Thalia

Goodbye Orleans, Goodbye my teens

I sit on a full plane, back and neck aching from a nap in the restraining window seat. I’m finally flying home to Hawaii after nearly a month in New Orleans. A flight attendant hands me the familiar Plants and Animals Declaration Form, one all returning residents know by heart.
As a kid, my parents would fill it out for the family. It was the quiet signal that our vacation had come to an end and we were heading back to everyday life. But these past two years, I’ve flown solo from college. I fill out my own form now.

Question 11: What is your age? 

I hesitate. Then slowly, I fill in the boxes: 2 - 0

it was my first time writing it down. 

By the way fate aligned things, the last day of our maymester also happened to be my birthday. I spent the final weeks of my teens in New Orleans, and the first real day of my twenties in the sky somewhere between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean.

Like clockwork, my birthday always makes me reflective. It's a sort of silent contemplation. I start looking inward, asking myself how much I’ve changed since my last spin around the sun.  What parts of me have grown? What regrets do I carry? What do I want this next year to look like?

New Orleans, in its own way, is built for that kind of thinking. It’s a city that wears both its beauty and brokenness on its sleeve. The beautiful galleries, the ferns growing from the crumbling bricks, the thick air filled with the smell of beignets and the sound of jazz. It’s all layered, complex, and unapologetically alive. I spent my days wandering aimlessly, sweating through every step without care. Maybe that’s why so many literary minds found themselves here. The atmosphere is creative and lax. It allows for drifting.

“To become aware of the possibility of the search is to be onto something. Not to be onto something is to be in despair.”
— The Moviegoer, Walker Percy

And in that way, I was similar to Binx Bolling, the main character of our last novel, The Moviegoer by Walker Percy. It follows Binx just before his 30th birthday as he begins “the search,” a personal quest to find meaning beyond the monotony of everyday life.

In some sense, I know the search pretty well. I’ve always wondered what my life would be like without the burden of routine. I think about what I would do or discover about myself if I had the ability to just be. I know what it means to be stuck in repetition. At school, I am constantly doing more: more work, more commitments, more goals. Back home it’s another rhythm of routine: chores, errands, responsibilities.

But this trip, the time we’ve had in Louisiana, became my search. It gave me a break from my ordinary. I got to wake up with days that weren't entirely planned (outside of lessons). I would take little detours into random antique stores, try a new coffee shot everyday,  and sit on the bank of the Mississippi River, watching the boats pass by. In this space, I remember the joy of pause, just like in the Grand Isle. This made space for other things too. 

It allowed me to think more about my future. This trip fortified my love for pharmacy with our visit to the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum. It also made me think more about where I’d be pursuing my continued schooling. I even found myself looking in Xavier University, a place I’d never considered before. I realized maybe my next steps don’t have to be what I always imagined. 

New Orleans helped me connect with my heritage, too. Haitian influence is everywhere in the city, in the architecture, the music, and the food. It was a marvel seeing such strong ties. It felt like I was discovering new parts of my identity, especially being Haitian in America. It’s one of the first places I’ve seen with the Haitian flag waving around, proudly on display. And I can't describe how warming that felt to me. 

And as much as I enjoyed the city, it’s the people who made it unforgettable. Throughout this trip, I got to meet so many amazing souls who told me their stories and shared a laugh with me. Those kinds of connections made this worthwhile. It wasn’t just the locals, but the ones I came here with too. 

I was really scared I wouldn’t click with anyone in this class. Thank goodness I was worried for nothing! From patio talks in the grand isle to jazz crawls through the city to late night Pizza Luna trips, I found people who made me laugh, who made me think, and showed me new things. They became more than some random names on the email list, they became my friends. 

To me, a good birthday is simple: good food and good company. I was lucky enough to find both. That morning, I grabbed my last batch of beignets and sat at a table to watch people. Towards the afternoon, I made one final trek across the French Quarter to try the hole-in-the-wall spot I’d been eyeing for a while. And that night, our class gathered for one last dinner together, to celebrate, reflect, and say goodbye.

I can’t think of a better place to usher in a new decade of my life than New Orleans, a city that balances tradition and change, chaos and comfort, the old and the new. What a perfect metaphor for this moment in my life.

In the end, Binx never really arrives at some grand, cosmic answer to his search. And I think that’s the point. Life doesn’t always hand you conclusions neatly tied with a bow as much as it would be a great birthday gift. But I’ve come to believe there isn’t one big answer to the meaning of life (other than 42, iykyk). It’s stitched together from smaller moments. The little pockets of joy, of learning, of connection. That’s where life’s meaning comes from. 

