← PreviousDiscovering the iconic villages of Route 66New Orleans International Airport has changed names several times. From Moisant Field to New Orleans International Airport, it became Louis Armstrong airport in 2001, marking the centenary of the virtuoso's birth. The clocks showed almost midnight when our Spirit Airlines plane put its landing gear down on the tarmac.
We'd spent the short flight next to a young woman who was very excited to see her boyfriend again, and we watched them embrace tenderly as we left the terminal to catch a taxi. The young man in the black saloon asked for our address and expressed surprise at our destination: Jefferson.
Located in the suburbs of New Orleans, Jefferson didn't attract tourists, who were more used to better-located hotels in town. We explained that we tried to stay away from popular spots as much as possible so we could meet everyday people. Visiting places as holidaymakers, you quickly forget that you mostly meet other tourists or workers paid to be nice to you.
We systematically avoided trendy places so we could mingle with the mass of people like us. And the next morning, taking the bus into town, we sat alongside schoolchildren, workers and retirees, all surprised to see us there. One granny even told us to be careful because we were the only white people. A man in his fifties, more of a joker, asked if we weren't scared to be surrounded by Black people, and he was genuinely surprised to learn that Paris was at least as diverse as big American cities.
Getting off the bus, we were struck by the unremarkable height of the buildings, closer to residential neighbourhoods than to the image we had of a big American city. Here there were no skyscrapers and little excess, but orderly streets full of period houses. We went into the New Orleans history museum, where we truly discovered the French influence across the whole of Louisiana. With great care, the place strove to describe the complex destiny of this many-sided territory.
For music lovers like us, New Orleans had everything of a dream city. Monuments honouring jazz and rhythm and blues figures popped up on every street corner. The statue of Fats Domino was a must, to doff your hat to that artist's crazy talent. The humblest street musician played notes of absolute beauty, and the colourful houses lining the streets seemed to feed off it all. Despite the grey weather, the discovery amazed us. The city struck us as not very touristy but wildly authentic, true to itself. It didn't smooth over its culture or give in to the cult of perfect beauty to exist.