Vampires, Vamps and Voodoo

Last Saturday, this St. Louis alien jumped aboard her spacecraft and headed to a place that is so alien, she blended right in; no-one noticed the foreigner in their midst. How could they? For, we were in N’Awlins, former capital of French Louisiana during the 18th century, current home of home of vampires, vamps and voodoo!

My husband had to attend a conference down in The Big Easy, but I was just taking advantage of having my mother in town to look after the kids while I skipped out for one night to see another American city for the first time. But just seeing New Orleans is not enough. You need to breathe its dank, mysterious air. You need to drink its wicked cocktails and its magical spirit. You need to eat its unusual and mouth-watering food. You need to touch the fading colours of its stucco walls and run a hand across its finely filigreed balconies.

As soon as you step foot in New Orleans, you know you’re in a different place: cemeteries with crooked rows of tall, elegant crypts, housing generations of the city’s founders; the French style town-homes of the Old Quarter; the quiet villas of the Garden District; and the people, whose faces are an intriguing and beautiful mix of all the world has to offer.

We dumped our bags in the hotel and hit Bourbon Street, famous for its annual Mardi Gras parade, as well as its many restaurants and bars. We got into the spirit – so to speak – right away, with a frosty pina colada in a large plastic glass to go! I hadn’t quite finished mine when we were drawn into the open veranda doors of an establishment advertising home-made chicken gumbo and fresh fish.

A tiny blond waif of a hostess invited us in, waving plastic-coated menus. I wasn’t sure if we could go in with drinks from another bar, but she quickly put my worries to rest. “This ain’t Disneyland, Mama! Dis here is Bourbon Street!” Okay, I think I’m going to like this place....

Though already mid-October, the day was hot, like mid-summer in Toronto but without the humidity. A light breeze played hide-and-seek in the open doors, through which we could hear snippets of conversation from passersby and upbeat zydeco music from somewhere nearby. Ceiling fans rotated slowly, lending more romance than cool air to the atmosphere. A 12-foot stuffed alligator held court above an enormous wooden bar, across which the regulars leaned to hear the latest gossip from the bartender. Lamps made of saxophones and trumpets lit up dark corners, where waiters tried to make sense of their own notes and tallies.

From our table, I could see across to the other side of the road, where an impossibly tall transvestite all vamped up in a shimmering, bronze ball gown stood stock-still with his face turned up toward the sun (or a lover on the balcony above?), eyes closed and arms half-raised, as if to dry his feathers in the heat. When I turned to look again, he had vanished.

New Orleans is like that; people can just vanish. Here, they say those who can disappear and those who leap effortlessly over six and seven foot fences must be vampires. I’m not sure about the jumping, but the vanishing could be a pretty easy trick. Like many old European cities, most buildings down in the old district of New Orleans are separated by skinny little cobble-stoned pathways that seem to lead nowhere and just disappear in a deep shadow at the back. From those narrow alleyways emerge trickles of water, an occasional potted plant or rusty chair, strains of distant music, snatches of an argument, and a couple of old souls.

Needing a bit of exercise and to escape the drunken tentacles of Bourbon Street, we walked over to Canal Street, which takes you to the Mississippi River. This is a wide, vibrant avenue, bordered by towering trees and split in the middle by an ancient tram line whose turn-of-the-century cars waddled up and down all day, whistling and ringing their signal bells. After poking our heads in a few tourist shops lined with voodoo dolls, charms and spell-casting books, we made it to River Walk, just behind the gorgeous casino. Here, we wandered a bit and spent a pleasant hour with a steamy cafe-au-lait and hot, powdery beignets, watching the freight boats glide by.

If you close your eyes, you can smell the river and you can hear Dixieland music. You can feel the ripple of the air as Cajun spirits dance past you. You are hungry, but you’ve eaten too much. The food is rich and sensuous, with secret ingredients that Grandmama got from her Creole Grandmammy and will never share. Like its people, the recipes come from everywhere and nowhere, invented and inherited. They are full of spices and spells, memories and magic.

Although New Orleans is just a long boat-ride two states south of St. Louis on the same muddy river that defines my adopted home town, it could be another planet for all of its bewitching strangeness and beauty. I can’t wait to “land” here again soon!