I don’t have all the answers yet. I don’t know if I ever will. I’m only 20. 

But I have found a few pieces of the puzzle. I know I want to help people. I know that I want to feel proud of the way I live, not just the things I achieve. I know I want to stay open, to new places, new people, new opportunities in my life. So, as I sit on this plane, completed form in hand, I reflect on my time in New Orleans and on my teenage years, ready to step into this next chapter of my life. 

“ It is not a bad thing to settle for the Little Way, not the big search for the big happiness but the sad little happiness of drinks and kisses, a good little car and a warm deep thigh.

”
— The Moviegoer, Walker Percy

pain and pride

As a class, we piled into a van and drove out to New Orleans East, right to 4121 Wilson Ave. An empty plot. It was overgrown with lush greenery so thick  we could barely make out the fading numbers on the street curb. Despite it being my first time there, I felt like I already knew the place. I had walked through the rooms that once stood, listened in on family conversations from decades ago, and watched it face the wrath of Hurricane Katrina. That’s because our fourth book on this trip was all about this exact plot of land and the family who once made it home. 

Where a yellow camelback shotgun house once stood, there was now nothing. Even the cypress tree that once remained after the house was torn down was now gone too. What stood before us was simply a patch of land, scheduled to be swallowed by the car yard next door. Without The Yellow House, you'd be none the wiser to the stories 4121 Wilson Ave held.

The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom recounts the life of her family at 4121 Wilson Avenue, a small yellow shotgun house in New Orleans East, a part of New Orleans that rarely makes it onto tourist maps or into public memory. The memoir expands the boundaries of that map, giving a voice to the often erased stories of Black families like hers. Broom preserves the presence of a home that no longer stands, fortifying it in the minds of her readers so that the house, and everything it held, is never truly lost.

Present day 4121 Wilson Ave

““Shame is a slow creeping. The most powerful things are quietest, if you think about it. Like water.””
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

One of the memoir’s greatest themes is shame, one that is rooted in the systemic neglect and internalized racism. For Broom, the shame takes shape in the yellow house itself.

As the house fell deeper into disrepair, Broom and her family stopped having visitors. She became deeply embarrassed with their home. This drove her to develop anxiety around being seen. When being dropped off by her friend’s parents, she would refuse to let them see the short end of Wilson, pretending she needed to stop at a store and walking the rest of the way home. 

The shame consumed her, to the point the house no longer felt like a place of comfort. But this shame wasn’t something Broom necessarily invented, it was something inherited.

“America required these dualities anyway and we were good at presenting our double selves. The house, unlike the clothes our mother had tailored to us, was an ungainly fit.”
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

In fact, the first mention of being embarrassed about the house didn’t come from Sarah, but from her mother, Ivory Mae. Being born in 1930s Louisiana, Ivory Mae grew up in a time where her proximity to whiteness brought a certain level of protection and respectability. From this, Ivory Mae internalized the idea that how others saw her, was tied to her worth. So when the Yellow House began to crumble, so did her pride. This was something that was quietly passed down to her daughter.

The beauty of the Yellow house is that Broom doesn’t bury her shame. She writes it into existence and by doing so, she transforms it into pride. Her memoir becomes a reclamation of her home, her family’s story, and the story of a Black New Orleans that otherwise would’ve been lost to time, like the physical yellow shotgun house. 

Through Sarah and through the Yellow House, I was able to know, to feel what once was. As readers, we were able to feel the breath of life on the Short End of Wilson Street, despite it being physically empty. I love that the book allowed me to see a New Orleans I never would’ve known otherwise.

And I love the New Orleans I do get to see. Beyond the seventy eight blocks of the French Quarter, to the north lies the Treme. For days, I found myself rushing past Rampart St. and getting lost in the faubourg. The old French style houses parked up next to the modern cars of their residents made for the perfect harmony of past and present, just like the community itself, where generations come together to keep traditions alive and remember culture.

One of my favourite places was the Backstreet Cultural Museum, nestled right in the folds of the Treme. It was the passion project of the late Slyvester “Hawk” Francis that shows his love of his community. The museum tells a story of African American history, particularly in New Orleans, and the beauty and joy that stemmed from hardship. It celebrates so many cultural treasures, from Mardi Gras Indians to Baby Dolls to Jazz Funerals. In short, it shows the vibrancy and connection of Black New Orleans, highlighting the absolute talent, care, and creativity that goes into the preservation and evolution of these traditions. 

