An ambiguously broken woman finds clarity in a cigarette and healing in New Orleans

Suggested Listening

Small Town Heroes | Hurray for The Riff Raff

then

Little Rain | Jimmy Reed

I knew New Orleans would heal me. Some places have that power over people and for me the battered, resilient, deeply seeded Catholicism of New Orleans soothes me. When I stepped off the plane and the humidity of the city hit me, I excused myself to the bathroom to cry a little. We took an Uber from Kenner to the Garden District. The car’s AC was broken, and I sat in the backseat, windows down, the pages of a paperback bible snapping behind me in the wind. We arrived the week before Mardi Gras and parades were rolling strong, blocking the street on which we were staying. The barrier was guarded by scowling cops, so the driver made the executive decision to drop us at a nearby bar. 

Standing on the curb straddling my suitcase, I bent my head into the wind and raised my hand to light a cigarette. I don’t often smoke, but I felt a significant moment was approaching and I wanted to enjoy it with a cigarette.

There is a small space of time after the sun goes down and the sky is still light when I always notice birds singing. Sitting at home, I found this brief window of the day unnatural. But, here in New Orleans, as the daylight dimmed and the birds grew a little louder, I had a moment of clarity. Removed from my job, from my home state, from anything familiar I felt my heartbeat slow. Nothing in the world existed to me in that moment but the cigarette I was holding, the chirping of southern city birds, and the low, gray skyline of Central City. I turned and looked at my husband, standing at the bar, ordering us both a drink. I was simultaneously mad at him and so in love with him, and I thought “I suppose that’s what marriage is”. 

We walked to our Airbnb, a little drunk, recklessly dragging our suitcases over the broken New Orleans sidewalks. We later walked to St. Charles to watch, or rather, participate, in the Muses parade. I sat on someone’s cooler, sipping tequila out of my water bottle. I watched a little boy I did not know catch a foam football from a float. He would throw it poorly in my direction and I’d toss it back. For his sake I held my cigarette far from my body, far from him.

It was dark, the floats were vibrant, families lined up on the streetcar rails, children running wild. Teenagers hung back on the side streets, hugging the sidewalks, sneaking sips of beer. Warmth filled my throat and then my chest. Partially from the tequila, but also from the smell of sweat and smoke, the laughter of children, the community of this city. From the knowledge that my husband was standing right behind me, hand on my shoulder, tears in his eyes glistening in the light from the gaudy Krewe floats. I was warm knowing I’d wake up tomorrow, slightly hung over, and on my morning walk I’d be healed, renewed, by the city’s elegant decay and the discarded beads I’d pocket on my way to buy coffee.