Southbound (1993)

Her name was Veronica. She spoke the words convincingly and with a southern accent that sounded like a sweet melody. «You have to go to New Orleans!» she said, stressing the verb and pronouncing the city New-OR-linz.

We had barely met but even so she called me «honey». I understood I was not the only one, but I was flattered. With her accent, she could’ve persuaded me to do anything, but her mission was to advise me in the right direction. I was her guest at the Economy Lodge motel at Elvis Presley Boulevard in Memphis, Tennessee. I had two days to spare, and I wondered, laying my options and a map on the counter, «Nashville or New Orleans?» Big Easy was close to 400 miles away, but the matter was quickly settled. «Yes, Ma’am!»

So, an hour or so later, I was southbound on Interstate 55, driving a rented Chrysler and listening to the radio stations. I’d read about New Orleans, I’d heard the songs, I’d seen movies, but I really didn’t know what to expect. I hadn’t yet reached the extensive wetland, the Manchac Swamp Bridge, the longest viaduct I’d ever seen. It seemed like it had no end. I hadn’t seen the swamp and the cypress trees. I hadn’t felt the rhythm of the Crescent City, hadn’t seen the clubs, nor the cathedral. I hadn‘t seen the steamboats or the streetcar, hadn’t smelled or tasted the gumbo, the sweet beignets or the coffee with chicory. And I hadn’t met John, the artist and photographer with his balcony hanging over Bourbon Street, a man that had spent 46 years in the French Quarter and described his relationship with this part of the city as a permanent love affair. All this was still awaiting me.

Several hours of driving later, with the Louisiana night above, I was there, ready to take it all in. The city lights of New Orleans were approaching. I left the highway and cruised into the streets of New Orleans, looking for my hotel and a parking lot. I gazed at the colours, the people, the trees, the french street signs and the brick and stucco townhouses with the cast-iron balconies. And then I realized, going to New Orleans isn’t just about going to the deep south, it’s about going back in time.

New Orleans, January 1993

Shot with Canon F-1 SLR using Kodak Ektapress Gold. Scanned negative.