Another highlight are the second line parades. It was amazing to see a community come together just to celebrate and have fun.  Second line parades are a weekly event, hosted by rotating social aid and pleasure clubs. Despite the heat and humidity our class struggled with, the neighborhood radiated energy.

People of all ages walked the streets following the band, dancing their worries away. The band’s tune carried across the crowd, whistles and the clinking of glass bottles in tow. People moved to the rhythm: freestyle steps, hips swaying, and head shaking over the uneven terrain. Families and organizations showed up in style with their coordinated outfits. Baby Dolls twirled their parasols, handkerchiefs and sweat towels waved in the air. The smell of food vendors that line the route drifted through the streets. Folks smiled and danced from their porches.

It was warm. It was real. You could feel the spirit of the community, roaring proudly through the streets of New Orleans.

I, of course, went back the next week. And will go again this week too. I cherish every part of it, especially because it’s something I didn’t grow up with. I feel incredibly blessed to be from Hawaii, and I carry a deep pride for my home. But growing up, I didn’t have a strong Black community around me. It left me feeling somewhat disconnected from my Black identity. A big reason I chose to come to New Orleans was to connect more to that part of myself. 

New Orleans is a unique, historically Black city, a mecca of culture, resilience, and joy. It’s a place where so many Black traditions have not only survived but flourished, shaped by history and bloomed through love, creativity, and community. It’s an honour to witness even a small part of it. And I’m grateful for what Broom shared. Her memoir shows a true love for her community, all of it, the pain and the pride. It shows me a part of the city that embraces its scars while dancing through the streets, a place that remembers while moving forward.  Broom’s story, and New Orleans itself, remind me there’s a power in remembering and a pride in claiming every part of who you are. 

Voices of the city

“It was clear that the French Quarter and its surrounds was the epicenter. In a city that care supposedly forgot, it was one of the spots where care had been taken, where the money was spent. Those tourists passing through were the people and the stories deemed to matter. ”
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

When I first arrived in New Orleans, the French Quarter was dazzling. Its pastel buildings, quaint galleries, and endless live music felt like walking into a movie. But as the days went on, that sparkle wore off, and I could finally see past the glitz and glamour. Underneath I saw the cracked pavements, the uniformed workers wiping off sweat from their brows from standing in the heat, and a city selling itself bite-sized portions. This was much harder to romanticize. 

Everyday we trek through crowds of tourists in search of something “authentic.” But the more I looked, the more I saw how much of the French Quarter was made to perform, to please, and to sell. It really hit me during the ghost tour. 

It was exactly as our Professor described it, absolute “touristy schlock.” At first, I played along. I’m not one for spooky stories, but they’re some easy fun. However my tune changed when the guide shared the tale of little boy ghosts who supposedly stole women’s undergarments at the Andrew Jackson hotel, just minutes before launching into the brutal story of Madame Laluarie, a woman who tortured and murdered enslaved people in her mansion. 

I was stunned. How could these two stories, one comical and the other rooted in real, traumatizing history be on the same tour as if they were equally trivial? It felt so disrespectful. 

At the same time, our class was diving into the deep-rooted traumas of slavery that underpin New Orleans’ history. It made me re-evaluate my thoughts of the city. There was such a contrast, the curated whimsy of the French Quarter versus the weight of the city’s heavy history. How could a place whose story and history has so much pain attached to it, be repainted and rebranded as a city of mystic and partying?

A picture I took of the Voodoo Museum gift shop. No words.

The same discomfort resurfaced at the New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum. Vodou (spelled the correct way) is a deeply spiritual practice and an intertwining of Afro-Haitian traditions with Roman Catholicism. But here, it was reduced to dolls, trinkets, and love potions, with no effort to explain the difference between Haitian Vodou and Louisiana Voodoo. Even the usage of “Voodoo” felt like a slap in the face, fortifying the long history of demonization of the religion that was used to justify slavery, uphold white supremacy, and stigmatize Black religion. 

The lack of these explanations and the gimmicky nature of the museum disrespects both versions of the religion and furthers the misrepresentation of it as a whole. 

““The mythology of New Orleans—that it is always the place for a good time; that its citizens are the happiest people alive, willing to smile, dance, cook, and entertain for you; that it is a progressive city open to whimsy and change—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”
”
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

What I was seeing in the Quarter was painfully familiar. It reminded me of Waikiki back in Hawaii, another place that unfortunately rebrands culture for tourism that further silences much of the true history and story of the area. Everything becomes repackaged, commercialized and inaccurate to make it digestible to the palate of a paying customer.

