IV WASTE: Washed AWAY

““I had left New Orleans, but it hadn’t left me.”

— The Yellow House, Sarah M. Broom

IV Waste Sign (June 9th)

When we first arrived in New Orleans, we wandered the French Quarter. Originally, it was overwhelming. The sights, the sounds, and definitely the smells were a lot to take in at once. From the humidity, heat, and remnants from the parties the night before, I caught a scent of lemon permeating the entire quarter. How could a city, known for its parties, sweat, and grime, smell so good?

Later in our trip, I had the opportunity to ask someone about it. “Why does the city smell like that?”

She pointed to a sign hanging from the iron gallery above. “That’s IV Waste, they clean the streets each morning.”

IV Waste Truck (June 11th)

Spending a full month in New Orleans changed the way I see traveling. I didn’t feel like a tourist; I was instead immersed in everything around me. It wasn’t just a simple attraction to visit, but a city I had lived in and experienced firsthand. Sure, I’ve visited a variety of places in my life - Amsterdam, Paris, Kenya, Rome, New York, and many more - that all left a strong impact on me. However, I never had the time to sit down with a culture for as long as I did in New Orleans, nor have I learned about a local culture as intensely as this class challenged me to do. Still, it was always the little things that surprised me.

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For instance, take eating. Half my camera roll is filled with pictures of plates - gumbo, jambalaya, crawfish. The meals made by people who lived in the French Quarter, Garden District, or beyond. However, those are all the dishes you expect to eat when in New Orleans. We experienced much more than that.

One of my favorite restaurants we visited was Bennachin, an unassuming spot at first. What was interesting was that it wasn’t serving New Orleans food, but rather authentic African cuisine. The restaurant proudly displayed both its cultural roots and its history, and we learned that it has been a New Orleans staple since 1992. This wasn’t the kind of place you’d go to during your first or second week in the city - but only after you’d lived in New Orleans for as long as we had. It might be the only place in the world where you could find New Orleans-influenced African food, and it was fantastic.

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One of my favorite nights with everyone was our cooking class near the end of the trip. We all gathered around a pot and learned how to make gumbo, BBQ shrimp, and bananas Foster, and it was all so delicious. But during the evening, we started talking about the permanence of New Orleans. Maria Vieage shared how her business was completely destroyed when the levees broke. Louisiana as a whole is still trying to recover.

We asked if she would ever consider moving back to Louisiana permanently. “It’s only a matter of time until the levees break again. Until then, I have one foot in and one foot out.”

It reminded me that, although we were learning about the history of New Orleans, we were only brushing against one part of it. Once we leave and say our final goodbyes, the city will keep moving, and more history will be made. People will still struggle - between beauty, vulnerability, resilience, and risk. It’s stories like Maria’s that leave the biggest impact. That, above all, was the most important aspect of this trip: not walking the streets or tasting the food, but truly listening to the people of today.

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As I sit in the airport in the early morning, I can imagine the IV Waste truck on the streets, washing away the party from the night before. The traces of us, our existence in New Orleans, are similarly being washed away. But that’s okay. This trip was never about leaving a legacy behind. Instead, I’ll be taking with me a deep respect for New Orleans, its culture, a few extra pounds, and a kind of lived knowledge I never could have gained otherwise.

Goodbye, New Orleans. Goodbye, Bookpacking. And thank you again, Andrew! There’s truly no place like New Orleans.

✌️

Acceptance, Birthdays, and the meaning of life.

“What’s the meaning of life?”

Sitting in Audubon, a park opposite to Tulane, Andrew our Professor asked us this hard-hitting question. Binx Bolling approaches his 30th birthday without this answer in The Moviegoer, realizing he’s been coasting through life. Comfortable, but unfulfilled. He begins what he calls the search, looking for a sign, something that tells him he’s alive. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for, only that he needs to start looking.

I turned 19 this week, not 30. I’m not stuck in suburbia or crushed by routine (at least not yet…) Reading Binx however, I started to feel something similar. Not a crisis, but rather uncertainty, that sense that you’re standing on the edge of something: adulthood, direction, or identity. What will come next? And will I be ready?

