St. Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square
I recently returned from a trip to the French Quarter, which sits in the heart of New Orleans. (This is a picture of St. Louis Cathedral, located in Jackson Square.)The French Quarter was built in 1718 by a French Canadian naval officer named Jean Baptiste Bienville. Think of it! 300 years of history; a strange and almost mystical place which is older than the organized nation in which it sits.
I enjoyed the antiquities of French and Spanish architecture, the multi-layered history, and the colorful culture of the Vieux Carré! Music strums continually; happy notes of gospel and jazz, as well as warbled, haunting notes of better days gone by. We began our first morning with a delicious breakfast on Jackson Square, at a restaurant called The Stanley. I would fly clear to New Orleans just to eat there again! Of course the humidity was a little hard to get used to at first, so after breakfast we found sanctuary in the well air-conditioned St. Louis Cathedral. I felt reverence for the glorious stained glass windows, the rich paintings on the ceilings, the skilled workmanship of old-time, old-world artisans, and the prayerful worship of other travelers visiting the seasoned landmark.
I marveled at the street artists as we made our way to the famous Cafe Du Monde for sugar-dusted beignets. The pastries sat just a little heavy in my stomach in the heat, but I wanted to experience them anyway! After throwing some bills in a saxophone player's hat, we made our way up Chartres Street to the old Ursuline Convent. The further we walked away from Jackson Square toward the convent, the more I noticed less businesses, tourists, and happy vibes. I wondered how differently these narrow streets would have appeared before the aggression of Hurricanes Betsy, Andrew, Katrina, and Rita. (The architectural bones were still there, but I sensed they were sore with arthritis.) Yes, the historic streets felt less cheerful, even creepy, if not down right haunting the further north-east we walked.
The Ursuline Convent has not housed nuns since 1820, but during the War of 1812, the classrooms were turned into an infirmary for the sick and wounded, treating both British and American soldiers. The historical convent has the distinction of being the oldest building in New Orleans, and the oldest standing church in the state of Louisiana. If walls could talk, they would probably speak French, Creole French, Spanish, local Native American Indians, and English. They could testify of many things; the happy, the sad, the unique, the hallowed, the sacred, the haunting, the unforgivable. They could tell us tales of Indian wars, the War of 1812, the Civil War, and the tired narration of slaves.
The nuns were buried on the corner of Chartres and Hospital Street, from 1727 to 1824. However, when they moved to the new Ursuline Convent in the 9th Ward, the bodies of the nuns were disinterred and moved to the new grounds. However, the slaves the nuns owned are still buried at the original sight. Nuns owning slaves is something I'd never given much thought about previous to my trip.
I left the jumpy, goose-bump feelings at my back as we walked back toward the business district of the Quarter. We meandered up Bourbon Street, poked our heads inside pirate Jean Lafitte's bar, the oldest standing tavern in the United States. I had entertained the idea of a nursing a refreshing mint julep, but it didn't smell good inside, so a peek was plenty. We took plenty of pictures. Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo beckoned me to stand, at a fair distance in front of it. The place was so foul smelling I would never have been able to urge my spirit through the entry, but again, we took pictures. I saw the "Strange Gods, Strange Altars" sign above the door, and felt grateful for my own familiar God and altar.
We went back to our hotel on historic North Rampart Street, appreciating as we went, the architecture, the diversity, the culture, and strumming vibes of a foreign, complicated place. Later that afternoon we visited the Garden District, appreciating the grand architecture of beautiful southern homes! We also took pictures near Lake Pontchartrain, and I ate the fattest, most delicious gulf shrimp at a restaurant called Deanie's. When we returned to the Quarter, lamplight flickered, welcoming us back to another time once again.
Learn more about my two-part trip in next week's blog!
I enjoyed the antiquities of French and Spanish architecture, the multi-layered history, and the colorful culture of the Vieux Carré! Music strums continually; happy notes of gospel and jazz, as well as warbled, haunting notes of better days gone by. We began our first morning with a delicious breakfast on Jackson Square, at a restaurant called The Stanley. I would fly clear to New Orleans just to eat there again! Of course the humidity was a little hard to get used to at first, so after breakfast we found sanctuary in the well air-conditioned St. Louis Cathedral. I felt reverence for the glorious stained glass windows, the rich paintings on the ceilings, the skilled workmanship of old-time, old-world artisans, and the prayerful worship of other travelers visiting the seasoned landmark.
I marveled at the street artists as we made our way to the famous Cafe Du Monde for sugar-dusted beignets. The pastries sat just a little heavy in my stomach in the heat, but I wanted to experience them anyway! After throwing some bills in a saxophone player's hat, we made our way up Chartres Street to the old Ursuline Convent. The further we walked away from Jackson Square toward the convent, the more I noticed less businesses, tourists, and happy vibes. I wondered how differently these narrow streets would have appeared before the aggression of Hurricanes Betsy, Andrew, Katrina, and Rita. (The architectural bones were still there, but I sensed they were sore with arthritis.) Yes, the historic streets felt less cheerful, even creepy, if not down right haunting the further north-east we walked.
The Ursuline Convent has not housed nuns since 1820, but during the War of 1812, the classrooms were turned into an infirmary for the sick and wounded, treating both British and American soldiers. The historical convent has the distinction of being the oldest building in New Orleans, and the oldest standing church in the state of Louisiana. If walls could talk, they would probably speak French, Creole French, Spanish, local Native American Indians, and English. They could testify of many things; the happy, the sad, the unique, the hallowed, the sacred, the haunting, the unforgivable. They could tell us tales of Indian wars, the War of 1812, the Civil War, and the tired narration of slaves.
The nuns were buried on the corner of Chartres and Hospital Street, from 1727 to 1824. However, when they moved to the new Ursuline Convent in the 9th Ward, the bodies of the nuns were disinterred and moved to the new grounds. However, the slaves the nuns owned are still buried at the original sight. Nuns owning slaves is something I'd never given much thought about previous to my trip.
I left the jumpy, goose-bump feelings at my back as we walked back toward the business district of the Quarter. We meandered up Bourbon Street, poked our heads inside pirate Jean Lafitte's bar, the oldest standing tavern in the United States. I had entertained the idea of a nursing a refreshing mint julep, but it didn't smell good inside, so a peek was plenty. We took plenty of pictures. Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo beckoned me to stand, at a fair distance in front of it. The place was so foul smelling I would never have been able to urge my spirit through the entry, but again, we took pictures. I saw the "Strange Gods, Strange Altars" sign above the door, and felt grateful for my own familiar God and altar.
We went back to our hotel on historic North Rampart Street, appreciating as we went, the architecture, the diversity, the culture, and strumming vibes of a foreign, complicated place. Later that afternoon we visited the Garden District, appreciating the grand architecture of beautiful southern homes! We also took pictures near Lake Pontchartrain, and I ate the fattest, most delicious gulf shrimp at a restaurant called Deanie's. When we returned to the Quarter, lamplight flickered, welcoming us back to another time once again.
Learn more about my two-part trip in next week's blog!
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