A kid with a balloon peered down at us curiously. I waved my handkerchief at him in what I hoped was a casual, "nothing to see here" gesture. He giggled and ran off.
"The photographer's gone," Anna said, pulling me up by the hand. Her eyes were bright with barely suppressed laughter. "You know, for someone trying not to draw attention, you're doing a terrible job."
The band suddenly launched into something fast, energetic, all horns and drums demanding movement. The crowd erupted with fresh enthusiasm, and Anna turned toward it like a flower to the sun. She spun her handkerchief with abandon, her laughter spilling out like a melody of its own, completely unselfconscious.
I stood there watching her, this woman who moved through the chaos like she was part of it, like she and the city spoke the same language. In this place, there were no scripts, no lines to memorize. Just life, messy and vibrant. Maybe that's why I was here. Not to escape my life but to reinvent it.
15
ANNA
The second-line paradeyesterday had gone better than I could have imagined. Seeing Luke finally relax and let loose made me realize there was more to him than his Hollywood persona. It was fun watching him get caught up in the music and energy.
And today, I was about to spend an entire day showing a movie star around New Orleans. Just casually hanging out with someone who’d been on more magazine covers than I’d read in my lifetime.
He was wearing a ridiculous disguise—a wig with wild, springy black curls and a pair of oversized glasses without lenses.
As Tom drove, we passed a pothole that had been turned into a makeshift fishing pond, complete with stuffed animals holding fishing rods. A plastic alligator was caught mid-escape at the end of one pole. The sign next to the pothole declared, “Welcome to Lake Pothole. Good things come to those who bait.”
Luke stared. “Do you guys decorate every pothole in this city?”
“It’s New Orleans. We lean into the weird.”
We pulled up to St. Louis Cemetery Number One. “Normally, you’d need a guide to get in,” I explained as we stepped out. “But my family’s been here since the 1800s. We have a pass.”
Luke followed me through the narrow pathways between weathered tombs, his footsteps echoing slightly off the stone. He slowed at each turn, eyes scanning the names and dates etched into crumbling marble and faded plaques.
“This is… different,” he said finally, his voice low, almost reverent.
I smiled, though there was something solemn in it. “Welcome to the city of the dead.”
He glanced around, eyebrows lifted. “Okay, but… why are we in a cemetery? Is this a thing people do here? In LA, we don’t go sightseeing in graveyards.”
“It’s not only sightseeing. It’s history.” I gestured to the maze of tombs rising all around us. Some were elaborate, featuring columns and angels that reached skyward. Others were simple, just brick and mortar, names erased by time.
“The water table here makes underground burials impossible,” I explained. “Try digging six feet down, and you’re basically building a coffin-sized boat. During floods, they’d just… float back up.”
Luke blinked. “That’s horrifying.”
“So, the city adapted. Tombs above ground. Generations of families in the same vault. These places are like neighborhoods. That one’s from the 1800s,” I added, pointing to a tomb with iron gates and a carved fleur-de-lis at the top. “That one’s recent. You’ll see Mardi Gras beads on some, photos tucked into cracks, candles still burning.”
He looked around again, more slowly this time. “It’s beautiful. In a haunted, Tim Burton kind of way.”
Our footsteps carried us deeper into the cemetery. The air smelled faintly of flowers left too long in the heat. When we reached the tomb of Marie Laveau, I pointed out the offerings scattered around—coins, beads, and even a bottle of rum. “That’s the Voodoo Queen,” I said in a hushed tone. “People still leave gifts, hoping she’ll grant their wishes.”
His eyes widened. “Voodoo? That’s a thing here?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know anyone who practices voodoo, not for real. I feel like it’s more of a story for tourists. Take Marie Laveau. She’s known now for voodoo and healing the sick with her mysterious potions. But when she lived more than a century ago, she was also a devout Catholic. That’s the thing about New Orleanians. We’re a mess of contradictions.”
In that way, I was a lot like New Orleans. There I was, dreaming of writing a novel, yet there was that nagging understanding that everything I knew, everything I was, was rooted right here. I was sure that I would never live anywhere else, no matter how much I sometimes wanted to. Something was holding me here. It was a strange sensation, feeling tethered to a place while yearning to break free—just like the city’s own blend of tradition and transformation.
As we wandered, Luke asked questions, surprising me with his interest. He was attentive, absorbing the history and stories.
After we left the cemetery, I offered to take him to the French Quarter. “The oldest bar in the U.S. is in the Quarter, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop. They say that the pirate Jean Lafitte ran a blacksmith shop there, but only as a front to sell stolen goods.”
Luke nodded. “Lead the way, Professor New Orleans.”
We wandered through the Quarter, the streets buzzing with tourists, locals, and street performers. I pointed out landmarks and tossed out bits of trivia as we walked. Tom and Hal stayed close, their presence subtle enough to avoid drawing attention.
