Lots of Care in the City it Forgot
How to be melancholy in New Orleans
A year ago tonight, some jackass drove through the barriers of the pedestrian area of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, killing 14 people and injuring 57. Which, of course, means the fucking National Guard is patrolling the French Quarter tonight. And if that doesn’t sum up 2025, I don’t know what does.
Sadly, I only made it to New Orleans once in 2025, thanks to being differently employed. That means Joel only added one piece to the world’s dumbest tramp stamp: a plate of beignets and cafe au lait in the classic Cafe du Monde china.
The excuse for this trip? The opportunity to see Wilco and Waxahatchee with my friend Jonathan, who had the worst 2025 of anyone I know. We had a fun night, though.
This trip feels like it was broken into segments that have been easy to compartmentalize. I don’t know why. Maybe because I drove? Not being at the mercy of a set-in-stone return date was pretty freeing. Especially because I spent a lot of the trip in vestibular migraineland. When I first arrived at my Airbnb, I sprinted from the door through the shotgun layout, straight to the bathroom, where I threw up in the sink because I had exhausted myself with my trip through Mississippi that day.
I had that lovely morning at Elizabeth’s where I made friends with Susie and Greg from Ohio, and I sat in my car in the rain while I ate a pineapple snoball from Hansen’s. But there was also the afternoon I spent at Buffa’s, across the street from the French Quarter, where I ate one of the best burgers of my life and drank glasses of Coca-Cola while talking to a bartender who was also from central Missouri, and a guy who was in the process of becoming a sous chef at Brennan’s, which lit up the retired chef in me.
And the afternoon I puttered around Uptown, where I drank too much cold brew at Mojo’s, purchased all the sweets at Sucre, and settled in for a grazing dinner at Cure. It made me feel like a local, wandering two short and quiet blocks and finding everything I could possibly want to ingest.
Even writing this nearly eight months later, I feel the pang of loneliness that dogged me throughout this melancholy-for-no-obvious-reason trip to the city that care forgot. I’m so glad that Monday morning started with Susie and Greg putting me in a fantastic mood that led me to check out the Cafe du Monde location in City Park, which felt like the New Orleans not of the news, but of a fairytale I needed to live for an afternoon.
While my mood was eh, New Orleans was just fine. Jazzfest concluded while I was there, and the vibes were high everywhere I went.
My Airbnb was in Rosalie Alley, home to a voodoo temple where a ceremony is held every July to protect the city from hurricanes. On the side of the house before mine, a two-story mural of Marie Laveau stood watch over little alters, fences painted with spirits, and a walk-up window where, sometimes, you can buy tacos.
Maybe I picked up some bad gris gris.
Or maybe I had a migraine the whole time that made me feel disconnected from everything and just about everyone except the folks who made the effort to plug in.
Still, the time in New Orleans was still better than time spent just about anywhere else.
Want to buy me a coffee for the next time I’m at Mojo’s? I’d appreciate it!
Don’t forget to read me at Another Jane Pratt Thing!
Thanks for including me in your NOLA adventures. For me it was one of the few bright spots in a very dismal year.