Jackson Square (Jun 1st)

Halfway through this trip, I gained life changing news. I had originally been accepted to USC with the expectation I would major in Music Industry, but decided my passions lied elsewhere: in Iovine and Young Academy. After a competitive application, portfolio, and interview process, I was left to wait for my decision.

Suddenly, sitting reading in Jackson Square with a book in my lap, I got the email: I had been accepted into my dream program.

I’d imagined this moment for a while, and when it came I jumped out of my chair and definetly made a scene.

The future wasn’t a dream anymore, it was real. This was a new chapter I was able to step into. However, the questioned changed from Will I get in? to What will I do now?

My anxiety didn’t disapear, it only shifted, and my curiosity on how much future would pan out only grew. That feeling hit me hard. My path forward was clearer, but I realized the path wasn’t enough, I had hoped I wanted direction-but instead I wanted connection, meaning, that thing that grounds you and tells you ‘you’re really here.’

(June 8th)

Binx’s journey is never clearly defined, because it can’t be. It’s a hunger for something, a future just out of reach. Or possibly a connection he hopes to get. Or just a feeling that life isn’t slipping out of reach without him noticing.

He’s not lost in the traditional sense, he has a nice apartment and fine career, but he hasn’t been found either. Percy describes this as despair, even though Binx can’t realize it. Binx floats through parties and family obligations like he’s an outsider watching his own life from the outside, never quite in the moment. He starts going to the movies not for escape, but for clues to his own despair.

And, strangely, I get it.

Binx reminds me that life is less about spectacle and more about noticing. Even pocketing his wallet in the morning becomes a moment of importance, one that grounds him, because he sees it all. His life becomes suspicious nad full of possibility. It’s a way of viewing life I tried to carry around the rest of my trip.

Crescent City Connection (June 2nd)

Bourbon Street (June 8th!)

Therefore, when my birthday came around, I paid attention.

We went to a resturant called Tableau, tucked into the French Quarter, likely somewhere where Binx might’ve wandered. I ate pork and oysters, and gourged myself on gnocchi and crème brûlée. I felt like I had an earth-shattering revelation, and not just because of the food (though it helped), but because of the people around me. This entire trip we’ve laughed hard together, shared stories, and have become intamately close as friends much further than I would’ve ever expected. For a few hours, my life was as narrow as the table, and I could feel myself in it, not watching my future slide by from the outside.

Binx searching for that answer tells him that he’s really here. And I felt it.

I wasn’t chasing answers, I wasn’t worrying about what’s next, or what my next greatest project would be. I was just present with the people around me, and maybe that’s what “meaning” is at 19…. not a destination but a moment of connection. A table of people who make the world feel a little less uncertain.

…and yes Mom, I turned 19 on Bourbon Street.

Sorry not sorry!

Everyone Must Know Buddy Bolden

“EVERYONE MUST KNOW BUDDY BOLDEN”

I came to New Orleans with a deep love for music, but not much of a jazz background. My roots were in blues and folk guitar, and most of my musical education either came from players in that genre, or learning by ear, writing songs, and jamming with my friends. (I was even guitar club president in high school!) I did spend about six months in a high school jazz ensemble, but I never quite spoke the language. While others around me seemed to be fluent in the technical, swing rythms, chord substitutions, I clung to what I was comfortable with, like the good ol pentatonic scale. Theory always felt like a world I never was eager to hop into.

Jazz as a result has always held some kind of mystique. It was something I deeply admired but didn’t fully understand. The students in that ensemble felt like they operated on a different plane than me, effortlessly communicating in ways that I couldn’t. I loved listening to Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Chick Corea, Hiatus Kaiyote, but my relationship with their music wasn’t at all technical. I could feel it, but I could never explain it.

Coming to New Orleans as the birthplace of Jazz, I felt like stepping into the language that I’ve never fully grasped. It was intimidating, but I was only here to listen and observe.

