new orleans is a lonely place

““I had a vision of him from long ago, that tall, stately gentleman in the swirling black cape, with his head thrown back, his rich, flawless voice singing the lilting air of the opera from which we’d only just come, his walking stick tapping the cobblestones in time with the music, his large, sparkling eye catching the young woman who stood by, enrapt, so that a smile spread over his face as the song died on his lips; and for one moment, that one moment when his eye met hers, all evil seemed obliterated in that flush of pleasure, that passion for merely being alive.””

— Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

At 9 pm on Friday, I dropped off my roommate Nicole at the Shrek rave.

Zig-zagging between a crowd of Puss-in-Boots and Lord Farquaads, I began to make my way back to the Lafayette hotel. There was something absurdly funny about this scene, and somewhat embarrassing too. I felt incredibly out of place in my plain navy top and boring denim shorts, like I had forgotten to dress up during spirit week of high school. I was a blatant intruder amongst a group of vibrant and distinct characters, all a part of a cohesive narrative that I missed out on.

A while ago, the sun had made its flamboyant exit from the sky. These saturated streaks of yellow, orange, and pink were long gone by now. Golden residue of sunshine lingering from the sunset had gradually receded upwards from the buildings, crawling up brick by brick, to reveal a novel scene. Like dimming lights before a long-anticipated performance, the world darkened and hushed to signal the start of a mesmerizing show – a spectacle of decadence and vivacity that played out on the ornate stage of New Orleans with unwavering flair every night.

In the ashes of the day, a neon phoenix of green, yellow, and purple fluttered to life. The Parisian elegance of the French Quarter died; what came back after a strenuous process of resuscitation was something more congruent to the gilded strip of Las Vegas, a vampire of a city ravenous for anything that shines and moves. New Orleans had arisen from its languid afternoon nap. Pastel-colored townhouses, cottages, and shotgun houses blinked awake, their windows brightening like attentive eyes awaiting every action in the streets below. Streetlights illuminated the pathways, casting spotlights onto the eager faces of each passerby.

I started down Decatur street, a modest alley occasionally disturbed by obnoxious motorcycles whose engines roared loudly and convertibles from which exploded pompous music. The songs would always be either upbeat country or angsty rap, their bassline forcefully pumping down the street and their rhythm pouring into every crevice of the atmosphere. Echoes of the loud music resonated through all the air in the vicinity of the vehicle, remaining in place long after their source had fled the scene.

Most of the cafes and galleries lining the sides of the streets were closed by now, their windows morphing into one-way mirrors. They were survived, or rather succeeded, by little oyster restaurants and quaint bars whose dimly lit interiors nevertheless beckoned at hungry, thirsty, or curious passersby. Affectionate couples strutted with arms sweetly linked like pairs of ducks swimming leisurely in a pond. Middle-aged women trotted forward with their girlfriends on the other side of the road, as if not a day had passed from their college years, when the naive light of girlhood softened all the sharp edges of life and rendered everything into a rosy song that one could not help but dance to.

I soon arrived at the edge of Canal Street. I stood and stared into the shifting waters of traffic. The wide road that extended endlessly onwards resembled a river much more than a canal. Incessant streams of cars whizzed past, their movement forming a current of lights. I could easily envision the scene as a long-exposure photo, the headlights and taillights of each car merging into one continuous line that goes on, and on, and on.

As I kept walking, though, I couldn’t help but feel so alone. Despite all its noise and glamour, New Orleans seemed, to me, an incredibly lonely place. The vulgar posters of barely-dressed women and the crude signs symbolic of different alcohol types on Bourbon Street masked a deep layer of melancholy that spread across the whole city.

Between the cracks of pathways separating clusters of buildings was a tired musician heaving a weighty guitar over his shoulder, soundlessly returning home after a long day of performing. At the other street corner, an old man battled the clamor of sensuous night clubs with the graceful music of his lone saxophone. A homeless man lay on the ground with his dog, basking under glowing signs of strip clubs that promised euphoria and a night of happiness to each passerby. On the curb across from him sat a waitress, smoking a cigarette and staring dully forward at nothing in particular.

In the words of Louis, the somber vampire who recounts his lengthy life in the novel Interview with the Vampire, New Orleans was “a magical and magnificent place” in which “a vampire, richly dressed and gracefully walking through the pools of light of one gas lamp after another might attract no more notice in the evening than hundreds of other exotic creatures”. This was a city of pleasures as much as it was a city calloused by overstimulation. New Orleans at night was a heavily processed meal drenched in an unnameable diversity of seasoning and sauces, such that the natural taste of food had become obscured and completely unsearchable. It was a distracting mass of noises, smells, and attractions that grabbed at your attention with overwhelming strength.

In the morning, the LEMON FRESH truck will wash away the dirt and grime, returning again an appearance of cleanliness to the city. As white bubbling tides of soap flow out from under the truck and crash onto the grey curbs of the sidewalk, the stinging smell of artificial lemon and chemical cleaning solution will replenish the streets. New Orleans will once again be safe, for now, from the multifaceted stench of cigarette smoke, trash, alcohol, and other miscellaneous substances. The cycle will continue day after day, even as tourists leave and return, even as taller buildings and newer car models appear one by one to take over the changing city.

