Richie Nickel

A City With Many Stories

Classic Building in the French Quarter

New Orleans really is a special place. You can hear that about any city, but the unique history of this one makes it a place that embraces the unorthodox, the decadence, and the eccentricity. After exploring the city for the past three weeks, I feel like I understand it better. More than that, though, I know that there are so many sides to it. I understand that I will never truly know what it’s like to live here.

As we took deeper dives into different perspectives, we were seeking out what was authentically New Orleans. Starting in the French Quarter, we explored the French and Spanish influence, the Cajun and Creole influence, and the history of enslavement and plantations. From the brutality of slavery to the myths of the old white south, there are so many perspectives from which history is told. We were in the same city for three weeks, but we never ran out of new perspectives to examine.

I think this is the most important takeaway I’ve had from this class. If you study history from just one perspective, you are most certainly missing something.

Studying novels instead of nonfiction gives us a closer look at the humanity behind each of these individual stories. What is it like to actually live here? New Orleans is one city, but each person who lives in it has their own snapshot of reality. This is critically important to studying history. Understanding the broad strokes over hundreds of years is good, but it's also essential to put ourselves in people’s shoes. What would it be like to live their day-to-day? Why did they make the decisions they made?

Reading these books and learning about these perspectives has helped make this sector of American History feel more real. Instead of just learning about the events that occurred, we had narratives to line them up with. We analyzed why characters made decisions and placed them in the context of their world. This is crucial when it comes to understanding history and its underlying causes.

Dinner at Café Beignet

Our group spent quite a lot of time in the French Quarter. It is the original boundary of the city and, therefore, the most historic, but now it's the most touristy part of the city. There are people here who lean into the tourism myths, and people who lean into the authentic culture of the city. In reality, I think these go hand in hand. The more we talked to people who live here, the more I found that people usually do both. Because what's more authentic than telling a good story so you can put food on the table?

I don’t look down on Bourbon Street. Sure, the music isn’t “Authentic New Orleans Jazz,” but it’s still the very real people of New Orleans selling a simplified version of their culture for some tourist dollars. And who am I to say that's not authentic?

New Orleans does sell a more watered-down version of its history for the tourist dollars, but that doesn’t mean it's hard to find the real cultural hubs. Towards the end of the trip, I found myself spending much more time past the French Quarter in the Marigny. Often considered “the locals’ Bourbon Street,” the focus seems to be much more on the music and less on the partying. I can understand the appeal of Bourbon Street, even if it’s not for me, but three weeks later, I still don’t tire of the Jazz Cafes I so often find myself in. That might be one of my favorite parts of the city. The people of New Orleans can fully lean into both sides. They lean into the stories and myths for tourists, and they lean into more authentic celebrations, such as Second Line parades.

Second Line Parade

One of my favorite examples of this was when we mentioned to our doorman Sean that we were going to a Second Line the next day. His face visibly lit up as he told us about his car parked right outside that was going to be on display. Here was someone who was both working full-time in the tourism industry and participating in a second-line parade. I now know that it isn’t about being touristy versus authentic; it's about being both. New Orleans is able to embrace tourism and be authentic.

In a way, that's what bookpacking has taught me. There are so many stories, so many perspectives in this city. Just like John Kennedy Toole and Walker Percy had different ideas of the world, even though they lived so close to each other. It would be a mistake to take any one of these books as fact; in reality, these are all just small pieces of New Orleans, many different perspectives of a unique and fascinating city.

“The crowd was typical of New Orleans, a cross-section of the Quarter’s denizens: artists, students, tourists, hustlers, musicians, and plain eccentrics.”
— A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole
“The house was painted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies, were green. In the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers and plants of every description which flourishes in South Louisiana”
— The Awakening, Kate Chopin
“New Orleans is a town of people who not only accept failure but also love it, wallow in it, even take pride in it.”
— The Moviegoer, Walker Percy
“The mythology of New Orleans—that it is always the place for a good time; that its citizens are the happiest people alive… can sometimes suffocate the people who live and suffer under the place’s burden, burying them within layers and layers of signifiers, making it impossible to truly get at what is dysfunctional about the city.”
— The Yellow House, Sarah M. Broom

Preserving Jazz

Preservation Hall is a haven for Jazz music. It was founded in the 1960s as a place to preserve the craft and support the musicians as the genre was losing popularity. Today, the historic venue hosts about 60 of the finest jazz musicians on a rotating basis. I remember seeing this night on the syllabus when I was deciding which Maymester to apply to. I couldn’t wait to experience such a pillar of music history.

