After two full weeks spent in New Orleans, I have returned back to my hometown of Redondo Beach, California where I am currently picking up the pieces and reflecting upon my journey. While I was there I kept entries in my personal journal along with recordings and photos but decided to save the bulk of my writing for afterwards so that I might recall my experiences with a greater scope.

On my very first night, I was picked up from the airport by my two friends from back home, Buster and Anthony, who had been living in New Orleans for the last 6 months. Along the way to their shabby, old apartment in Carrollton, (a neighborhood in the uptown New Orleans), they gave me a basic overview of what it’s been like to live there. Although neither of them could give me a very detailed description so briefly other than “it’s a trip” or “it’s like no other place”. So I accepted that and soon enough found myself agreeing with the same exact sentiment. After dropping off my suitcase and guitar at the apartment, Buster gave me some instructions on how to catch the streetcar towards downtown.

Soon enough I found myself racing after a streetcar down Carrollton Avenue and eventually hopped on at its closest stop. I paid my fair and was immediately in awe at the sight of this small, antique bus. The street car’s interior was composed of furnished wooden benches, small lights that ran along the ceiling, and a single shaft that was used by the driver to enable and discontinue the flow of power drawn from the overhead electrical wires. New Orleans has been using this type of electric-powered streetcar for 122 years and it has since remained the primary means of public transportation in the city.

I had reached the end of the line and arrived at my destination, Downtown New Orleans. The streets were much less populated than I had imagined; granted it was just past 12am on a Tuesday night. So I made my way towards the one street that seemed to be occupied by human life and a stream of neon lights, the infamous, Bourbon Street. With some disillusion, I discovered that Bourbon on a Tuesday night is a eerily bleak yet colorful wasteland occupied mostly by strippers, residual barflys, a few street vendors, and the quintessential Bourbon Street hobo who asks “Ay man, lemme guess where you got those shoes from”; expecting some amount of pocket change if he guesses correctly. I digressed, bought myself a beer and looked to strike up conversation with any locals looking to impart some information on their native city of New Orleans. I met a black man named George who told me he was 42 and had spent the majority of his life living in NOLA. He told me about the shoddy details of the city’s infrastructure and local politics. He told me about a scandal involving the former Mayor Ray Nagin during the Hurricane Katrina era where the then-Mayor had been charged for money laundering and bribery; trading local business to outside contractors and accumulating about several hundred thousand dollars in return. George assured me that despite all of the corruption and natural disaster in the city’s recent history, the city’s greater, cultural history is what keeps the spirit of New Orleans alive and strong. He followed this up by saying that the material history such as all the old buildings, streetcars, and traditions need to be preserved.

After a few more drinks and some more conversation with other locals, I decided to catch the next streetcar back up to Carrollton. Along the way, I met two guys named Max and Patrick. They were both white guys in their mid and late 20’s who worked as accountants at a local firm. They offered a different perspective on the city. While on the streetcar, Max had a lot to say about the current state of New Orleans and what he thought would benefit it most. When the topic of infrastructure came up, he suggested that it drastically needs an upgrade. He complained about the poor quality of the roads (which is indisputable), the inefficiency of streetcars, the dilapidated buildings and the city ordinances regarding the renovation of homes. Meanwhile, the streetcar had passed a giant monument which I somehow failed to notice on the ride down. It turns out that monument was a 60 foot marble column with a statue of Confederate general Robert E. Lee placed on top. Max insisted that this was a symbol of racism; an ideological and cultural infrastructure that desperately needed renewal. He said it should have been demolished a long time ago. I didn’t disagree but playing devil’s advocate, I half-heartedly suggested that maybe if the monument remained intact it would remind people of the self-defeating ideology of a past generation so that they will want to strive to be something better than that.

I think that hearing several different perspectives that night had helped me form an impression of the city. Regardless of the differing viewpoints held by the people of New Orleans, the thing that I found most in common among them was their pride and irreverence for their city and its culture.