Historical & Fantastical

“... I felt an extraordinary ease walking on those warm, flat pavements, under those familiar oaks, and listening to the ceaseless vibrant living sounds of the night ”

— Anne Rice, Interview with a Vampire

Arriving in New Orleans was the culmination of weeks of anticipation - and it did not disappoint.

Recovering from bad news in a state of despair, New Orleans immediately lifted my spirits. From the moment we stepped out of the van, the city’s vibrant energy was palpable. I would soon come to experience this through many cafe work sessions, walks through the French Quarter, and rides on the street car. Everywhere we walked, the inevitable sound of Jazz music echoed in the streets, and the delicious aromas of Southern cooking wafted through the air. Celebration, festivity and livelihood permeated every aspect of life here.

I was immediately struck by the cultural richness of the community, an intricate tapestry of traditions and lived experiences, too intertwined to distinguish each disparate origin. On our first night, we carefully made our way from our hotel in the business district, past Canal street and into the famous French Quarter we had learned so much history about. Walking down Bourbon street, we played the part of tourists, snapping our fair share of photos and taking it all in. Day and night, it buzzed with life. We explored different shops brimming with energy, and enjoyed the upbeat rhythms of drummers in the street. It was refreshing to hear accents of every kind and to see people of all ages and skin colors engaging in festivities together. With every bar we passed by, the music shifted: Country morphed into Hip Hop, which melded into live Jazz singing, becoming Caribbean Soca or Reggae and back again. The sheer variety of genres spanned in five minutes was an experience like none but my own eclectic playlist. Within this first exposure alone, I could tell New Orleans was a city inclusive of anyone with something for everyone to enjoy.

On our third day in New Orleans, we attended a Second Line Parade in the Tremé. It was Jazz, it was community and it was culture, concentrating the livelihood throughout the city into one affair of togetherness. It reminded me of my vibrant experience attending Caribana in Toronto, the largest annual Caribbean Carnival outside of the West Indies, filled with similar extravagant floats and costumes, live musicians and dancers, and DJs mixing familiar tunes with original beats. While this parade was smaller in scale and grounded in NOLA Jazz rather than the Soca music I grew up with, the sentiment was the same: community coming together around a shared joy for life through culture, music, and festivity in unison. I was amazed to find out that during NOLA parade season, this is a weekly tradition!

“The power and proof of the vampire was incontestable, so that the slaves scattered in all directions”

— Anne Rice, Interview with a Vampire

The more we continued to explore, the more apparent the mystical aspects of New Orleans became. Filled with tradition and history, every monument holds a story and every story holds legend and lore, encouraging the imagination to wander. Meandering the French Quarter by day, we learned about the complex historical significance of places like Jackson Square and industries like healthcare by visiting the Historical Pharmacy Museum. Going on a walking ghost tour at night, we passed by many of the same places, only now learning about them from the vantage point of the fantastical – through gruesome stories of vampire attacks and truths of past horrors like enslavement. Some of these traditions solicited oohs and ahs, filled with captivating creativity, while others revealed deeply problematic aspects of New Orleans’ past. Interview with a Vampire walks this fine line conflating historical trauma with the fantastical, where Anne Rice often mindlessly discusses the relationship between vampires and enslaved people on a plantation, with enslaved people being treated as disposable by vampires that feed on them. The lack of criticism of this particular dynamic leads me to read this as racism of the writer rather than the writer’s descriptions of racism.

We explored similar themes at the intersection of the fantastical and the historical when our class went to see the movie Sinners. This spontaneous excursion “film-packing” rather than “book-packing” gave us yet another vivid view into Southern mystical tradition. It was surreal seeing this movie at the Uptown Prytania Theatre: the exact setting of one of Ignatius Reilly’s eccentric adventures in “Confederacy of Dunces,” and the exact theatre where the movie’s original screening occurred (much of which was also filmed in Louisiana). This movie was a beautiful and thought-provoking expression of culture being shaped by various melding influences. It showcases the vast excellence in African American musical tradition from its African origins to the present, but also alludes to the complexities of colonization through unique intricacies of both Irish and African roots coming together to form genres like Country music. Here, vampirism is seen as a metaphor for liberation from a racist society where, despite being the antagonists, vampires are a community bridging gaps of race – not powerful white characters who benefit at the expense of enslaved Africans. Unlike Interview with a Vampire, this film authentically depicts racism as a tool to critique rather than replicate it.