All nine of us arrived 45 minutes early so we could be first in line for the much more affordable standing tickets. The venue was clearly aware of its image. From painted “dirt” on the windows to the distressed wooden doors with brand new hardware, it feels a little like a theme park in its recreation of a classic Jazz club.

The musicians came out to impressive applause for such a small venue, wearing nothing more than would be expected of any of the other street musicians in the quarter. As they took their places, the trumpet player quietly introduced himself, drawing everyone in. The room got quieter than the French Quarter ever is, with a nearby piano and the newly added air conditioning being the only things competing with his voice.

The music began just as relaxed as the musicians seemed. They almost seemed ambivalent to the audience. This feeling actually gave more space for the improvisatory nature of Jazz. The musicians were in constant communication with each other through their body language and eye contact. There didn’t seem to be a well-established setlist, but they still had smooth entrances and crisp cutoffs.

The music was fantastic. Each of them was clearly very talented, and they all had a chance to be featured as they passed around solos. Yet, there was something that felt different. There was such a barrier between the musicians and the audience. We had all gone to see a “perfect example” of what Jazz is. The musicians played well-rehearsed songs while the audience barely swayed along, only some of them in time. It lacked the exploration and freedom that Jazz embodies.

“You were both changing direction with every sentence, sometimes in the middle, using each other as a springboard through the dark. You were moving so fast it was unimportant to finish and clear everything. He would be describing something in 27 ways. There was pain and gentleness everything jammed into each number.”
— Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter

Michael Ondaatje begins to describe this experience in an abstract way. He uses metaphors of rivers, fires, and other wild natural elements, exploring new paths. He describes the messiness, mistakes, and newfound direction that come from these misses. He describes being overtaken by the spirit of the music, with the notes just flowing out. All of these descriptions begin to capture the jazz I thought we were going to hear - music that is an exploration.

This is why Buddy Bolden is revered among musicians. While you won’t find him in the charts or on the radio, his influence is everywhere. This was confirmed in the way band leader and trumpeter Branden Lewis’ eyes lit up when we told him we were learning about him for our class. He was happy to hear about our thoughts on one of the pioneers of the genre, while acknowledging that Bolden was a complicated character.

Something about Preservation Hall lost this freedom.

“He was never recorded. He stayed away while others moved into wax history, electronic history, those who said later that Boldon broke the path.”
— Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter

A few days later, I found myself on Frenchman Street, sometimes known as “the locals’ Bourbon Street.” Quieter and nestled into the neighborhood, this street is full of Jazz clubs and live music without the souvenir shops. It is full of all kinds of art in a way that feels a little bit less performative. I first stopped into a record shop. It was chock-full of local music. Each table had a record or CD player with headphones for you to “try before you buy,” all under the watchful eye of the shop cat.

A little bit further up the street, I stopped into the Spotted Cat Music Club. I was immediately taken by the soaring clarinet solo I walked in on. Despite its place as a core jazz instrument, I hadn’t heard much of the instrument in New Orleans so far.

There were seven musicians in all, but they all handed off parts like a conversation. They communicated with their notes like a call and response. It was playful. They challenged each other the whole time, receiving audible reactions from the band and audience alike when they tripped someone up. They were hardly mistakes, just new points to jump off of. The room breathed as one the entire time. Everyone was involved, and everyone moved in time, unlike Preservation Hall. This was the Jazz I had been looking for.

Jazz is a genre, but its more than that too. Jazz is a feeling, an experience, a freedom. Preservation Hall has its place. It has preserved, celebrated, and supported the music and the musicians that make the music through difficult times. I still think it deserves the reputation it has. However, the idea of preserving “what was,” is diametrically opposed to the freedom and exploration that Jazz embodies.

“He tore apart the plot - see his music was immediately on top of his own life. Echoing. As if, when he was playing he was lost and hunting for the right accidental notes.”
— Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter

We need places like Preservation Hall, but we also need places like the Spotted Cat Music Club. We need places for music to run wild, for creative freedom to be celebrated.

Michael Ondaatje describes this in the form of Coming Through Slaughter, as well as the content. He assembles the book like a scrapbook of sorts. It is creative and exploratory; it doesn’t fall into standard conventions. Ondaatje includes standard prose, third-person dialogue, first-person narrative, song lyrics, representations of pictures, and stream of consciousness. This creative form does more than just tell the story; it outlines Jazz itself. We are immersed in the freedom of Jazz and Bolden’s exploration. I found this in the Spotted Cat Music Club more than anywhere else in the city.

