Even more than the sleepless New York, New Orleans is indeed filled with never resting souls. It’s warm, friendly yet mysterious nature continues to attract people from all over the world who either get repulsed by the gruesomness of it all or fall in love with it’s uniqueness.
And with over 130 official parties and celebrations going on all through the year, it’s no wonder that N’awlins is considered to be “the festival capital of the world” and no work gets done here. Personally, I think it’s the hot, humid weather that induces the “dolce far niente” vibe. But seriously, over 130 festivals! – some of the most important being “The Jazz & Heritage Festival”, “French Quarter Fest”, “Tennessee Williams Literary Fest & the “Stella!” yelling contest”, “Satchmo Summer Fest” (a dedication to Louis Armstrong’s legacy), “Southern Decadence”, “Voodoo experience” and, of course, “Mardi Gras”, the wildest of them all.
Most New Orleanians are of African-American descent, living in the less prosperous neighbourhoods and trying to make a little money from unsuspecting tourists by becoming “characters” of the French Quarter. They are easily recognizable either for the flamboyantly designed costumes, as “the man with beads around his neck”, “Dracula”, “that Native-American dressed in a white, Mardi Gras outfit”, their special artistic skills, such as “the plastic bucket drummer kids”, “the sequined lady who sings and dances whilst reciting passages from the Bible” and other skills such as shoeshining, dressing a mongrel as a baby, guessing the brand of one’s shoes, standing in the middle of the crowd and holding “Buy 1 get 1 free” signs over their heads and literally asking for money in exchange for allowing people to take their pictures.
Then, there are those who dare be themselves. Wacky paintors, Voodoo princesses, ununderstood musicians with full body tattoos, street corner poets, mediums and ghost hunters who claim to have made contact with some of the many spirits that restlessly haunt New Orleans, Wikka witches, globetrotters with massive backpacks and flowers in their hair, Creole beauties, Texan cowboys, rainbow haired, universal Shaniquas.
Wherever you turn, there is an observation to be made, something to be celebrated.
During our stay, we got stopped by a few black folks who asked about our shoes. One thing led to another, than one of them opened up and talked about himself, his wife’s death and the bad relationship he’s been having with his son ever since, shed tears of sorrow, showed us his real, up close gunshot wounds and how badly some of them have swollen, allowed me to take a picture of him after I swore that nothing bad would happen, he addressed us as “My queen” and “My king”, which I found enduring and thought “Hey, look, this is how they talk in New Orleans. This is how me and my boo should start every sentence”.
But other conversations I carried in N’awlins were so stragely similar to those from “Uncle Tom’s cabin”, they would immediately transport me in the pre Civil War era of slave ownership. I have many examples of such conversations with locals of African-American descent, as I would ask a question to which their response would invariably be “No, ma’am”, “I don’t know, ma’am”, “Yes, ma’am”. I couldn’t help at noticing the deep self-deprecating connotations of such form of address.
The one thing that made me cringe the most was when I acknowledged my ice-cream craving one evening, near closing time. Standing at the counter was a beautiful African-American girl of twenty years or so. She looked tired, burdened, oblivious to our presence and extremely sad. Her feet must have been swollen and her back must have been in a lot of pain. I felt guilty the moment I asked her to make me a fresh, crunchy waffle cone to go with the melting ice-cream. As she rolled her eyes, I opened my bag looking for some extra dollars. As she handed me the ice-cream, I smiled warmly and told her “Please, keep the change”. When she discovered the small fortune she looked at me with round, humble, slave-blood eyes and answered “Thank you, ma’am”. And that “Thank you ma’am” sounded so painfully submissive, I couldn’t bear the thought of so many who still feel that dark skin is in any way inferior to white.
It made me both sad and angry for the many souls who, even though have never experienced slavery themselves, their blood does and will continue to.
And yes, I got to see American racoons!
I haven’t seen one so close since childhood, when I’d stay for hours in front of the TV watching Disney cartoons on VHS cassettes. “R’coon Dawg”, “Moose hunters”, “Moving day”, “Clock cleaners”, “The band concert”, “Chef Donald”, “Out of scale” – I remember all like it was yesterday.
In reality, locals seem to be taking good care of the hungry racoons, leaving water and food in places where they can easily be found.
And yes, they are the cutest thing you’ve ever seen!
Green Eyed Kisses,
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