If God be willin and the creek don't rise

by Lonnie Evans (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find USA

In May of 2013 a dear friend introduced me to a collection of essays and short stories by Zora Neale Hurston, this marked the origin of my obsession with southern gothic. An obsession that led me to meticulously map out a road trip through the southeast states to satisfy my thinly veiled lit fangirl. While the roadtrip never happened I was able to visit the great city of New Orleans 5 years later. Let me just say this: I've never seen a city as alive as Nola, and I'm from NYC! I quickly learned from natives via my uber driver that outdoor drinking is legal so I figured, when in Rome. My plane landed at 10am, and by 12:30pm I'd found myself at a cafe in Bywater with a mimosa in my hand watching some of the neighborhood punks start their day. If the French quarter is the equivalent to midtown Manhattan, Bywater and mairigny are the gentrified Brooklyn of NOLA. Filled with folks who've migrated from up north who all have various quirky businesses they've either pioneered or contributed to. My main choice of transportation was cycling. This city seems to be highly respectful of cyclists, which is ideal since the dru is come out to play as early as 11am. No one's really rushing to get anywhere, which is honestly the most refreshing part of my trip. After a little day drinking I took a ride through Esplanade St. and full on geeked out over the architecture. The whole neighbor looked like a setting for American Horror Story! Most if not all the homes were dressed with antique oil lamps and enclosed in these robust, prehistoric-esque trees. The vegetation these neighborhoods housed could put all of Bob Ross' paintings to shame. Everything was so vibrant and tropical. To complete the scenery their residential bird happens to be the crow, needles to say I was in heaven. Esplanade St. will take you straight to City Park which is supposedly larger than Central Park. It contains many attractions like the New Orleans Botanical Garden, the sculpture park, and the NoMa to name a few. Now, riding through Esplanade St. back to the French Quarter was a different story. While some areas have grown accustomed to the constant flow of rowdy tourists, there were still streets left untainted by foreign energies. Tremé at night is deathly still. Riding through its eerily shaded roads proved to be surprisingly calm. There was no danger at night, just a quietness that completely contrasts the erratic heartbeat of Bourbon St. It was a quiet place worth treasuring. The rest of my trip was spent in Fairgrounds and St. John's Bayou all of the dancing and shop hopping and dining. Blurring together into a long content sedation. But even to this day when I think of Nola, my mind goes back to those roads against the dim glow of oil lamps. Their giant ancient trees covered In Spanish moss rustling from the howling wind. This is the ambience I came looking for.