Sarah M. Broom, as a resident of New Orleans East, is able to capture this paradox beautifully. In her book, The Yellow House, she makes many points that show the story of New Orleans that is shared is not the story of its people.  The myth of New Orleans not only misrepresents the city, it erases the hardship, injustice, and the very people whose labour and culture are being sold back to tourists.

As a class we visited the ruins of Jazzland, an amusement park in Eastern New Orleans decimated by Hurricane Katrina. We were honoured enough to receive a tour by Elvin Ross, the founder of the production company e.ross studios which now owned the land. He showed us around while sharing the details of reconstruction for the space.

Walking through the overgrown attractions, I started talking to Mason, the project manager. We went on commenting on the scene around us before he asked where I was from. When I told him I was from Hawaii, we immediately bonded over our shared frustrations. He told me of the city post-Katrina: long-time residents were displaced, corporations buying up land from desperate locals, and the subsequent jacked up prices, a problem also happening back home.

I asked him to voice his thoughts of the French Quarter, and he said plainly, “It ain’t all that.”

I agreed. 

He said the true culture of New Orleans lives outside of the Quarter: in second-line parades, in the music, and in the voices of the people who live here, not just the craziness of Bourbon Street. He seemed pleasantly surprised when I told him our class already knew of these things, and were joining in. 

Another great voice belongs to Brandon, the elderly man who manages the Royal Pharmacy. I finally was able to catch the shop open, and learned the reason was because he was the only one working there. As I sat on a stool at the soda fountain bar, he told me, half-joking, that a pelican (the state bird!) hit the shop’s wall during a storm when he was born, dropping him into the arms of the owner’s wife, and he's been there ever since. 

I told him I was a pharmacy student and he shared that the Royal Pharmacy hasn’t had a licensed pharmacist for two years, since the last one retired. In fact, there are no pharmacists in the French Quarter currently, not even at Walgreens or CVS. We chatted a bit about life in the French Quarter. He complained about the maintenance of the historical look, the smells of the streets, and, of course, the tourists.

“Tourists never wanna hear the real history of this city. Spoils their vacation.” 

That part.

In The Yellow House, Broom writes of a New Orleans that exist in fragments, a memory of a place thats been paved over and priced out. The New Orleans I’ve come to know is a layered and beautiful city full of joy, rhythm, and resilience. But when it’s history is packaged for mass consumption, what’s left out is authenticity, the people who shape the city, and their stories.

That same complicated feelings Broom expresses is what, I too, feel. As a visitor, I can’t pretend to understand it all. But I can choose to look beyond the dazzling lights of the Quarter and listen to the real voices of the city, the ones ever-present and waiting to be heard.

Midwives, migraines, and me

We’ve been in New Orleans for a week and I’ve cried on at least five separate occasions. Now, I promise I’m not a crybaby, though I’m pretty sure no one on this trip believes that. The first time it happened was on Saturday, during our visit to the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum, basically every pharmacy student’s dream. 

I was beyond excited to go. During my personal research on NOLA, the museum was already on my list of places to visit, so seeing it embedded into the syllabus felt like fate. I genuinely enjoy my major (and I like to think I’m pretty good at it), so I couldn’t wait to explore what the museum had to offer and why it was nestled right into the middle of the French Quarter.

Senior-year Thalia visiting USC!

If you told my younger self I’d be pursuing a career in pharmacy, she wouldn’t believe you for a second. And if you were to ask high school me what I was in university for, she would’ve most definitely have said anything but a science-related major. But after the pandemic, I started experiencing recurring ear pain and migraines. I spent days in discomfort, confused and frustrated as to why I was cursed with pulsating pain in the brain. It came to a head (see what I did there), and I finally went to urgent care. I remember sitting there, clutching my head, thinking, “Please make this pain go away. Please make me feel like myself again.”

The doctors never gave me a clear diagnosis, but I was administered medication that helped ease the pain. It was one of the first times I fully realized and appreciated the impact of modern medicine, how powerful it is to be able to offer someone even a moment of relief. That experience sparked something in me, a fascination with medicine and a desire to help others feel better, just as I was. Once I imagined becoming a pharmacist, I couldn’t see myself doing anything else.