Katrina’s Quiet Legacy

We stood under the shade of the same beautiful live oaks with Spanish moss hanging down, as it became clear that this side of the city was still suffering the effects of Katrina.

“Katrina’s postscript—the physical wasteland”
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

This inconspicuous street was what we had been reading about all week. I felt like I knew the place. Sarah M. Broom’s careful descriptions of each of the houses on the street gave me a pretty good mental map of the area before we visited. I knew the people there, and the people who used to be there. I recognized the concrete slab where the Davis family used to live, the more affluent Ms. Octavia’s brick house, and the thin strip that is 4121 Wilson Avenue. The Yellow House.

“the short, industrialized end of Wilson Avenue, where I grew up, from the longer residential end of mostly brick houses,”
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

Of course, the house doesn’t stand today; it’s just a thin strip of land next to an impound lot and junkyard. The only landmark on the property itself is the address under the long grass and weeds on the curb. I’ll be honest, it’s a little bizarre reading so much about this Yellow House just for it not to be there. I didn’t know I had this much anticipation to see it, but I have to admit it fits. The yellow house was the epicenter of the family. Throughout all of the struggles and life changes, the yellow house remained, even if it barely stood. Then, when it was gone, the epicenter of this family’s story went with it.

Our Professor pointed out that the old Cyprus was gone, too. This landmark has stood for New Orleans bookpackers in previous years, but it no longer does. I think it shows how this street is moving on from the story of the Yellow House. This place, which has held generations of people, is moving on, removing any trace of what came before. Soon, the book will be the only physical memory of what used to be here.

As we stood by the empty lot, a local working at the junkyard next door mentioned that her boss had bought the land and was planning on expanding. They had just taken out the tree a couple of weeks prior. I was surprised it had been so recent, since there hardly seemed to be a trace in all the overgrowth. It is all about to be gone.

As much as I recognized all of the landmarks as Sarah M. Broom had described them, something about the street hung with me. You could almost feel the emptiness; the people who had left this place behind. Places like these are a stark contrast to the French Quarter, where we spend so much of our time. Without the money to rebuild immediately, people have left. For every well-maintained house, there is one in disrepair and one empty one.

The street’s emptiness was contrasted by the active industrial zone, with multiple cars going into the junkyard while we were there. Wilson Street feels a little forgotten. Some houses remain standing, but the activity is only industrial. Tow trucks moving in and out, empty lots, and quiet disrepair don't fit in with the “affluent suburb” this place was supposed to be. The houses that stand are the ones that feel out of place.

“I repeated it back to myself: We lived on an industrial-zoned street where the houses were the exceptions.”
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

Entrance Gate

Later that morning, we transitioned from focusing on what used to be to what could be. We drove onto the site where Emmy-winning composer Elvin Ross plans to build a film and corporate retreat complex. This park was built for Jazzland, a jazz-themed park, before it was acquired by Six Flags. The park didn’t last long under either name, with Hurricane Katrina taking it out nearly twenty years ago. The area has been falling into disrepair, with only its parking lot being used for a couple of blockbuster films.

Ross has an inspiring vision for the place and an acute understanding of what it could mean for the area. He imagines a variety of multipurpose modular sound stages being built, housing corporate retreats, e-sport tournaments, and blockbuster films alike. Ross also plans to build all the facilities required for these events on the park grounds, knowing that the shored-up swampland is currently the most valuable asset within the 120-150 acres it occupies.

We arrived at a historic moment for the park. Power was being connected for the first time in 20 years, kickstarting this ambitious project. As we walked through the gates, the bones of a theme park were immediately apparent. The remains of replications of historic French Quarter buildings were recognisable amidst the rubble and under the graffiti. You could see the waterline just above my chest height, where the devastating storm surge reached. It told a similar story to Wilson Street.

Katrina’s Waterline

Despite all of this rubble, the potential was evident. Ross and his son Landon took us around the park, showing us renderings of what they hoped to build, transforming the good bones that we stood on. Ideas for administrative offices, performance venues, cabanas, and soundstages showed a transformed park, part of a revitalized community.

As Edwin Ross described the potential for the education portion of this project, his love for the city was evident. That's exactly what a place like this needs. Bold investments could revitalize areas like this, injecting cash into a community that could use it.

The Soul of the City

Music has always been a special part of my life; it's the thing that “makes me tick.” I’ve played piano, violin, and guitar for most of my life in orchestras, small ensembles, and on my own. This is actually my second time in the city, and while I am too young to remember it, my parents love to tell stories of how I loved spending hours listening to the music on the street and riding in the streetcar. While my time in this city looks a little different with the addition of bookpacking and writing papers, when I am done with work for the day, it still closely resembles my visit about 17 years ago.


