourbon Street No. 1
(This is where I introduce you to Bourbon Street.)
Friend: Let’s go down Bourbon Street.
Me: Cool!
We turn off Royal and walk the short block to Bourbon Street. It’s a Sunday night, the end of a weekend. Lots of people on Royal Street. Lots of people all over the place! The night is high on energy.
We turn onto Bourbon Street and I immediately cringe.
Me: There’s something wrong here! My voice rises in pitch…or panic…but not really because I don’t panic anymore, but I may start again just for tonight.
Friend: This is normal.
Me: No! I yell. It’s wrong. It’s…it’s…
What can I say?
Me: It’s LOUD, I shout. And…and…
Friend: It’s supposed to be loud. That’s how they desensitize you.
He’s acting normal. I’m shrinking into myself.
Me: And look at the signs all lit up.
But that’s stupid because the signs on Royal are also lit. WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS??? Oh, right, they’re NEON signs, created to assault your eyes in the night. I close my eyes.
Friend: The psychology is to desensitize you so that you spend more money.
Me: Looking up, looking down, looking at my friend, looking away, looking anywhere but down Bourbon Street. But what about people like me who shut down when overstimulated?
Friend: *sigh* (I heard that.) Yes, you do shut down a lot. (I do not.) But that’s not a bad thing. That’s just you.
I looked at him and then noticed we were on a side street. We weren’t shouting anymore. Bourbon Street was gone. We turn onto quiet Dauphine Street.
Me: Yeah. I know. I used to believe that I had to like this kind of excitement, and so I pretended to, but I didn’t. I used to believe I was broken because I didn’t like it. I don’t believe that anymore. It’s just who I am, and that’s ok.
Bourbon Street No. 2
(This is where I tell you how to walk through Bourbon Street.)
It’s threatening rain.
Friend: Let’s go down Bourbon Street.
Me: I glare at him.
Friend: If it rains, we’ll have some place to duck into.
Me: I nod my head.
We had been walking a lot. I had been racing to keep up with him all night so I was tired. I was sore. But it made sense to go down Bourbon Street where all the doors are open and everyone’s welcome no matter what the weather. Laughter comes from all sides and people duck in and out of girls, girls, girls, exotic girls, sexy girls, beer, cocktails, pizza, cabaret. I had already experienced a deluge earlier in the day and knew what the New Orleans’ sky was capable of delivering on a moment’s notice. So we turn down Bourbon Street.
And it screams at me. But this time I will not let it get to me. So I hold my head up, look straight ahead, and pretty much race through the long street, dodging men, stepping around women, and ignoring all signs of street life. I make it to Canal Street, the border between the French Quarter and the rest of the world, surprised that I’m not sore anymore and turn to my friend.
Me: Well, that wasn’t so bad—
My friend isn’t there. I look behind me and see him stepping his way through the crowd toward me. He’s glaring at me.
Friend: You really don’t like Bourbon Street, do you. I’ve never seen you walk so fast.
Bourbon Street No. 3
(This is where I show you pictures of Bourbon Street.)
Bourbon Street is like one big, overcrowded, outdoor bar. I don’t like overcrowded bars. I prefer to go to bars in the middle of the afternoon when no one else is there. So it makes sense that when I was out roaming the French Quarter in the middle of the afternoon in a downpour of rain that I would think, Hey, maybe NOW I can do Bourbon Street.
So, all by myself I turn down Bourbon Street. I STROLL down Bourbon Street. I take my time. I’m still bewildered by it. Even in the middle of the afternoon in the rain with hardly anyone there, I just don’t get it.
Anyway, here’s where I show you a picture of Bourbon Street.
Bourbon Street No. 1
But I also feel really badly that I didn’t get a photo to show you of it teeming with people. So I added people to my photo. See how busy it is? And how much fun they are having? And they are walking the streets with booze in hand!!! I wish we could do that in Indianapolis.
Bourbon Street No. 2 I got photo bombed. Sheesh.
Bourbon Street No. 4
(This is where I tell you some facts about Bourbon Street and show you one more photo.)
Believe it or not, Bourbon Street is not named after bourbon whiskey like I thought. It is named after the royal french Bourbon family, just like bourbon whiskey is named after the same family. So, even though Bourbon Street is not directly connected to bourbon whiskey, they are cousins. And it’s much more fun to participate in debauchery on a street associated with whiskey than on a street associated with royalty…unless you are royally debauched. But I wouldn’t know. I only go to bars in the middle of the afternoon.