I try to hold onto that feeling, the gratitude and curiosity. I remember how it felt to get accepted into USC Mann, how fun it is to learn new concepts in class, and how rewarding this field can be. But as of late, I’ve found myself in a sophomore slump. I just finished the first semester of organic chemistry, which is not a walk in the park, lemme tell you. This hard semester had cracked my spirits and made me question whether I could actually thrive in this industry. 

The museum came at exactly the right time. Funnily enough, I’ve been going through a bout of migraines (#allergywarrior) and had one that morning. But I was determined to make sure that this would not boggle my day down. I perked up at any mention of the museum, and was buzzing with excitement to get in. Stepping into the door brought me so much glee.

The left wall was lined with shelves, jars filled with everything a pharmacist back in the day could ever need. The right wall displayed medications of the past, organized by the ailments they treated. I took a moment to absorb the entire room before honing in on the white placards that described the scene before me.

The museum, rightfully so, was filled to the brim with patrons so I decided to explore the upstairs portion before doubling back to the first room. As I climbed the stairs, I zoomed to a room that immediately caught my attention. I peered through the cases with sheer amazement, completely abandoning the group. Every section in these cases captivated me: homeopathy in New Orleans, the mythical and medical histories of different plants, tools and treatments used by early otolaryngologists. 

One particular section intrigued me: midwifery and obstetrics in Louisiana. It emphasized the critical role midwives played, especially enslaved midwives. There was a portion about a particular nurse and midwife, Aimee Potens, a woman of colour born in Haiti who escaped the island on the cusp of the Haitian Revolution. She ended up at a sugar plantation in St. James Parish, where she learned the skills to become a nurse and midwife. Eventually, Aimee became a free woman of colour and continued to serve as a midwife. She later lived in the antebellum New Orleans and raised her children, her second growing up to become a doctor, an activist, and the founder and publisher of New Orleans Tribune, the first Black daily newspaper in the U.S.

Reading her story filled me with indescribable pride. It was a testament to Haitian resilience and achievement, and I loved that it was something memorialized and honoured in this city. This history of New Orleans is greatly intertwined with Haitian history. In 1810, Haitians doubled the population of the city as they sought refuge from the instability post-revolution. Their legacy is woven into the city’s culture, cuisine, language, and traditions. 

I spent most of my time in the next room, an exhibit on African Americans in New Orleans, highlighting the early development of Black pharmacy education in the south and the barriers Black people faced in seeking healthcare and higher education. It was a painful but empowering experience. I felt a deep sorrow reading about the systemic obstacles, but also filled with pride as I learned how Black communities fought to overcome them.

The Xavier University College of Pharmacy was established in 1927 and offered a program to provide pharmacy education to young Black men and women. Despite earning their degree, many graduates couldn’t find work due to Jim Crow laws that barred them from internship and employment in white-owned pharmacies. In turn, many graduates, over the years open their own practices, such as LaBranche, LaSalle, and Bynum pharmacies. Many of these establishments, however, were eventually lost to history, closed due to the rise of major pharmaceutical chains or destroyed by natural disasters. 

As I stood there reading these stories, I began to tear up. Just then, maybe from a passing car on the back road, I heard the chorus of Micheal Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” drift through the room. And I absolutely broke down. A silent stream of tears flowed down my face as I was overcome with the clarity of purpose: I was meant to be a pharmacist. It felt as if the world aligned to give me this sign. The universe was speaking directly to me. This was my calling.

The pharmacy courtyard

It’s hard to put that feeling into words. But at that moment, I knew. I knew I was meant to be a pharmacist, to help others. I was meant to honour those who came before me by continuing the legacy they made possible. All my complaints about ochem or dreading my labs suddenly felt so silly to me. What a privilege it is to even have those challenges, to be in a position where I can pursue this path at all. Barely a hundred years prior, this opportunity simply wouldn’t have existed for someone like me. 


I carried that feeling with me into the courtyard. I sat on a bench facing the fountain, alone, enveloped in this melancholic realization. Surrounded by the beauty of this tiny slice of paradise, I cried again. I love what I’m studying, I love pharmacy. I can’t believe I ever doubted that this path wasn’t for me. 

I ended up spending over two hours at the museum, long after everyone else left. Without question, this was one of my favourite moments of the trip thus far. And now, I feel like I have a duty to carry this forward. Being a pharmacist is not just to help my current community but also my way of honouring those who came before me and ensuring their struggles weren't in vain. It's a reminder that my successes aren’t just mine alone, it’s a victory for Haitians, for Black Americans, for every person who fought to make sure people like me could be in these spaces. We all deserve to follow our passions and we will continue to thrive in a world that built against us.