The rest of my walk was a sequence of small alleys; I made my way through the artsy but sleepy Magazine Street and crossed over the more modern Poydras Street, arriving finally at the Lafayette hotel again. The grassy square was quiet. Desi Vega’s Steakhouse emanated its candlelight into the dark night. Inside, fancy customers and sharply dressed servers in black suits shifted around noiselessly like actors in a silent film or puppets in a dollhouse. For now, it was time to sleep. My tired legs begged for the softness of my bed– good night, New Orleans!

evening swim on grand isle

“The foamy wavelets curled up to her white feet, and coiled like serpents about her ankles. She walked out. The water was chill, but she walked on. The water was deep, but she lifted her white body and reached out with a long, sweeping stroke. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.”

— Kate Chopin, The Awakening

The lingering embrace of the sun left the beach air buzzing with heat. After a hearty, but over-seasoned, meal of home-made spaghetti bolognese, chicken, and asparagus, we decided to go for a quick swim in the ocean. I watched as my friends, one by one, sprinted into the orange sea, a sparkling mirror image to the static sky painted with unmoving shades of pink and purple. Finally, I made the decision to jump in too!

It was our second full day in Grand Isle, a humble island cradled between the swampy marshlands of Louisiana's southern shore. There was something so foreign yet so familiar about this place; I felt as if we lived inside an Edward Hopper painting. Between bites of gator nuggets and venison tamales, these exotic delicacies which I had to search online to even imagine what they could look like, Grand Isle tugged on the hems of my memory towards the little snippets of Taiwan, my hometown. The palpable heat, the warm ocean, and the sparse blocky houses were all more reminiscent of those hot summer nights on the Baisha Bay than anything I have experienced here in the states, where California’s cold sea water and blue nights instantly banished any remainder of the day, the sun, and the warmth.

There was something procedural in the way that time passed on the island; each day rolled into another predictably like episodes in a TV show, leaving the idle town a crude juxtaposition to the primordial, unchanging shoreline. It seems as though moments can quietly unravel without leaving a mark, and that life can brush past your cheeks so lightly, repeating the same day forever without you ever noticing. I felt like I was stuck in a post-apocalyptic world where the rest of humanity had vanished – taking with them every indicator of change and leaving behind no means of perceiving any real passage of time.

The incessant swaying of waves soon lifted me off of my tip-toes. Swimming, not walking, appeared to be the only way to reach my peers. As I clumsily dog-paddled into the depth, I couldn’t help but think back to our earlier dissection of the Awakening and its disenchanting ending – a tragic scene that takes place right on this very island, in the very ocean that we were swimming in.

In the final scene of the book, Edna, the protagonist, swims out into the horizon and executes one final act of rebellion by committing suicide. As all her terror and exhaustion fades away, Edna swims towards a place with “no beginning and no end”, a place where she can finally be free from the grounding loneliness of everyday life, social responsibilities, and a constant, impenetrable sense of alienation. She leaves behind her family, her lover, and her children. The ocean posed a seductive alternative to everything else – its indomitability, beauty, and unboundedness at once symbols of insurmountable power and of uncurtailed freedom. On such a languid evening like ours, Edna approaches the sea and never returns. This was her choice.

In the distance, flickering waves flattened into an unmoving line. The coral glow of the sun had dulled to a gentle aftertaste now, swallowed by the cavernous night. Street lights blinked like eyes when the waves covered and uncovered them in swift motions.

At that moment, I felt both so powerless yet so free. The water was a giant palm that raised and lowered me with each rounded movement of every tide, the way that a child picks up and puts down her tiny dolls in recreating some epic play-pretend story from the imagination. I tilted my chin up to keep my nose above water, but the waves still hovered closely. That feeling reminded me of trying to fall asleep in a cold, cold room under a thick, heavy blanket. When the blanket was on, you felt the unbearable heat pressing you down into the mattress and drawing out every drop of sweat with its pressing humidity; when the blanket was off, the cool air seeped into your body from the space between your toes and made you shiver helplessly in the glow of the moonlight leaking through the curtains.

At the same time, there was also a sense of comfort underlying the unpredictable oscillating of the waters, like the gentle swing of a hammock on a grassy field. Something pristine glistened under the untameable nature of the ocean – an ancient childlike candidness that only existed in the wilderness, a sincerity that had long been extinguished by the grinding screech of modern city life. The ocean seemed to have a mind of its own – a mind contradictory, indecisive, yet stubbornly swinging like a weighty pendulum. It was at once an object of comfort and an object of terror – like the crawling sense of desperation that “flamed up for an instant” and “sank again” in Edna’s heart. It made you want to stay there forever.

After a while in the waters, my friends and I began to paddle back to shore. Despite the consistent ups and downs of the tide, we safely returned, the sandy ground rising up to meet our feet firmly. The dark blue sky had draped itself over the ocean, and hesitant clouds from the day stayed to indicate their presence, like persistent water stains on a used piece of cloth. The allure of the ocean had now faded into a small whisper of crashing and splashing, as sea foams appeared and disappeared like a flashing grin. As easy as it is to lose yourself in the waves, the shore beams with vitality even on the darkest nights – the plants fluttering with the evening breeze and the yellow flowers illuminated by scattered street lights lining the beach houses. No itching mosquito bite nor the heavy drag of my body through the sand, each grain clinging to my feet with stubborn persistence, can diminish the joy of looking at a sunset, hearing the sound of the waves, or feeling the nice ocean breeze. It was all worth it.

I don’t think Edna made the right choice. I don’t think running away, escape, and abandonment are truly expressions of freedom, courage, and romance. For me, these virtues are much better demonstrated in moving forward despite the swinging tides of life as one pushes towards what they see as beautiful and good. So here’s my choice – to swim back and not just face, but embrace the life that awaits back at the shore.