“This was New Orleans, a magical and magnificent place to live. 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”

— Anne Rice, Interview with a Vampire

After just one week of experiences, I have encountered culture in every corner of New Orleans. I've gone from emotional exhaustion after confronting painful traumas of its past, to joyful anticipation energizing me in the face of its ever-present vitality. I have found New Orleans to be one of the most multifaceted places I have ever visited. It mirrors what I strive for: a balance between joy and responsibility, indulgence and reflection. This city makes time for the craziest fun but always cleans up in the mornings, washing or “lemon-freshing” the streets, getting back to business ready to constantly start anew. With each new day comes new experiences, yet the memories of the past never fade. There is always something to reflect on and always something to anticipate.

Vampiros de cultura.

After a few days of rest and relaxation in Grand Isle, our little group of bookpackers arrived in the New Orleans’ Central Business District, settling into our hotel rooms. Despite its nickname, “The Big Easy”, I’ve found very little about it to be easy so far.

I’m used to the organized chaos of Los Angeles; the ruckus of a melting pot. I know which bus will take me where, how to navigate the streets depending on which neighborhood I’m in, and where to go for a cheap meal nearby.

Maybe that’s why I feel so disoriented in New Orleans; it reminds me too much of Downtown LA. The unfamiliar morphs into the mundane with the snap of your fingers. There’s the unhoused sleeping on the sidewalks, and thick, warm air that you can’t quite escape. Both cities seem caught in the cycle of appealing to the ‘newcomers’: cafes with no prices listed, hotels plopped next to one another, shops that appeal to the niche of the city. However, being born and raised in Los Angeles confirms my belief that my city is being gentrified, I’m not quite sure if New Orleans has always been this way.

Eating out while staying in a hotel for three weeks is not for the cheapskates, such as I. Nearly every meal so far has cost me $20. This is more than I’d hope, but there seems to be an unspoken rule when it comes to being a tourist and spending without hesitation. You’re not just buying food; you’re paying for an experience you may never have again. That’s not too bad, as I have been personally victimized by the Hailey Bieber smoothie, but it adds up when you’re not working during this trip.

When you go somewhere as a tourist short-term, there’s a different level of control than when you’re a long-term tourist. It’s easy to spend because you don’t know when you’ll be back; you need all the memorabilia and will eat all the local food. You become aware of the façade. The urgency to collect souvenirs or eat ‘authentically’ fades into a quieter realization: it’s all available, over and over, from the ‘I Heart NOLA’ shirts to the beignets. The city wants you to spend, to believe in the illusion it casts. That’s the American cycle of tourism. You’re never just seeing a place—you’re consuming it. 

This awareness surprisingly came to me before we had officially arrived in New Orleans, while on the Cajun Pride Swamp Tour. The tour guide, who was friendly and full of jokes, pulled out the tour’s big showstopper: a baby alligator, who was to be passed around for anyone on the tour to ‘pet’. Its mouth was bound with what seemed like a bandage, safe for any liabilities and ready to take pictures with, like a party favor.  As our boat wound through the seemingly endless swamp, he called into the trees at every stop with a startling “AY-YUP”, summoning the conditioned wildlife with treats. Racoons, boars, and gators came out of nowhere to feast upon fistfuls of marshmallow and dried corn, all urbanized versions of themselves. Everyone there was trying to get something out of the other; the tour guide hoping to make some tips with his story telling, us tourists who wanted to immerse ourselves in the culture, and even the animals hoping to be fed. Perhaps we have not inherently caused interference with the animals’ way of life, but we’ve fed into it. We have smiled ear to ear, ooh’ed and ahh’ed at the creatures, held the baby gator, who was separated from his mother, while having our picture taken. As tourists, we are feeding into the economy that lets opportunities like this continue.

In this system, we are complicit. Our wonder feeds the machine. In Interview with The Vampire, Louis reflects, “Never in New Orleans had the kill to be disguised. The ravages of fever, plague, crime—these things competed with us always there, and outdid us.” Just as he fed on humans, tourists feed on the curated versions of local culture. The city does the same thing, needing to thrive on tourism and in doing so reducing the value of its culture. Louis saw New Orleans as a place where he could disappear, where horror mixed with beauty in a way that hid his darkness in plain sight. He was invisible because the city made room for monsters, because it had already learned to sell its suffering.