Our first full day in New Orleans began with a walking tour of the French Quarter, the original boundary of the city in 1718. As we dodged the sunny side of the sidewalk or banquette, as it’s called in NOLA, I started my Google Maps list of places to check out later. As overpowering as the heat was, it was no match for my excitement to be in this city of music.

One of my favorite areas we passed through was Jackson Square, honoring the complicated Founding Father, Andrew Jackson. Many of the statues and plaques still portray a somewhat rosy view of him and his legacy, although some recent additions add additional context to the complicated history of this city.


This square, which used to be the ground of military parades, now welcomes a new type of congregation, hosting many street vendors and musicians. Everything from tarot readings and colorful artwork to solo musicians and brass jazz bands. Our group stopped to listen to a classic brass sextet playing traditional New Orleans jazz, a subset that originated from a combination of jazz chord progressions and upbeat ragtime rhythms. Naturally, I was last to leave and had to run to catch up to the rest of the group on the way to the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum.

This museum addresses the gross injustice that African Americans and Women faced in access to quality pharmaceuticals, barriers to a pharmaceutical education, and barriers to the jobs they deserved once they did receive an education. The museum used examples from around the world, but had a specific focus on the neighborhood it's in. It was an important reminder of the difficult racial past of the city.

After the museum, we were off for the day to explore the city and continue bookpacking. I started making my way deeper into the French Quarter without a plan, simply following the music. While much of the live music is in 21+ establishments at night, they are typically open to everyone during the day.

I first found myself outside the Vampire Cafe, a themed restaurant near the center of the quarter. In a 10’ by 10’ tent outside the restaurant on the street, there was a three-piece band playing some Swamp Blues. This genre is a slower tempo blues with Cajun and Jazz influences, often known for soulful, ethereal vocals and a strong bassline. With just a keyboard, bass, drumset, and vocals, they captured my attention. I sat for the better part of an hour enjoying the music from the street. It’s hard to define what pulls me in so deep to this music, but something about the gritty vocals and the soaring piano runs kept me sat. There is nothing quite like the feeling of live music like this.

When the band finished their set, I finally moved on, still without a plan or deadline, just following my ears. I continued on my way, stopping in piano bars and cafes, just taking it in. This is by far my favorite part of the city. No timelines, just finding more music to enjoy.

Another one of my favorite stops was outside Cafe Beignet, a local chain. Right in the street, a musician was playing an impressive combination of guitar, harmonica, vocals, whistling, and drums and percussion with his feet. All of this, combined with a harmonizer pedal, brought an impressively full sound from just one person. I spent another hour listening to his music, commonly known as Neo-Soul Blues. This genre combines classical soul vocals and blues style with new instrumentations and forms. I thoroughly enjoyed this musician’s sound and innovative way of making classic blues music his own. Something about the way music relates to human emotions is special.

All in all, I spent about 5 hours exploring the French Quarter in heat I was not suited for as a Wisconsinite, but it was still one of my favorite days in the city.

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The musical exploration continued the next day, with a second line parade. These jubilant parades are put on every Sunday afternoon during the summer parade season. They began as a form of advertisement for neighborhood social aid organizations, and were also used in funerals as a celebration and honoring of life. They consist of a brass band parading down the street, with the club members following in colorful and coordinated outfits behind. Members of the community follow behind as the “second line.” These jubilant celebrations are at the heart of the city's cultural identity.

Yet again, we faced some oppressive heat, made worse by our preparation for a rainstorm that never came. As we got closer and closer, the sidewalks and medians started filling up with grills strapped to pickup trucks, pop-up tailgate bars, and lots of people. I didn’t know what to expect, but there was palpable excitement in the air.

As we neared the start of the parade, most of the group went into a local fried chicken restaurant on the corner, but I decided to try my luck with one of the barbecues in a truck. For just $6 I had one of the best smoked sausages I’ve ever tried.


Finally, the parade arrived! It was a sea of dancing people, lead by a brass jazz band, accompanied by all sorts of makeshift percussion. The energy was electric; all generations were dancing and having the time of their lives. Thousands of people marched with no differentiation between the road, yard, or sidewalk. Behind the jazz band, multiple open trailers played their own music, with people dancing and DJs spinning mostly hip-hop and rap.

