What if I had finally put down my suitcases in New Orleans? What if this dream I’ve been carrying in a quiet corner of my mind for so many years had become my everyday life?
That morning, I open my eyes in my little house in the Bywater. It is exactly as I had imagined it: colourful, unpretentious, painted lilac with touches of deep blue. The sun is already beating against the walls, sending warm reflections dancing across the room. On the wooden railing of my porch, strands of multicoloured beads are tangled together — souvenirs from a carnival night when the music never stopped.
I’ve set up a small round wrought-iron table and a rocking chair. In the mornings, I drink my coffee there. Sometimes I read. Most often, I listen to the vibrant silence of this city, which is never completely silent. There is always a distant saxophone, a slow-drawled accent, a note of blues floating in the air. The smell of warm beignets or damp humidity rises from the street. Here, time feels both suspended and alive.
I work from home or from a small neighbourhood café. My business follows me everywhere, and here, I feel more creative, more aligned. Maybe it’s the ever-present artistic atmosphere, the walls tagged with visual poetry, or simply the feeling of being inspired, nourished. New Orleans makes me want to take out my paintbrushes again, to scribble down ideas, to talk to strangers who are creating too. In this city, art is not a luxury or a pastime. It is a way of life, an instinctive response to the raw beauty of this place.
In the afternoons, I often lose myself in the surrounding streets. Sometimes I walk as far as Tremé, where music was born from an old pain, where the walls still speak of past struggles. Sometimes I follow the Mississippi, watching the paddle steamers glide over the murky water, with the strange feeling that everything here is a postcard that breathes, vibrates, and laughs.
Every Sunday morning, I cross the city to attend a gospel service at Greater Mount Calvary Baptist Church. Not for religion. For the fervour. For that music that hits you in the stomach, makes you cry for no reason, washes the soul clean. I sit at the back, close my eyes, and let myself be carried. Voices rise, hands lift, drums beat in rhythm with my heart. I leave with a new kind of energy, an inexplicable gratitude.
In the evening, I meet friends in a bar on Frenchmen Street. There is always a club where the jazz is on fire, where people dance, where laughter is loud. There are also those hidden little restaurants only locals seem to know. I have my spots: an incredible gumbo near Tremé, po’boys that make your taste buds smile, crispy catfish, and even, sometimes, grilled alligator. And when the heat turns soft, we stay outside on the sidewalks, talking about everything and nothing, until the oil lamps slowly go out.
The rest of the week, I keep exploring. Always. Museums, artist galleries, kayak trips through the swamps, the alleyways of Marigny, the bookshops of the Garden District. I have all the time in the world. No end date. I observe, I feel, I live. I talk with elders on their balconies, watch children run between Halloween pumpkins already set out in September. Every corner is a scene. Every face, a story.
I start painting again. I take photographs. I interview artists, go to their exhibitions, their talks. Here, creating is a daily act, both humble and sacred.
And what if all of this were real?
I have often brushed against this dream. I have even looked into how to make it happen. But without a work visa or marriage, the doors remain closed. And I already have my life. My business. My independence. I don’t want to tie myself to someone just so I can stay.
I have lived in other places around the world: Brisbane in Australia, Phuket in Thailand, Mexico. Rich, deep years. But New Orleans… New Orleans has something the others don’t. That indefinable charm, that sense of peace. That feeling of being whole. It reconciles me with myself.
I am convinced that if I had the chance to live here for six months, the spell would not break. On the contrary. I would deepen it. I would go beyond the French Quarter, into the quiet suburbs, the forgotten communities, the small stories of everyday life. I would have a simple, rooted existence, filled with jazz and joy.
I would make friends from every background. I would learn to recognise the plants of the bayous, to make homemade pralines, to know the street musicians by their first names. I would get used to walking barefoot in my yard, to stripping down an old armchair found at a local antique shop.
And perhaps, who knows, I would end up never wanting to leave.
So I keep imagining.
What if, one day, this dream became real?
