Part of a series of essays on the magic and mystery of New Orleans.
I don’t believe in ghosts—never have. The house that I have lived in for nearly 30 years was built in 1725, on land that was undoubtedly once occupied by natives, and was at various points in history, a tavern, inn, and stagecoach stop for people traveling from Philadelphia to Cape May. If ever there was going to be a place that was haunted, you would think my house would be high on the list, but I’ve never had an inkling that this is so.
On the other hand, having spent enough time in New Orleans, I have conceded that the entire city is awash in spirits. Of this, I have little doubt. Maybe it’s because they bury their dead above ground, so the souls of the dead are more free to move about with ease. Regardless of how or why, New Orleans seems to exist in closer proximity to the spirit realm than most other places I’ve been, especially in the New World. The veil between this world and next is like a bit of fog coming off the swamp, a thin veneer or reality masking an alternative plane of existence.
If you told me that New Orleans did not actually exist, but was merely a figment of my imagination, an unlikely fever dream as illogical as it was fantastical, I just might believe you. There’s something not quite reliable about my own accounts from my visits to that shadowy swamp of food and festivities, let alone the accounts of others. I’m pretty sure I was there, as I have visited numerous times over the course of my life, but it’s all a little hazy and incongruous, like the sort of dream you have when you fall into a restless sleep in the middle of the afternoon on a hot day. I do, however, have receipts.
Detailed memories in technicolor brilliance, unmoored from time and space, out of order and without logical progression. Things just happen in this mysterious city and there’s no accounting for it. It just is. It’s best not to think about it too much, because like a dream, the harder you try to make sense of it, the more it drifts away from you.
I’ve been to more beautiful cities, more ancient ones, more impressive ones, but none that had such an effect on me. There is a vibration there, and if you’re attuned to it, you find yourself drawn there. Some of those people never leave, having come for a vacation or a festival, and decide to stay. They simply don’t go home. I’m one of those who left, but inadvertently, I left a piece of my soul there. Maybe that’s why it’s so mysterious and spectral. Not only do they have to put up with the countless souls who have perished there over the centuries, but also the fragments of so many other souls who never left.
No one wants to leave New Orleans, not even our eternal souls. Eventually, everyone must go home, back to our maker, but in the meantime, why not hang about and see what’s what? Why not drift through space and time, hear a bit of music, dance a second line, smell the cooking, and revel in your chicory coffee and airy beignet?
Why leave when you can stay?