New Orleans, like LA, confuses origin with invention. In LA, I know what cultures shape the city—Latino and Asian communities have built it, and the American version has diffused it. Here, the history is more entangled: French, Spanish, African, Creole. Colonialism left its fingerprints everywhere, from architecture to cuisine. Maybe that’s why fast food seems strangely absent. You’re meant to eat gumbo, po’boys, and beignets. If you don’t, you’re “not doing it right.” You’re not consuming correctly.

As a group, we’ve been to various places north of the Mississippi River, yet not too north as to meet the lake. I cannot say I know New Orleans, because I have yet to know all of it. This is how I feel about people who have ‘visited’ Los Angeles; you do not know Los Angeles if you haven’t traveled South of the 10, or East of the 110.  

Louis’s love for New Orleans was always conditional, even if he does not acknowledge it. He could admire its decadence without ever being a part of it. The city cannot love him because it does not know him; if it did, it would reject him. Tourists enjoy the city the same way Louis does: from a distance. We don’t get to know the full truth, only the filtered version that we can tell friends and family about. We crave intimacy without responsibility.  

Perhaps, like Louis, we too are feeding off this place—its food, its stories, its tragedies polished into spectacle. The city dances for us, and we smile for photos. And when we leave, it will reset for the next group, the next “easy” experience. But nothing here is easy, not for the people, or the gators, or the culture.

Through the Eyes of a Vampire

91 degrees. 70% Humidity. Endless walking. Drenched in my own sweat. Doing everything to escape the heat. 

Why would THIS city be a vampire’s dream?

Anne Rice, a New Orleans native, chose to set her hit novel Interview with The Vampire in this vibrant city in the early 19th century. The gothic story follows Louis Pointe du Lac through his journey of vampirism. Louis escapes to New Orleans with Lestat after their identity is revealed. The city becomes their long-lasting home, where they house their ‘daughter’ Claudia and live as a family for around 65 years. We, the readers, gained insight into their safe haven wandering these streets. The ‘family’ resided in a home with a beautiful gallery, a prominent structure that we pass by daily. While Lestat chose NOLA for its practical advantages, Louis developed an emotional bond with the place he called home. So, I ask myself again, why choose New Orleans? 

This question echoed in my mind as I stepped foot into the smothering heat. I constantly found myself in a pool of my own sweat, seeking any form of air conditioning during our walks that seemed to last an eternity. This, most definitely, was not the breezy Grand Isle we had spent the last few days in. Yet, I find myself completely enamored with this city. The first night, our cohort journeyed down to the French Quarter for our first indulgence with jambalaya and gumbo. We walked aimlessly through the town for hours, witnessing the lively community present in the Quarter. From street marching bands, to perpetual jazz, to the sultry air thick with secrets, the Crescent City dances to a timeless rhythm. This singular night shifted my entire perspective: New Orleans is where a vampire’s soul is most alive. 

The city embodies the very essence of eternalness. It is a timeless city – surviving hurricanes, fires, and wars, refusing to fade into history. It births a breeding ground for the coexistence of past and present tales, catering to creatures who live for an eternity. Living in the shadows of a sleepless city, vampires are not subjected to survival, they are capable of fully indulging in the intoxicating forces that make New Orleans. As expressed in our seminars: it is a city of vices. It invites anything and everything. There is no doubt that this fulfills a vampire’s innermost desires. Similar to Louis, I find myself forever tethered to this high-spirited culture. 

“There was no city in America like New Orleans… a magical and magnificent place to live. In which a vampire, richly dresses 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”

— Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

Centuries later, I am interacting with these very streets, and living in the magic described by Louis in the early 19th century. The second night there we wandered into Bourbon Street, infamous for its constant inebriated visitors and wild revelry. Immediately we encountered jumbo, multi-flavored daiquiris and glittering beads! It was disappointing being the only 21 year old in our group ;). The moments spent on Bourbon reflected the ageless nature of New Orleans; a magnificent location filled with an air of flamboyancy from decades prior. It became clear how easily a vampire could move through these streets at night. 

However, it is not just the celebrations that linger through these streets. A grotesque history continues to prevail beneath these overflowing crowds. There is no hiding the scarred history of deep racism that the city wears. The very buildings we brisk by daily hold more memories than we can imagine. During our Ghost Tour of the French Quarter, our guide took us past Madame Lalaurie’s mansion. Through the various fictional stories relayed through the night, this one was horrifyingly real. This story is stained in my brain for years to come. Known for her cruel, torturous behavior towards countless enslaved people, Madame Lalaurie is a remembrance of the pain embedded in the city’ past. Her home still stands strongly on Royal Street, a haunting reminder that New Orleans is not just the beauty that meets our eyes. 

