A Weekend Train Trip to New Orleans
When I was a teen, I read a novel about a sisterhood of young girls who took the Crescent train from New Orleans to Atlanta for the premiere of Gone with the Wind, and it inspired me to put the trip on my bucket list – only my pilgrimage would be in reverse. Years later, I decided to bring the trip to life, and I boarded the Crescent in Atlanta for a late November long weekend in the Big Easy.
Trains have a southern sensibility about them, often lingering unexpectedly in some remote region for an hour or so, only to putter back into motion with no explanation from the attendants. We rattled on into night. One by one small town residents filtered off the train, and enigmatic characters filled their seats. A hint of cigarette smoke trailed from the bathroom at the back of the car as a passenger presumably snuck a smoke.
Maybe it was the anticipation of velvet nights, pining brass, and all things voodoo that lent an air of mystery to this newly filled train car, but as we closed in on the city, it seemed as if we descended into a benevolent underworld – a place of soulful longing and magic.
I arrived in the Marigny district two hours later than scheduled due to the train delays and checked into the Frenchmen Hotel, a quaint, historic inn painted in confectionary pink and blue.
The host shepherded me through a courtyard with a small, lit pool flanked by wrought iron bistro tables, each one set with an upside down ashtray. I had chosen the budget-friendly Petite Queen room. It was cozy and plum-walled, hung with gallery wrapped local art.
It was well past dark, but on New Orleans time the night was still young. From my room I could hear the gravelly voices and brass chords of jazz bands tuning up.
The Frenchmen was positioned at the entrance to a legendary lineup of clubs – The Spotted Cat, d.b.a, and Snug Harbor among them. Of which I fully intended to check out the next night, after I had recovered from my more than twelve hour train ride.
Touristy though it may be, I can’t resist the beignets at Cafe du Monde, and so it was my first stop the following morning. The green and white awning can be spotted from blocks away – a New Orleans icon. Vinyl and chrome chairs grouped around freckled table tops.
I sat near an archway that opened to Jackson Square. Artists dappled the sidewalk with fervid color. I looked out at the brindle horses who shifted their weight from left to right, waiting to draw their carriages.
I then walked across the square to light a candle at the St. Louis Cathedral. It stood blanched and bold as a limestone outcropping. As I exited the cathedral, a lively brass band had set up to play. Instruments paused while one man clapped his hands and sang On the Bayou.
I spent hours in the Presbytère, a museum where one can explore Mardi Gras and Hurricane Katrina on multiple floors – a juxtaposed experience for sure.
The day was drizzly with a nip in the air – the best sort of day to duck into the coffee shops to warm up with chicory brews.
I returned to the Frenchmen Hotel as it was getting dark. The clubs emptied their sliding brass and gamboled percussion into the streets. Rainbow sherbert neon flushed the Creole exteriors. A second line was forming on the corner of Frenchmen and Chartres. After watching for a while, I made my way to The Spotted Cat. Slipped past outside listeners who milled about smoking cigarettes to avoid the cover charge for entry.
Inside a brass quintet clustered in front of an alcoved picture window framed by strands of lights. Bodies flattened against exposed brick, hugging drinks close to their chests to allow passersby.
The final day I spent with a friend who drove me around the Garden District before giving me a tour of her lovely Uptown home and gardens. The landscaping was expertly designed with a section of lawn and a courtyard with lush plant-life surrounding an old fountain. It seemed to me quintessential old New Orleans.
Two days seemed too short of a stay. Yet since the train travel took half the long weekend, it was time to head back the following morning.
It was not my first trip to New Orleans and certainly won’t be my last. There is in this city a magnetism, a unique mixture of history and hardship, of spirited musicality and raw honesty. It is a true southern gem.
