New Orleans Writers' Residency: Part Two

To be honest, New Orleans was not one of my top travel destinations. It was somewhere further down the list, once I got to visit other sites.
I was wrong. 
Other writers may be able to describe the city in a more prosaic style, but here are some of my impressions.
New Orleans is unlike any other city I have ever been.  It is of a different time and place, where the history seeps from the buildings and streets.  People here seem to be passing through, while the city itself remains permanent.
With the disco ball, pay phone, and gas lamps, I feel like I’m reliving the 1970s.
The Writers’ Residency is located on the edge of the Faubourg Marignyneighborhood, which originally had been part of Bernard de Marigny’s plantation until he started selling lots in the early 1800’s.

A distinctive feature of the neighbor is the colorful houses:  peach, lime, rose, pink.  Not colors you typically expect for houses, but like so many things, it fits in New Orleans.  Also, houses are rarely only one color.  Trims, shutters, porch beams are painted in direct contrast to the primary color.  Also, many homes feature murals or mosaics of mirror-and-bead.
Having done plenty of house painting, I can attest that I absolute lack the patience to perform such detailed work.
One of my typical treks is down Frenchman Street to Royal.  Along the way, I cross Esplanade, a beautiful tree-lined street.  According to a historical marker, it was the location of Theophilus Freeman’s slave pen where Solomon Northrup, a free man from New York, was sold into slaveyr (12 Years a Slave).
Further along Royal, I pass the mansion of Delphine LaLaurie (c. 1780-1849), who tortured her slaves in hidden chamber at the top of the house.  According to one of the ghost tours, one window in the mansion has been permanently bricked up.  The story goes that a young girl who had been enslaved fell or was pushed from the window, and since then the window can never be kept whole.

In other words, some of the history of New Orleans is hard to take, but necessary to learn.


On the positive side, music – especially jazz – infuses the city.  It is ever-present and absolutely essential.  Jazz doesn’t simply pour out of the clubs at night, it lives in the streets.  There is always a trumpet, saxophone, or guitar somewhere within hearing.  Across the street from CC’s Café (where I am currently writing), a musician has set up her drum kit – not an instrument I would expect on a street corner, but it definitely fits here.
Since I’m here to work on my novel, I typically hit a coffee shop during the day.  Because of the swarming crowds, even in July, Café du Monde has been inaccessible.  Our residency hosts have recommended going there after midnight when it is easier to get a table.  However, I have yet to pass by, no matter the time, where there hasn’t been a line out the door.
More to come.