The very streets thousands of tourists step across today carry the bones of forgotten people below its surface. There are no named graves for these enslaved people. Their blood, sweat, and tears have built the very physical and metaphorical foundation of New Orleans. Our group walked through the Business District, witnessing buildings that used to be slave pens. There is no ignoring the truth that confronts us. Thus, the Crescent City cannot be fully understood, or truly loved, without truly acknowledging this history. Its attractiveness is inseparable from its suffering, and its spirit is shaped as much by resistance as by its festivities. 

My experience in New Orleans thus far has illustrated the answers to my question. New Orleans is the perfect setting for all types of creatures, vampires included. I share Louis’ deep affection for the seductiveness of New Orleans, yet it is impossible to to escape the darker truths that Anne Rice mindlessly overlooks. In her novel, Rice depicts vampires in their murderous form, especially towards enslaved people. She encapsulated the visual beauty of New Orleans while simultaneously neglecting the city’s development through racial oppression. Similar to Louis, I feel unbelievably drawn to the chaotic nature and vibrancy that the city brings. I will live my life in search of a place that matches this energy. In contrast, I carry the truths of NOLA’s painful past. Its enchantment and charm is undeniable, but so is the history that shaped it. Everything in New Orleans is eternal – from past to present.

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!

Old, New, Green, Blue

Something Old, Something New, Something Green, Something Blue

Swamp on the drive to Grand Isle

As we packed into the van at the MSY airport and began our long drive South to Grand Isle, I watched the world outside my window slowly empty of all colors but green and blue. Urban highways became swamps brimming with luscious cypress trees, which eventually gave way to marshes stretching toward the Gulf like fingers as we approached the bridge to Grand Isle. The air grew heavy and familiar - not unlike the warm humidity of my ancestral homeland, Guyana. The Louisiana bayou brought up familiar smells of the bright blue Caribbean sea water and Essequibo River black water I'd come to know, along with similar visions of crops growing on Guyanese rice plantations and bright green shrubbery reminiscent of the expansive South American rainforests. From the start, Grand Isle felt strangely familiar- like something old rediscovered, made anew.

Marsh near bridge to Grand Isle

That first impression stuck with me as we crossed the long bridge and entered the long-awaited Grand Isle. Something felt ancient but timeless in the water and wind, where the fishing docks sagging with the weight of countless hurricanes and the windswept grasses of endless summer days reminded me more of the Legend of Zelda video game I once played than of my real life. This place felt suspended in time, with a memory of its own. Seeing the various fishing boats pass by, I couldn’t help but think of Edna Pontellier stepping off the boat each summer to escape the social order of New Orleans for a more laid back living. As I grappled with what felt like a fever dream in my surroundings, I felt increasingly connected to Edna, who had lived out her own story in this very place. By the time I myself stepped out of the van and onto Grand Isle, I already felt less like a student pursuing her studies, and more like a traveler on the cusp of discovery.

Apart from the timelessness of this place, other aspects of the experience felt startlingly new. As we drove, small talk became vibrant conversation filled with humor and stories of shared and differing experiences. Our group of eight, who had only met once before, began to bond in anticipation of the coming month in shared company. Anxiety and fatigue from our air travel (some of us more tired than others- myself waking up at 3am) slowly dissipated as we succumbed to the awe of experiencing something so unusually fascinating and new. Getting out of the van for the first time, we pulled into Rouses Market where we stalked up the fridge for many collectively cooked family-style meals we would come to enjoy together. In short time, these new friends began to feel like old acquaintances I knew so well.

Beyond interacting with novel natural surroundings we also encountered customs that differed from our own, through experiences like trying venison and gator at the Starfish local restaurant, passing by tractors flying flags of differing political views from our own, or walking down a grocery store aisle dedicated to fishing nets, bait, and bug spray for the bayou climate- items you’d never find in LA. Just like Edna’s experience living between cultural codes- Catholic Creole and Presbyterian, artistic and domestic, complacent and nonconformist - we too found ourselves navigating between worlds: our familiar urban routines, and the slower seaside rhythms of Grand Isle living.