We followed this parade until its end, about an hour and a half later, and I quickly made plans to return the next week. I’ve experienced parades before but it’s never been quite like this. The energy from the music is felt by everyone, making it a truly community-oriented event. The music I’ve heard in the French Quarter is the music of the city, but parades like these are where the residents themselves go to experience it.

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A Lazy Grand Isle

Hwy 1

The Grand Isle feels like a sort of haven, almost like you aren’t supposed to be there at all. There’s only one way in by land, although it hardly feels appropriate to call the soaring two-lane road “by land.” This pathway transported us dozens of miles, soaring over swamp, marsh, and open water to the small island. I’ve never seen roads like it. From tall stilts high above the Spanish moss-covered cypress trees, down to roads just inches above the water, we traveled from urban New Orleans through small towns to Grand Isle. Stepping out of the van for the first time since the airport, we get a small reprieve from Louisiana’s oppressive, humid heat from the ocean’s blustery wind whipping through the stilts of our home for the next five days. Once we finally lugged our luggage up the two flights of stairs to the house, it proved to be the perfect communal setup to get to know the people we would be spending the next four weeks with.

Our screened in porch overlooking the water

As our professor insisted, my first full day on the Isle began quite slowly. There was a lot to take in, from the three porch options to my favorite, the beach. Once again, we left the relaxing air conditioning and were hit with the intense wave of heat. While I've grown to expect this heat, I still can’t say I am used to it. Once we descended the two flights of stairs to the ground level, we were faced with a surprisingly treacherous embankment. Even though it was the same sight as before, being the only people on this beach was an impactful experience for me. The island is certainly developed, but it remains quiet during the off-season we found ourselves in.



My reading room

Unbeknownst to me when making my decision, I began reading Kate Chopin’s The Awakening just as I imagine protagonist Edna Pontellier would’ve spent much of her vacation, lazily lounging on the beach. While it wasn’t quite as lavish as Edna’s high-class retreat would’ve had it, I still had the same endless beauty of the ocean in front of me … and the same sand in my coffee from the ever-persistent wind.

I immediately recognized the laid-back nature of Grand Isle as it’s described in The Awakening in the world around me. Something about the island demands your undivided attention. It’s impossible to completely describe how the power and dependability of the ocean’s waves allow you to give in and just experience the world around you. This focus drew the nine of us closer at a pace that wouldn’t have been possible anywhere else. Escaping the bustle of college life in the city was truly a blessing right after finals.

“She felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to look upon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up of beauty and brutality.

”
— Kate Chopin, The Awakening

The Grand Isle

The strong winds deterred most of the group from staying long, but I stayed and looked out over the same ocean as Edna, besides some plastic litter and oil rigs. As I lay on the beach just as she had, I was able to not just imagine, but understand her world. The slower-paced lifestyle is fundamental to the book's development and her decisions. This extra space to think and contemplate, paired with a location that seems so removed from the rest of the world, gives Edna the freedom to make these bold decisions. Pursuing Robert, ignoring her children, adopting a more French feeling of openness; all of these can be attributed to this unique destination we find ourselves in 155 years later.

Despite copious amounts of sunscreen, I felt a sunburn forming and was forced back inside. We were so clearly instructed to just relax, move slow, and enjoy where we are, but somehow that was more difficult for me than any papers or blog posts. Detaching and just living in the moment isn’t as easy as it sounds, especially right after finals. It was the ocean, the constant power of the waves, the unrelenting wind, and of course, the many hermit crabs that finally helped me relax. It was the music of New Orleans that brought me on this maymester, but the Grand Isle was an unanticipated bonus.

““The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.””
— Kate Chopin, The Awakening

Throughout the Grand Isle portion of our trip, I focused on taking in the natural world around us. I waded in the ocean every opportunity I got, I picked up countless shells looking for hermit crabs, and I even found a coconut. This was how I was able to just relax and exist. I love the beach, wherever it is, but I’ve never had an experience like this. Yes, there was a lot of seaweed to get through, and the waves weren’t big enough to bodysurf, but because of how we spent our time, this beach was more relaxing than any beach I’d been to before.

Pre-swim pictures

As beautiful as nature is on the island, it doesn’t tell the complete story. While the view looking out over the ocean certainly is, the island itself is not as I described. There are still the remains of houses likely destroyed by Hurricane Ida. The splintered wood and rusted metal tell the story of people that I don’t know. I can’t help but wonder about them and why they didn’t rebuild. These serve as a reminder of the fleeting nature of the island. Nothing can be permanent in such a vulnerable location, not even the land itself.

Remains of a pier destroyed by Hurricane Ida