Dear New Orleans,
You saucy little minx.
I came for your jazz, your beignets, and your legendary laissez-faire attitude. I stayed because I couldn’t find the strength to leave. I’m convinced you’ve enchanted me with some unholy concoction of powdered sugar and humidity. Or maybe it was the sazerac. Either way, I’m onto you.
Let’s start with the obvious: you’re absurdly good-looking. I’ve never walked down streets so simultaneously dignified and debauched. It’s as though your architecture got dressed for Sunday service, but Bourbon Street borrowed its eyeliner and never came home. I don’t even know how to process the visual feast of the French Quarter. Balconies are dripping with iron filigree, flowerpots hang like earrings, and pastel-painted houses stand in defiance of the concept of subtlety. It’s like the cast of Moulin Rouge! moved into a Southern Gothic novel, and honestly? I’m here for it.
And then there’s the food. Oh, sweet baby crawfish, the food. Those duck quesadillas at Coop’s Place? Life-altering. The beignets at Café du Monde? My official love language. Every meal feels like a seduction, and every bite is a promise you’ll never be the same again. Even your po’ boys have the audacity to taste like they’ve won an award for Most Likely to Get Me to Abandon All Dignity and Devour Bread in Public.
But let’s talk about your personality. Because beneath the powdered-sugar-coated charm and the boozy evenings, you’re so much more than a party town. You’ve got a depth that sneaks up on you, like a jazz riff that starts slow and ends somewhere utterly profound. The World War II Museum? That hit me square in the heart. Your resilience in the face of hurricanes and heartbreak? It’s humbling. You’re not just alive—you’re alive with defiance.
However, we need to talk about the heat. Listen, I’m from a place where humidity isn’t a death threat, so I wasn’t prepared for the physical assault that is your summer air. It’s like being licked by an enormous swamp monster with questionable hygiene. Is there a survival guide for this? Do I sacrifice a muffuletta to some kind of humidity god? Please advise.
New Orleans, you’re messy and magical. You’re a symphony of brass bands, drunk tourists, and soulful ghosts. You’re a place where the line between indulgence and reverence blurs so beautifully, I’m not sure which side I’m standing on—and I don’t care.
I don’t know if I’ll ever stop craving your beignets or the feeling of your cobblestones beneath my feet. I’m not sure if I’ll ever hear jazz again without thinking of you. But I do know this: you’ve ruined me for every other city.
Love (and powdered sugar everywhere),
Kristen
*This is a rewrite of a previous post.