“The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and laughed ; some of them sang… Most of them walked into the water as thought into a native element”

— Kate Chopin, "The Awakening"

On our first morning waking up in Grand Isle, our group of weary travelers decided to head down to the beach to read and relax. Laying on my towel under the sun in 90 degree heat, I opened up “The Awakening” by Kate Chopin for the very first time. I felt like I was on vacation, much like the summer-getaway of the Pontelliers and fellow families. Between each page that I flipped, I could not help but to look up at my surroundings to try and identify what exactly was being described. Whether it be the “sensuous” touch of the water, the “soft and warm” breeze, or the sweet “odor of the blossoms” of yellow jessamine flowers being picked by Edna, I experienced a sense of place more vividly than ever before.

The calm and relaxation of Grand Isle even penetrated into our class seminar sessions as we gathered around the couch for the homeliest classroom discussions I have ever experienced. The maps projected onto our makeshift projector screen (the living room TV) truly came to life upon seeing boats whiz by in the gleaming water outside whilst families and children played in the calm waves. I again felt myself in Edna’s shoes- people watching, observing, and taking in my surroundings before taking on the ocean myself.

“But there was a breeze blowing, a choppy, stiff wind that whipped the water into froth”

— Kate Chopin, "The Awakening"

Looking deeper, the ocean began to change, revealing what was always there, just hidden beneath the surface. As the waves became more tumultuous, the water turned over hermit crabs hiding in the surf and dragged up seaweed from the depths, exposing action behind the calm. Much in the same way, Edna Pontellier’s carefully cultivated exterior (which she attempted to portray internal peace in conversations with the local doctor) masked a storm of turbulent emotions beneath. Her outward tranquility, like the sea’s glassy surface, disguised powerful currents of unrevealed doubt and desire.

My personal highlight of our stay in Grand Isle however came on our third day; we decided to take a post-dinner, spontaneous sunset swim. The dark clouds in the sky threatened a thunderstorm, the ocean waves initially too intimidating to sink into. After extensively photographing the peach and golden sky however, the gentle warmth in the air and the vibrant smiles of my newfound friends gave me the encouragement I needed to swim too. As I entered the water, I pictured the very waves that Edna learned to swim in- a journey from discovery to demise.

To me the ocean washed away the stress of the past semester and my discomforts of travel. To Edna, it washed away the weight of societal expectations and the more burdensome elements of her identity as a mother, wife, friend and simply as a woman in a time that restricted her freedom. For us both, our first swim in this Gulf water was a fresh start and a newfound freedom. Submerging in the water was my final step in breaking down the intimidation of this new experience, now immersed and empowered to make the most of it. For Edna, the water represented more than an escape: it was her newfound autonomy and claim to selfhood, her final act of defiance, and ultimately surrender.

I left Grand Isle with the ocean breeze still tangled in my hair and the words of Kate Chopin lingering in my mind. This immersive literary and exploratory experience taught me that bookpacking isn’t just about reading about a place you visit, but rather letting its geography shape your understanding of text and deepen your sensation of place. For me, bookpacking in Grand Isle was a convergence of the blue water, the green marshes, the ancient air, and the fresh experiences coming together so thoughtfully through my reading:

• Something Old - the memory of such a historic place, withstanding natural disasters and overcoming negative associations
• Something New - building friendships from scratch and discovering this place together
• Something Green - the strong resilience of this natural landscape, evergrowing and inspiring my growth within it
• Something Blue - the sea full of mystery yet calm that once called for Edna and for this brief moment, me too

The Sorrow of the South

*Please feel free to read the blog post alongside the music for best effects.

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This May, I didn’t come to the South because I was curious about the miles and miles of swamp and the thick stench of the waves.

No. I returned to this rotten place buried in my personal history because I needed to test if the adolescent version of me was still alive somewhere in my body. The one who willingly traverses through the turbulent storms of thought. The one who admires the fallen palms. The one who clings on with youthful convictions. I was never fond of this dormant self, but she whines to the gust of wind by the waves, waiting to be summoned at the right time and place. I am familiar with tip-toes around the hundreds of lakes in one region, wildlife knocking on your backyard's door to disrupt civility with harmless invitation. But I have never lived next to the bayous. Under the gloomy, overcast sky, I know the haze is not supposed to be the norm. Nostalgia blooms as I enter the southern towns after three years of separation. Somewhere, beneath layers of adult resignation, she is as sharp as the ambitions I hold today. The Southern cities need not greet me as a traveler because I am indeed a ghost coming home. Perhaps the reincarnation of the desperate housewife or the duplicated spirit of the woman who drowns with the weariness of her fate.

