Finally made it to New Orleans.

The Big Easy has been on my bucket list since freshman year of high school when a friend came home with tales of Marie Lauveau and voodoo, colorful stories from Bourbon Street and most memorable, authentic pralines.  My sweet tooth was transfixed but it would take thirty years to finally make it down the Bayou. 

And the trip was not what I anticipated over the years; festivals, a mardi gras girls trip or a carefree Cajun weekend jaunt it was not.  Instead, it was a subdued experience focused on the darker side of New Orleans’ history.  The four days led me to the belly of the macabre and superstitious dark side.  In 48 hours I visited two cemeteries, the haunted house of horrific abuser Madame Delphine LaLaurie, the old Ursuline Convent once home to the casket girls later believed to be vampires, birthplace of the nation’s first pharmacy and of course, home of legendary voodoo priestess Marie Lauveau.  

A highlight of the trip included an interview with Dutchess Denise, a treasure of a tour guide with a wealth of New Orleans history.  She discussed the culture’s unique relationship with death and gave details in graveyards, personal accounts of encounters with spirits and even history dating back to the Haitian Revolution.  Did you know voodoo played a central role in the initial uprising of the Haitian Revolution?  Voodoo priestess Cécile Fatiman played a pivotal part in the onset of the revolution by sacrificing a black pig and sharing its blood with other slaves and proclaiming power, protection and victory over their oppressors. 

But as I listened to the intriguing stories, something ominous lingered in the muggy air like a presence begging to be acknowledged or a reality lurking behind brightly colored cottages.  And ready for its close up, this dismal energy made itself known as an Orleans Parish Coroner’s van crawled to a stop in front of a pink and purple bungalow as a man came bouncing into the street casually declaring, “He OD’d!  He OD’d!.”

It was sobering and I understood the desire for the revelation.  Under the celebration of a culture so meticulously and lovingly preserved is the pain of a city and people who endure.  Oppression has evolved since the revolution and arrival of slaves to the Louisiana territory and woven its tentacles into a systemic and sophisticated tapestry so complex that sacrificing a pig wouldn’t nearly be enough no matter all the voodoo in the world.  So the seemingly next best option is to smile and dance to keep from crying.

Hope I have a chance to return and visit New Orleans under more jovial circumstances because my 14 year old self would appreciate a good second line and authentic pralines.