After a few days of rest and relaxation in Grand Isle, our little group of bookpackers arrived in the New Orleans’ Central Business District, settling into our hotel rooms. Despite its nickname, “The Big Easy”, I’ve found very little about it to be easy so far.
I’m used to the organized chaos of Los Angeles; the ruckus of a melting pot. I know which bus will take me where, how to navigate the streets depending on which neighborhood I’m in, and where to go for a cheap meal nearby.
Maybe that’s why I feel so disoriented in New Orleans; it reminds me too much of Downtown LA. The unfamiliar morphs into the mundane with the snap of your fingers. There’s the unhoused sleeping on the sidewalks, and thick, warm air that you can’t quite escape. Both cities seem caught in the cycle of appealing to the ‘newcomers’: cafes with no prices listed, hotels plopped next to one another, shops that appeal to the niche of the city. However, being born and raised in Los Angeles confirms my belief that my city is being gentrified, I’m not quite sure if New Orleans has always been this way.
Eating out while staying in a hotel for three weeks is not for the cheapskates, such as I. Nearly every meal so far has cost me $20. This is more than I’d hope, but there seems to be an unspoken rule when it comes to being a tourist and spending without hesitation. You’re not just buying food; you’re paying for an experience you may never have again. That’s not too bad, as I have been personally victimized by the Hailey Bieber smoothie, but it adds up when you’re not working during this trip.
When you go somewhere as a tourist short-term, there’s a different level of control than when you’re a long-term tourist. It’s easy to spend because you don’t know when you’ll be back; you need all the memorabilia and will eat all the local food. You become aware of the façade. The urgency to collect souvenirs or eat ‘authentically’ fades into a quieter realization: it’s all available, over and over, from the ‘I Heart NOLA’ shirts to the beignets. The city wants you to spend, to believe in the illusion it casts. That’s the American cycle of tourism. You’re never just seeing a place—you’re consuming it.
This awareness surprisingly came to me before we had officially arrived in New Orleans, while on the Cajun Pride Swamp Tour. The tour guide, who was friendly and full of jokes, pulled out the tour’s big showstopper: a baby alligator, who was to be passed around for anyone on the tour to ‘pet’. Its mouth was bound with what seemed like a bandage, safe for any liabilities and ready to take pictures with, like a party favor. As our boat wound through the seemingly endless swamp, he called into the trees at every stop with a startling “AY-YUP”, summoning the conditioned wildlife with treats. Racoons, boars, and gators came out of nowhere to feast upon fistfuls of marshmallow and dried corn, all urbanized versions of themselves. Everyone there was trying to get something out of the other; the tour guide hoping to make some tips with his story telling, us tourists who wanted to immerse ourselves in the culture, and even the animals hoping to be fed. Perhaps we have not inherently caused interference with the animals’ way of life, but we’ve fed into it. We have smiled ear to ear, ooh’ed and ahh’ed at the creatures, held the baby gator, who was separated from his mother, while having our picture taken. As tourists, we are feeding into the economy that lets opportunities like this continue.
In this system, we are complicit. Our wonder feeds the machine. In Interview with The Vampire, Louis reflects, “Never in New Orleans had the kill to be disguised. The ravages of fever, plague, crime—these things competed with us always there, and outdid us.” Just as he fed on humans, tourists feed on the curated versions of local culture. The city does the same thing, needing to thrive on tourism and in doing so reducing the value of its culture. Louis saw New Orleans as a place where he could disappear, where horror mixed with beauty in a way that hid his darkness in plain sight. He was invisible because the city made room for monsters, because it had already learned to sell its suffering.
New Orleans, like LA, confuses origin with invention. In LA, I know what cultures shape the city—Latino and Asian communities have built it, and the American version has diffused it. Here, the history is more entangled: French, Spanish, African, Creole. Colonialism left its fingerprints everywhere, from architecture to cuisine. Maybe that’s why fast food seems strangely absent. You’re meant to eat gumbo, po’boys, and beignets. If you don’t, you’re “not doing it right.” You’re not consuming correctly.
As a group, we’ve been to various places north of the Mississippi River, yet not too north as to meet the lake. I cannot say I know New Orleans, because I have yet to know all of it. This is how I feel about people who have ‘visited’ Los Angeles; you do not know Los Angeles if you haven’t traveled South of the 10, or East of the 110.
Louis’s love for New Orleans was always conditional, even if he does not acknowledge it. He could admire its decadence without ever being a part of it. The city cannot love him because it does not know him; if it did, it would reject him. Tourists enjoy the city the same way Louis does: from a distance. We don’t get to know the full truth, only the filtered version that we can tell friends and family about. We crave intimacy without responsibility.
Perhaps, like Louis, we too are feeding off this place—its food, its stories, its tragedies polished into spectacle. The city dances for us, and we smile for photos. And when we leave, it will reset for the next group, the next “easy” experience. But nothing here is easy, not for the people, or the gators, or the culture.