“Everyone must know Buddy Bolden”

— Branden Lewis, Preservation Hall, June 4th

Branden Lewis

Our first night in the heart of New Orleans, we were in search of two things: food (of course!) and good music. We followed the sound of a live band spilling out of a little cata-corner of Bourbon Street. The food was really good, our first taste of New Orleans food, and the music felt like what we had expected: classic songs and jazz standards we recognized. We thought we had struck gold.

We came back a few more times after that. The band never changed, and neither did their set. We realized quickly that the food, although good the first few bites, wasn’t the epitome of New Orleans food. We realized this place wasn’t a hidden gem, but a tourist trap for the unsuspecting. The music, although good, stayed on the surface. It wasn’t what we were looking for… We were still on the surface.

We were sitting outside of Preservation Hall, anxiously awaiting the jazz performance ahead of us. As we were waiting, a local man came by and laughed at us: “Why are you waiting to listen to music that puts you to sleep?” I wondered if the performance would disappoint.

Preservation was a wonderful exploration into the historical roots of Jazz. Dating back to the 1950s, it became “the most iconic Jazz Club in New Orleans.” Personally, I was enthralled, and so were most people in the room. People got up to dance (and importantly tip!), and you could tell they were all professionals in their craft. However, was it the Jazz I was looking for?

After the show, we all had the wonderful opportunity to talk to Branden Lewis. He asked us why we were here, and we told him about our bookpacking. We had been reading Coming Through Slaughter, so Sam brought out the book for him to see. We asked if he knew Buddy Bolden. “Of course, Everyone must know Buddy Bolden!”

Preservation Hall With Brendan Lewis! (June 4th)

Buddy Bolden Mural (June 2nd)

Coming Through Slaughter was one of our most interesting books. The writing is manic, often requiring a pass over or two to fully understand it. It’s written sporadically, much like the unravelling of Buddy Bolden himself. The writing style is intentionally sporatic not only to represent his mental state, but also the state of jazz. It’s not something that’s supposed to inherently technically difficult or emotionally distant. Instead, it’s the raw lived experiences of everyone around us. That’s what it was trying to tell us.

Walking the French Quarter once again, I heard a trumpet. It wasn’t a band, wasn’t a venue, just a woman sitting alone at a Cafe table outside of Envie Cafe, one of my favorite cafes in the french quarter. There wasn’t an audience, no tips, just a woman and her horn. The sound wasn’t polished, it was raw and real. Most thoughts weren’t finished and she didn’t seem to practiced. Even though the sound wasn’t too pleasing to the ears, I realized I had found it what I’d been looking for.

I hadn’t found it on a stage or in a historic club. Instead, I found it on the streets where people lived. And here in New Orleans, she refused to be silent.

In the end, I didn’t find a technical mastery of jazz or a new appreciation for its theory. I didn’t leave speaking the language fluently, but I will leave hearing to it differently. I’ve come to understand that it’s not just something to be played on stages or in sheet music. It’s human. Born on the streets from unheard voices. People like Buddy Bolden who try and play not just for recognition but because they have something uncontrollable they need to let out.

Branden Lewis was right. Everyone must know Buddy Bolden! That’s because he’s the epitome of jazz- imperfect, improvisational, and deeply human, although flawed. Bolden’s legacy lives not in the clean picture perfect new orleans that tourists come for, nor does he live in preserved performances. Instead, you can find him in the raw notes drifting from cafe corners where music is messy and live, unapologeticaly free. That’s the Jazz I was looking for, and the New Orleans I’ll carry with me.

“The music was never seperate from the man.”

"Innovating" New Orleans

“Innovating” New Orleans

“No place to go now but into deep ground.”

— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

In most of my classes, we’re told to “live in the future.” That’s how innovation gets framed, constantly looking ahead, dreaming up what doesn’t exist yet, and figuring out how to make it real. It’s a mindset that values new ideas, new tools, and as a designer and builder, I’ve leaned into that forward thinking impulse.

But this time, we’re asked to do the opposite.

This assignment wasn’t about disruption, creation, or invention. It was about digging into what’s already been lost, taken, or erased. We were focused on New Orleans, a city filled with complexity: a place where grief and joy live together, where memory bleeds through the cracks demanding to be seen. That tension shaped the heart of our journey.