Hawaii in Louisiana

Since the news of my acceptance to the NOLA maymester, I was eagerly counting down the days until the end of the school year. I was so excited to jump into the next adventure and immerse myself in the unique culture of New Orleans. Ready to explore both the books and bayous, I woke up early Monday to hop on my flight. Hours of travel finally got me down south to Louisiana. The humid air hit my face like a warm embrace and a smile spread across my lips. It reminded me of home. Given its tropical locale, Hawaii’s climate has a signature heaviness in the air. Stepping off the plane, the moist air was a reminder of comfort but, I quickly realized Louisiana is no Hawaii. 

It has its own amazing charms that captivated me all the way to our first location. The roads arched over waters and ran alongside moss-adorned cypress trees that made me feel as if the whole state was floating. All I could do was marvel at the seemingly endless stretches of highway rising from these marsh lands. 

The view on the road

All of us heading to the beach!

Stepping out of the van once making it to our destination, the smell of salty air hit my nose, adding a pang of homesickness to my heart. We had stopped in the middle of Grand Isle, a quaint little barrier island in the shoreline of Louisiana where we’d be spending the first couple of days. Maybe it was the months away from home but Grand Isle really reminded me of Hawaii. The calming and subtle crashing of waves below a blue painted sky sang the song of serenity I was blessed to grow up with. 

Our cohort of eight wasted no time settling in and ventured out to the beach right behind our villa. To my surprise, this mismatched band of students had already started bonding during our two-hour ride to the coast. We explored the terrain, stepping on the red algae that lined the coast to dip our toes into the warm Atlantic ocean.

Our first lecture introduced us to the idea of bookpacking on Grand Isle. Our time here reflects the atmosphere of our first book, The Awakening by Kate Chopin. Much of the novel was set right there in the isle, transporting its readers to a tranquil summer at the turn of the twentieth century. For Edna Pontellier, the main character, Grand Isle became more than a vacation spot, it’s a place of emotional awakening, a pause from her structured life in New Orleans that allows her to rediscover her desires, her autonomy, and her sense of self. Grand Isle, as a setting, reflects the mannerisms of the French Creole people of the time, very relaxed and communal, that gave Enda the space to have this awakening.. 

LIke Edna, I didn’t arrive on Grand Isle seeking transformation, but the sound of the waves crashing on the shore, the softness of the sand, and the space to simply be began to unwind the knots of stress I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. I’ve been so caught up with the hustle and bustle of college life that I’d forgotten what it felt like to truly relax. I came to this maymester ready to be dazzled by all that makes New Orleans so unique, but these quiet days on the isle were a delight.

I started to listen closely to what I really needed. Though it wasn’t the great radical break Edna experienced, the rest, reflection, and connection of Grand Isle was my awakening to appreciating the present again instead of constantly rushing about to the next thing. 

As the days drifted on, our group drew closer. We soaked up the sun, lounged on the beach, shared our thoughts on the book, and embraced the “French way” of the characters. We spent our meals together and laughed our way into the night. I spent my days leisurely, iPad in hand, enveloping myself in Chopin’s words while listening to the very sea she wrote so descriptively of.  Yet again, I felt a kinship to home. It reminded me of “island time,” as we liked to say, where the slowness was natural and expected. 

“The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.
”
— Kate Chopin

When we finished the reading of Edna’s progressive tragedy, we returned to the water, just as she does in the final pages of the novel. The warmth of the Atlantic was a stark difference to the often-icy Pacific I was familiar with.  While bobbing in the waves, Cooper and I chatted about Hawaii, making connections between the two coastal worlds. There were little things here and there, like the funny beach-themed villa slogans and how the sno-balls in the isle were the very same shaved ice I grew up with. In reflection of what made the unfamiliar feel comfortably natural, the sea was always there. But in both places, the sea was so enticing and welcoming. As I floated about the Gulf, I could hear the voice of the sea. For Edna, it was a call to freedom. For me, it was a sign to pause, its own kind of freedom.  

In the midst of my fervor for the city, I completely overlooked what Grand Isle could offer me: peace, relaxation, and a break from the craziness of everyday life. I’m struck by how a place so far from home can feel so close in my heart. Great Isle isn’t Hawaii, but it has offered me the same peace, warmth, and comfort I didn’t realize I missed. This maymester has already reminded me of the value of slowing down, being present, and staying open to transformation. If these first days are any indication, I know New Orleans will cause its own awakening for me.

As they say here, Laissez les bon temps rouler Let the good times roll!