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The City That Changed Me: New Orleans

There are cities you visit that leave a mark—and then there are cities that alter your soul. For me, New Orleans was that city.

I had spent years planning to visit, chasing a dream of feeling alive in a place that would also mark the quarter point in my journey to visit all 50 states. As of July 2025, I’ve done it. But I couldn’t tell you which number Louisiana was—because when I landed in New Orleans back in 2016, something shifted in me, something unforgettable.

The very first thing I remember was the smell—fishy, humid, unmistakably coastal. The airport was dated, humming with a kind of slow, sticky energy. I tried to catch an Uber, but they were charging extra just to get picked up at MSY. I think I settled for a shuttle or cab. And somehow, even that felt right—like the city wanted to set its own pace for me.

That first trip, I stayed at the St. James Hotel on Magazine Street, tucked just off Canal and a short walk from the French Quarter. I don’t recall doing much that first day—some food, some rest—but I remember how the city wrapped itself around me.

What struck me most was the people. They looked like me. Their kindness wasn’t performative—it was embedded in their very being. Their greetings were warm, eyes knowing, hands generous. And for the first time in a long time, I felt seen. I felt desired. If you’re a Black woman who has spent time in predominantly white spaces, you know what this means. In New Orleans, I felt beautiful—effortlessly and unapologetically.

I let the city lead. I followed the scent of beignets and the rhythm of live brass echoing through the streets. I devoured meals that tasted like stories passed down through generations. I took in culture not just through food and music, but through memory—through history. Everyone in New Orleans is a storyteller, and every story matters.

I listened to countless Katrina recollections, each one raw, heartbreaking, and deeply personal. I saw the faint water lines that still tattooed buildings, quiet memorials honoring the 1,833 officially counted lives lost. But we all know more was taken that day—not just people, but homes, trust, and time. There’s a heaviness in New Orleans that words can’t carry. It sits in your chest, quietly pulsing.

And still, despite the ache, or maybe because of it, I fell in love. This city didn’t just change me—it showed me parts of myself I had buried or forgotten. New Orleans became a mirror and a muse, a city that reminded me that beauty can be found in resilience, and that joy and sorrow often dance together in the same second line.