Down away from all the neon signs is Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar. I made a special trip to see it just because I had heard about it. It was the middle of the day, of course, since I don’t go to bars at night. Lafitte’s claim to fame is that it is reputed to be the oldest structure used as a bar in the U.S. I’m sure the alcohol is delicious, too. And the food. I didn’t eat there. I had already eaten or I would have eaten there. And had a drink. To go.
Bourbon Street No. 3 This is the back door. It's much more interesting than the front door, although the front door is pretty interesting. It's just not as photogenic.
So there you go. Bourbon Street. It’s a great place if you like outdoor, overcrowded, exotic, exciting, fun bars. I do. But only in the afternoons.
They Will Make Music Wherever They Go
Texture. New Orleans is texture upon texture upon texture. The French Quarter is rough, colorful texture full of character and life. It combines old texture with new texture where the rough rubs against the smooth. There is neon-blasting Bourbon Street with its party animals and just a street down is classy Royal Street with a shop for everyone. And everywhere you go, there is music. From the lone trumpet player blasting out “Sesame Street” for the kids to groups combining their instruments in order to jazz it up for the adults.
I don’t know much about jazz so I can’t name any of the pieces played, but to weave through music floating in the air charmed me as I strolled through the Quarter. I watched the musicians but even more, I watched the people who stopped to take pleasure in each performance. I saw smiles. I saw wonder. I saw pleasure. The street musicians know their instruments and delight in delighting their audience and in turn the audience gives back to the musician, not just in tips (tips are appreciated) but in admiration and joy, also.
Royal Street. I loved Royal Street. It is here on Royal Street where I found my favorite musicians.
Street Musicians on Royal Street
Under a hot and sultry sun and without an umbrella to shelter them, this group had a lot of fun and included a tap dancer! But the heat also wore them out.
Street Musicians No. 1-A
I really, really, really wanted to move the water bottles, but I knew I had limited time to make the photo. I had been observing him and noticed he danced in spurts. Did I mention it was a really hot and sultry day?
Street Musicians No. 1-B
The next set of musicians played just a little bit further down Royal Street and had an umbrella for protection.
Street Musicians No. 2-A
Street Musicians No. 2-B
Street Musicians No. 2-C
And finally, my favorite group on Royal. I don’t know if it’s because of the singer’s personality or because of the tourists dancing in the street or because of the excellence in music. All three, really.
Street Musicians No. 3-A
Street Musicians No. 3-B
Street Musicians No. 3-C
Street Musicians No. 3-D. (I love this photo. I had been observing her and knew when she would glance over at her fellow musicians. I timed my shot and she gave me the smile I wanted without knowing I had waited for it.)
This young couple really took to the dancing. They started out very proper until an older couple joined in. The older couple did lifts and dips and suddenly the young couple freed up and moved into dips (no lifts). I wanted a partner. I wanted to dance.
Street Musicians No. 3-E
Street Musicians No. 3-F
Tips are not required, however, no matter where I’ve gone in the world, proper etiquette suggests that if you take something from the performer—and that includes enjoyment—then you give back. I learned to keep dollar bills on me.
Street Musicians No. 3-G
New Orleans is texture—from balconies to street musicians thus far. Later on will be tumblers and food and cemeteries and shops and…oh how I wish I could share the smells.
And So I Went and There I Saw Balconies
I almost didn’t go. I had my excuses. Every time the subject came up, I rattled those excuses off: conserving money, conserving car mileage and wear, working on projects, etc. Excuses all! So when asked again to visit, I took a deep breath and said, “Ok! I’ll leave tomorrow.”
And that’s when I drove down to New Orleans, to that mythical city (at least, in my mind) on the Mississippi River in the South where people party and southern hospitality reigns, to the legendary and infamous Bourbon Street in the equally famous French Quarter where you can take your booze to-go and where you can listen to street musicians play jazz, to the shops where VooDoo is a commercial commodity and fortune tellers trace your palm or read the Tarot. Hey, Sunshine, come let me read your fortune,” a dark-haired man called to me. I shook my head no. “Then go to one of them fake gypsies instead and be sorry.” I didn’t. I don’t need my fortune told. I don’t want to know.
I fell in love with New Orleans.
In New Orleans, in the French Quarter where I spent most of my time, the balconies demand attention. And so, as an appetizer to what will come in future posts, I present some of my favorite balconies. In the tradition of New Orleans cemetery naming conventions, each photo will be given its category and a number. (Yes, there will definitely be a cemetery post in the future.)
Balcony No. 1
Balcony No. 2
Balcony No. 3
Balcony No. 4
Balcony No. 5
Balcony No. 6
Balcony No. 7
Balcony No. 8