The State of Louisiana sounds like my name. The European roots overlapping in their linguistic variations, suggesting me, the embodiment of the name, could be just as unkind and cruel as the land obtained from an epic purchase. Hence, reflecting on this experience, I am also looking inward. If I was not born into the household I came from, I would not receive this given name full of expectations and foreigness. I would not resonate with the poor Louisiana overcoming glamor and a troubled portfolio of stories.

At the young girl's core is an utterly discontented ideologist frozen in time. I am fearful that she knows about things I’ve tried to forget. Keep in mind that this consciousness would not exist without Brontë and Woolf, my well-revered “founding mothers” of intellectual discoveries—literary giants who revealed to me the required courage of being a woman. Tired of browsing through hundreds of pages daily, I developed an apprehension against the didactic lessons embedded in feminist literature.

But this time, the journey is guided by the sensuous book by Kate Chopin—my introduction to rebellion and the possibility of defiance. In a weird sense, her awakening is mine, too. Revisiting the great classics on ordinary summer days in Grand Isles for more spiritual and metaphysical wake-up calls to liberate the thoughts from the caged minds. The thickly textured sand begins to infiltrate the spine of the thin book. Grains of sand wedge into the plastic covers. The skeleton of my precious book becomes softer than usual. Moisture slowly deteriorates the physical binding as my fingers flick through the bound pages. To this day, my lungs are still not accustomed to the humidity that dampens my hair into a wet, soggy rag that vaporizes the last bit of my sanity. The water drops in the air decorate my face with a layer of fuzziness; I became constantly draped in a coat, insulating my skin from the outside world.

The pelicans line up in militant formations as they cruise in the humid air. The great migration shouldn’t be a rare sight to the children of the wild, but, too bad, we are products of the ruthless concrete jungles. Lying awake beneath the birds with great precision, I despise us for our chaos. We utter with wonder as we dip our toes into the shallow beaches blocked by fences made out of seaweed. I was patiently waiting for the rattlesnake to make an sudden appearance in the wetland. They happen to be more shy than the human explorers.

There is something uncanny about arriving in a location that has recently been redefined on the map; to some, we are standing by the “Gulf of America. It's a territorial rebranding that I can’t get myself to agree with. At least in my taxonomy, it is still undeniably the Gulf connecting to Central America. This open coastal region invites prosperity, exchanges, and soft mantles with the margins of the Atlantic. I can't even begin to talk about Confederate America, and the scars it leaves behind. Only it feels like today we are re-creating the supremacist separatist system in a sinful way; we are accepting a new empirical instinct, the renewed conscience of the selfish emperor. The scroll around the town becomes too painful when I am hyper-aware of the importance of statehood. This body of water is no longer apolitical and neutral.

The Symbol on My Arm

Everytime I miss the taste and sensuory attacks originating from the sea, I look down to find my waves tattoo gracefully, permanently implaneted on my arm. She is the testament to my determination: when I reach the end, I will not integrate with the soil but engulfed by the waves.

Scientifically speaking, the particles that run through the Mississippi River and the ocean are pretty similar. Sharing the same chemical composition, how disparate can they be? However, putting the technicality aside, one is the birthplace of civilizations, while the other is the agent of destruction. The River introduced the historical trading networks that dictated modern-day economical glory. At the same time, the Atlantic is the goddess commanding death at the palm of her irritable expressions, roaring with storms and occasionally the deathly hurricanes that reveal the dark side of motherhood. We all become witnesses to the unspeakable rage she endures as she relentlessly unleashes chaos on every roof, deck, and watchtower. The Atlantic is never the weeping mother we presume: she terrifies me as the killing machine that erases with joy. This is a deeper love from the creator to the mankind. We hide at the sound of thunder pulsing, but we fail to recognize this is the type of love we struggle to identify admist the trials and tribulations of our evolution.

When the waves of exasperation subsided, I heard Edna’s cries from afar. Am I the only one who is noticing the sorrow? The waves that drowned her still echo along these shores. As each hurricane peels back another layer of history, I am left to sift through the wreckage of the boats and the death of a woman who needed to escape from her cult of domesticity. The desperation that caged her for a lifetime. I want to find Edna and tell her she was not wrong and offensive for exploring what her heart desires. I want to gently rub her back as she unload her soul and reborn into a freed pelican.