Whitney Plantation. (May 30th)

We began by examining the roots, the literal and historical foundations of New Orleans, built on the backs of enslaved people. Interview With a Vampire, 12 Years a Slave, and Toni Morrison’s Beloved are all remind us again and again that innovation in this city did not begin in happiness or joy. Instead, it began in violence and exploitation.

Bracelets Left Behind in Remembrance (May 30th)

Walking the grounds of the Whitney Plantation was already emotionally heavy. The air was thick with memory, full of unforgiving stories about violence and horrible atrocities. You can read about slavery, learn about it, watch films, but to stand on the same soil felt all the more powerful.

Scattered throughout the plantation were statues of enslaved children, meant to honor the real enslaved kids who lived and died on the plantation. Most had little offerings at their feet: bracelets, earrings, hair ties. These were things visitors had left behind in remembrance.

The one that struck me the most was a statue of an African American angel holding a baby in her arms. In typical Western iconography, angels are almost always depicted as white. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Black angel before. Beside her was a small teddy bear, an offering someone had left behind. That’s when it all became too real. Grief was still being felt and processed, decades later. Someone had felt something and chose to leave a piece of that emotion behind. Maybe it was a parent, trying to connect with the loss in the only way they knew how.

Angel & Bear (May 30th)

Whitney Plantation (May 30th)

The Yellow House’s Curb (Jun 2nd)

The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom is a memoir about her family, her home, and the neighborhood that disappeared after Hurricane Katrina. The neglect, the false promises, the fact that the house was poorly built from the start. Broom’s mother bought it with such hope, only to watch it fall apart. By the time the levees broke, the city had already failed her.

Visiting the site where the Yellow House once stood was eerie. The pavement was cracked, and the address was hidden under overgrowth on the curb. The very tree described in her book, still standing just a year prior, was now gone. It was almost like the house had never been there at all.

While the Yellow House had been erased, in contrast, Jean-Marcel St. Jacques, a local artist, had been collecting salvaged wood from the wreckage of Katrina and turning it into sculptures, much like altars. These pieces of wood carry memory in every cracked plank, each one a fragment of another Yellow House that might’ve existed. Many are once again surrounded by scattered jewelry: bracelets, rings, left behind by visitors like offerings. It reminded me of the Whitney Plantation. Different spaces, different histories, but the same language of remembrance.

“We were here, and we still are.”

As someone who wants to design for the future, that hit me hard. How can we truly innovate for a place or a people if we don’t know what they’ve already survived? It’s impossible.

Jean-Marcel St. Jacques’ work (May 28th)

Later that day, we met someone who saw something different in the ruins: possibility.

Elvin Ross, a film composer and creative entrepreneur, took us to Jazzland, an old theme park that had been abandoned after Katrina. Most people see a ghost town, but not Elvin. He saw a fresh start, a new project.

He walked us through his vision: turning Jazzland into a film studio, resort, and corporate event hotspot. He was so open with us talking about the pivots, setbacks, and constant reworking. It was almost inspirational.

However, I couldn’t help wondering: Can something new really honor what was never fully realized? It’s so easy as an entrepreneur to dream big when land feels abandoned. But that land holds the weight of a dream that never got to occur. When Elvin speaks of revival, replacing the old with the new, I find myself caught between admiration and hesitation. Can a new dream really rise from an old one that never had the chance to live?

Thalia in the Wreckage of Jazzland (Jun 2nd)

Destroyed Building (Jun 2nd)

I’m someone who’s constantly thinking about what to build next, and I came to New Orleans with the same mindset. However, I’ll leave now understanding that innovation doesn’t start with invention, it starts with listening. Walking the ground and recognizing whose stories were never told, whose homes were never built, and whose dreams were never realized.

To design mindfully for the future, we are forced to confront what was lost in the past. Acknowledge it, mourn it, and learn. It’s hard but it’s necessary for ensuring innovation can mean anything real. Cities may flood, my houses might fall, but memory, if taken care of, ultimately becomes it’s own kind of structure: one we are able to build on.

“The facts of the world before me inform, give shape and context to my own life.”

— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

the yellow camomile and new friends

"YELLOW CAMOMILE AND NEW FRIENDS”

Settling down after finals, I’m overcome with relief and mundanity. A full month of non-stop stressing, studying, writing paper after paper, came to a close instantly. As grades pilled in, I was sitting with a blank slate and a full semester’s worth of fatigue. After a week of celebrating the semester's close came my next challenge, flying to New Orleans with a bunch of strangers to attend my next course. The first assignment?

Do Nothing.

Seriously! That’s what our professor, Andrew Chater, said. Relax, Rest, Observe. You’ve got nothing better to do than exist. It was not what I had been conditioned to do, nor what I had been originally expecting. However I decided to try my best to lean into it. All I had to do was trust the process.

“The walk to the beach was no inconsiderable one, consisting as it did of a long sandy path, upon which a sporadic and tangled growth that bordered it on either side made frequent and unexpected inroads. There were acres of yellow camomile reaching out on either hand.””

— Kate Chopin, The Awakening

A few hours after stepping onto Grand Isle, the same Island The Awakening is set, our group first walked to the ocean. Much like the novel, our path twisted and stretched, possibly retracing the steps Chopin once took. I took time to carefully avoid the yellow flowers, the camomile dotting the ground. Somehow the flowers had survived hurricanes and the test of time. It was almost like fiction was bleeding out into reality, and we got to see the world from the perspective of someone who lived it 100 years before us.

Our walk to the beach! (May 20th)

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Sam Beating, Smashing, and Hammering a Chicken (May 20th)

Before arriving in the airport, I was worried about the individuals who I’d meet on this trip. However, even in the first day we all found ourselves extremely excited and happy to open up to one another. We keep joking, “We’ve only been with each-other for 72 hours?" because it feels like we’ve known each-other for much longer.

Yesterday, Thalia walked in from the patio with her mouth agape and stunned. She looked shook to her core. She had just finished the novel but refused to speak about the ending. I really wanted to know what happened at the end, so I got back to reading. One by one, everyone reached the final pages of the novel and had a similar response. I had to know the ending. By the time I caught up, the entire group surrounded me to witness my reaction. Feeling the eyes on me and flipping to the last page all I could respond with was a loud “seriously?!?”

Thalia absolutely GOBSMACKED (May 22nd)

Edna’s quiet walk into the ocean was devastating. Her either succumbing or rising above societal’s expectations placed upon her after she had fought so hard against the patriarchy and those around her was a brutal way for the story to end. To add insult to injury, it wasn’t just fiction.

We were planning to swim in the same water an hour later….

The same beach Edna died at (May 21st)

Standing waist-deep in the ocean, we discussed topics important to us: Hawaii culture, tourism, and eventually the topic switched to Edna’s unfortunate demise. We could feel the long-standing history that prevailed there, from the alluring perfume of the waves to the disappearance of the Cheniere Caminada. We tried shaking off the mood by discussing the legitimacy of her death (You have to walk FAR out to find somewhere you can’t simply stand!). However, physically sharing the space with the story changes things. The same sand, breeze, and subconscious allure are still prevalent, and the deeply rooted French culture still linguistically permeates the entire isle. While we aren’t tackling the exact same prejudices that Edna faced in the novel, her thoughts are so modern that it’s shocking she wasn’t a modern day theorist. We were floating in the water where Edna succumbed to her death, or the water Kate Chopin likely swam in while she grappled with similar radical ideas. History and contemporary thought oozed not only in the pages we read, but the air, the water, and importantly, the yellow camomile.

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I’ll be honest here… I completely forgot to relax. The whole point of our adventure on the Isles was to unwind and just exist. Instead, I found myself busy every second of the day tanning, reading, and talking late into the night with people I first thought would kill me in my sleep (Richie, I’m looking at you!). I filled my time with urgency, trying to take it all in before it slipped away.

Sometimes being fully present is it’s own kind of meditation. Opening myself up to the land beneath my feet and the weight of the land’s history helps keep me grounded both in fiction and reality. Maybe I didn’t relax how I expected to, but I was living: shaping memories in a place with chapters much older than mine.