The Spirit of New Orleans

by Sam Phan (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection USA

I waited for the precise moment to pull the rusty chord. That delicate moment between pulling too early resulting in a long and awkward silence or pulling it too late and forcing everyone through an abrupt and uncomfortable stop. The tram screeched to a halt. I stepped down, the pavement slightly lower than I expected. There was hardly a breeze that night. The air was thick and heavy, and lingered uncomfortably on my skin in the form of grease and sweat. My pale-yellow t-shirt was slightly dampened, clinging to my shoulders, sticking to the curve of my back. The gentle buzz of a summer’s night vibrated all around me as the little red tram rumbled into the night. New Orleans was surprisingly peaceful at this time. Well, this part of the city was at least which was far away from the sounds of the saxophones that hummed on every street corner and the African drumbeats that reverberated through the pristine streets of the French Quarter. Out here, some houses were still scarred by a tragedy from not so long ago. A city that has literally been torn to the ground. It's very fabric, built on a painful history of colonialism and slavery. A lot of hurt exists in New Orleans, yet its people are resilient and constantly working to overcome it. “Your taxi is 2 minutes away,” my phone beeped as I watched the digital car on the screen of my phone manoeuvre between blocks - the grid system of the city. The night was eerily quiet. Two faint lights approached slowly in the distance, flickering gently. As we drove south, the moon appeared from behind grand oak trees and shotgun houses. Most of them were only one story, raised on brick piers, to prevent flooding I suppose, whilst others were blessed with porches, decorated with plants and benches. The rising moon, in between clouds and patches of a deep indigo sky, was waxing over the crescent city. The streetlights and shadows took turns skimming his worn face, his greying afro pulled back tightly into a neat bun. All of the windows had been wound down as the hot air blew against my face. Although I was already hot, I had to admit that it was better than nothing. “I deeply apologise for the inconvenience sir, ma AC broke earlier this week and I gotta wait ’til the end ‘u the month ’til I am able to get it looked at.” I nodded and he smiled. The driver could tell where I was from immediately from my British accent, despite my almond shaped eyes and hair as black as night. He explained to me how his favourite singer, Rod Stewart was from England and that it would be his dream to cross the Atlantic one day. There was something about the way he spoke that tinged the air with a sense of longing. A longing for the world, a longing for an escape. I could relate. Perhaps that was why I was here. Deep wrinkles appeared to flow from his eyes every time he smiled. He must have been in his early 60’s. He remembers the 60’s; A tumultuous yet revolutionary time for the United States. “Rod’s music is special… he has a voice that can really touch you, a voice that can really bring people together.” “Don’t you live here? There is some great music from New Orleans too.” Two hours west of here in a city called La Fayette, he informed me, where the live oak trees twisted into the atmosphere, adorned with low hanging Spanish moss that thrived in the southern breeze. I wish I had more time to see the rest of Louisiana. It surprised me that he made the journey out here every night. He was alone he told me. No wife or children to return home to back out in La Fayette. Just himself and God. For one moment in time, this stranger and I connected in an indescribable way. How could we be two worlds apart, with experiences so different, and yet feel the same lonliness. As if we were the only two people who existed on this warm night in the Big Easy.