Mourning over the loss of innocence, Edna’s womanhood repeatedly pulls me back to the sticky marrow of my childhood fears. I never want to succumb to her pain. I never want to lead a plain life that is carefully constructed by a loving suffocation. The excuse to kill me slowly, masked by the disguise of affection and care This isn't it, this could never be me. At the end of the day, I am lucky enough to have been born in the 21st century, carrying forward my ancestors' good wishes. On top of that, fortunately, I have the power to write and run outside of my confinement by writing determined words that elevate me above sensuous weight. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that women used to vanish under the heaviness of their social roles. We keep mistaking existential contemplations for romantic longing. Why can't we accept that the tragic ending is not a projection of loneliness? Why can't we comprehend that drowning in the sandy waves is returning our body to the generous, giving planet that granted us this life in the first place?

Aftermath of hurricanes on Grand Isles

Witnessing the destructions first-hand

Professor Chater casually brought up the fact that people here grow resilient to the frequent hurricanes. With this knowledge, they don't attempt to build stronger houses with more durable materials. Rebuilding over and over would suffice. The offhand comment helps me mourn the losses of those I have never met and could not name. Despite the hurt, I can confidently proclaim that it is the divine feminine in its most terrifying form, creating a cycle of prophetic language and retrospective reckoning. Looking back at the yellowing scrolls of history, every hurricane can be traced back to the ruins of these local establishments. And how much has humanity’s documentation been able to capture? This is a generational passage. I don't even need to talk to the locals to imagine their hurt. I don't dare to ask them about their rituals for picking apart and sensationalizing things they used to love deeply, places they used to reside from within.

Far too few of us learn our lessons about the inexplicable dangers of the mother planet that birthed us and, concurrently, is capable of taking away our livelihoods. Too torn down to be habitable but just astute enough to be recognized as the aftermath of recurring natural disasters that seek to swallow half of Earth’s landmass. The erosion of dirt and soil is not nearly as detrimental as the decimation of a culture that once meant searching for utopia. Despite wanting to know about the Creole people, despite wanting to learn more about the decomposition, we all silently agreed not to disturb the grief embedded in the soil. Hundreds of years later, the Mississippi flattens out the wrinkles of despair. My question is, do you ever wonder if the Gulf feels guilty for its (un)intentional murders? I can still taste the deceased flesh and blood in the valient raindrops.

When I was a teenager, stuck in the great sunshine state, every rainy season was accompanied by hurricane warnings, days off from school, and emergency evacuations. I didn’t use to understand the extent of damage people suffer from these calamities. In late September or early October, I can’t remember exactly when my schoolmates and I would break the curfew issued by the city and meet up to dance to music during the early waves of downpouring before the real hurricane came around to distort the Spanish architecture. We danced on the edge of disaster, a dumb vocation. My unshakeable joy from "dancing at the center of the hurricane" is the prelude to the great losses. I was rude to assume the unexpected holidays can be exhilarating and not a threat by any means. Occasionally, I heard the news of my friends’ friends losing their houses, caused by falling trees and hitting the electric wire, which turned into burning wood and bricks, then eventually nothing at all. But it all felt like a story happening to someone else at the time. Amidst the peaks and valleys of college, I am occasionally irritated by the encounter, fantasizing the peaceful afterlife if the flooding has looted me as opposed to those underserving of the blessing of the human demise. They make plans to survive, I create my agenda to exit, to perish, to decay with the spiteful rain.

My favorite architectural feature

The secret courtyards hidden among the buildings

The disappearance of the fishing community in Jefferson Parish showed us the unpredictability of the force of nature. One moment, you are harvesting oysters and trading sugar cane with the French-speaking neighbors; the next, their absences strike as a deliberate attack. When we gaze towards the abandoned porches, the docks also gaze us back. The scene is empty as if the entire village has collectively decided to withdraw and never return: they are now nothing more than distant memories in old maps that attempt to capture their presence along the sovereign water. In the drowned township, there used to be many other young women like myself, starring ajar into the lonesome coast across the body of water, hopefully confused, astonished by the lives they may possibly lead in the future.

I have yet to understand the connection between the cursed motherhood and my beloved planet that births my wild self-possessions. Why do you provide us the nutrients and liquids, then easily abduct the subsistence away from us? The sea takes in anything the world is not willing to protect, which makes me fear one day I too would be swept and collected by the waves.

Over the past few days, I have been haunted even thick into the night. The imagery of the Spanish moss attached to the ginormous oak trees keeps invading my dreams. I picture myself submerging just below the surface of the stream, floating with bursting air bubbles suspended in murky water, tangled in green laces. The epiphytic flowering plant is entangled with the gnarly tree branches swinging side by side in the tropical wind. This vision became an evident contrast with my nightmares of apocalyptic plots wiping out humanity with one touch. As much as I tell you I resent the South. As much as I proclaim I could not stand it. As much as you get the sense I need to escape. I find myself engulfed by her embrace upon my exile. The young girl is alive and well now, no longer kept in the eloquent, high towers of etiquette and madness. This is just the beginning of the revival, and I know without a doubt the blueness of my past, our collective past, is still coming for me.

The Smoothie King Awakening

After landing at the Louis Armstrong Airport, Thalia and I swiftly exited the plane for the entirety of it was plagued by nauseating turbulence. We had three hours to fill before heading down to Grand Isle. I immediately locked eyes with the enticing Smoothie King logo when entering the terminal. As a California native, I just had to have my first-ever Smoothie King experience. This, I concluded, would be the cure to our queasy journey. After consulting Thalia, I ordered a medium Angel Food smoothie. The sweetness of the icy drink melted onto my tongue, unraveling the best drink ever. Realization quickly settled in after I took my final sip: I was in Louisiana. Founded in Kenner, Louisiana in 1973, Smoothie King unexpectedly became my first taste of the state’s rich culture and history.

Not even a full week into our month-long experience, and a deep sense of camaraderie has descended upon our eight person group. From home-cooked, family style meals to group sunset swims, a tight-knit community cultivated in Grand Isle from simply existing together. Small talk about the exhausting heat and potential thunderstorms transformed into enlightening discussions over Hawaiian culture, familial relations, and personal dilemmas. Unfiltered and inappropriate conservations flowed past midnight. I initiated communal dinners by cooking meals every night with Nicole, and by no means, do I consider myself a chef. It is safe to say that we quickly adopted the openness of Creole culture that encapsulates their group identity, as depicted by Edna Pontellier. 

“A characteristic which distinguished them and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most forcibly was their entire absence of prudery. Their freedom of expression was at first incomprehensible to her, though she had no difficulty in reconciling it with a lofty chastity which in the Creole woman seems to be inborn and unmistakable.”

— Kate Chopin, The Awakening

Edna’s immersion into the Creole identity was vastly different from her Kentucky norms. This behavior, in a way, influenced her rash decisions to fulfill her innermost desire: independence. Encountering expressive personas, like Adele and Robert, allowed her to view her identity in a new manner. Existing in the freeing nature of Grand Isle fostered the beginning of her personal enlightenment. Learning to swim in the alluring ocean was Edna’s first discovery of autonomy, relieving herself from the torment of the feminine prison. Similarly, our Maymester group embraced our own version of independence. Alone, we gained the free will to participate in sunset swims, in the same waters as Edna, in an attempt to regain ourselves from the suffocating finals environment back at USC. The ocean was warm to the touch, urging me to swim further out and rejoin my friends. Being able to mimic the characters in our texts is an experience comparable to none. This remains my favorite memory from our days spent in Grand Isle.

“The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. 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, The Awakening

The lifestyle on the Isle heavily contradicts the bustling, fast-paced environment in Los Angeles. Our days consisted of engaging in a routine parallel to those in The Awakening by Kate Chopin. From speeding golf carts and the warmth of southern hospitality, to reading on the beach under the scorching sun. The population on Grand Isle is just short of 1,000, thus laboring close relationships amongst the Island. This community has bravely and repeatedly endured natural disasters through passion for their shared identity. Our group caught glimpses of these relationships via food: a bonding practice rooted in Creole culture. I do not consider myself an adventurous eater, yet 24 hours in the Isle, I was consuming fried alligator nuggets and venison tamales from ‘The Starfish’. This restaurant is one of few that inhabit the surrounding land. Our waitress, Tiffany, welcomed our tourism with open arms and drew us in with her endearing personality. We all ordered an assortment of items, with each bite bringing us closer to the long-standing history of Grand Isle. 

I am a creature of habit. Leaving California for a whole month led to thousands of worries. Much like Edna Pontellier, I long anticipated Grand Isle for the uncertainty of my individual growth. Her days spent on the island unleashed a dormant longing for self-expression under oppression. Although my experience differs from Edna and Kate Chopin, I realized that I often suppress myself for the desire of constant control and repetition. Being in Grand Isle started to strip these layers away. The immediate calmness of our surroundings forced feelings of comfortability. While Edna’s path ultimately led to her demise in the ocean in a final act of self-determination, I leave with an alternative journey of personal discovery. I depart with an awakened sense of living deliberately so as to not allow my fears dictate my decisions. 

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.

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.