Globetrotters and Taking Off Travel Prompt

New Orleans Made Me Believe In a Higher Power — My Wildest Travel Story

When the universe swoops in with the save

In response to Warren Patterson’s and KL Simmons’ prompt “My Wildest Travel Story,” here’s a tale so unfathomable that if it hadn’t happened to me, I wouldn’t believe it. I’m not religious, but this story makes me think that I have someone or something looking out for me in this world.

Two years after Hurricane Katrina, I decided to go to New Orleans to combine a holiday with volunteer work. I’ve always loved that city and figured I could do my part to help them rebuild by investing some tourist dollars and working with Habitat for Humanity.

At the time, Habitat was building houses for displaced locals in the Lower Ninth Ward. This was the area most affected by Katrina. I remember going on a city tour and seeing yellowish lines across the siding of neighborhood homes. Those stains were left by the floodwater when it was at its highest point. Sometimes they were 10 feet off the ground.

I went with good intentions, although that trip taught me why people can be jaded about volunteers coming into communities in need. I found ways to make myself useful, but with no construction-related skills whatsoever, the most helpful things I did were move materials from here to there and measure beams for cutting. Fortunately, other volunteers brought considerably more skill to the table.

Volunteering is great, but consider your skillsets to find the ideal situation for you.

I was solo traveling, and an unexpected perk of being on the construction site was meeting like-minded travelers. You could tell all of us from the Northern parts of the continent because every hour or so we escaped to the construction shed to get out of the relentless sun. Meanwhile, an elderly Florida woman breezily used a sander outside for hours in 100-degree temperatures without once taking a break.

One kind couple invited me to join them to see legendary jazz musician Kermit Ruffins that night. Since the club was in an area that was seen as unsafe after dark, they suggested I meet them outside their hotel and we take a taxi together. I was grateful to have companions for this adventure— I enjoy solo travel and am generally comfortable getting myself around, but some things are best experienced with others.

The music that night was amazing, by turns slow and heartbreaking and fast and rollicking. Anyone who says they don’t like jazz should check out Kermit Ruffins and his band the Barbecue Swingers.

When the music stopped around 1:30 am, we all filtered out on the street. I immediately called a taxi for us, and we talked and laughed with others for about 10 minutes. The crowd started to thin out, and we audibly wondered where our taxi was. We waited another five minutes, then five minutes more. Finally, I called the taxi company once again, who assured us they were coming.

“You won’t get a cab to come out here at this time of night,” said one of the few remaining people on the curb. His tone implied we were crazy to consider it. Then he got into a car and drove away.

Pretty soon the three of us were the only ones left.

After about 20 more minutes of waiting, it hit us that we were alone in an area many considered dangerous, after 2:00 am, with no way home. We were many miles from our hotels, far too many to walk. And even though there were three of us, we didn’t want to walk around the dimly lit streets.

We all looked at each other, trying not to sound nervous.

“What should we do?” one of them asked.

It may have been about a minute later that a long black limo slowly pulled up until the back window was right beside us. The automatic window slid down, and an elegant elderly lady, dressed and coiffed like she was on her way to a swanky evening, peered out at us and asked in a Southern drawl:

Y’all want a ride back to the French Quarter?

Now if you ask me the guiding principles of solo travel, one of the most important is don’t get into a car with a random stranger. But when I tell you that we nearly fell over ourselves accepting that offer, I’m sure you’ll understand.

After we climbed into the back with the elegant stranger, we heard her story. I don’t remember her or the driver’s names anymore, so we’ll call them Wanda and Joseph.

As it turned out, Joseph was a self-employed limousine driver pre-Katrina, and Wanda had been a regular customer. Katrina destroyed his limo, and he’d spent two years making enough money to buy a new one. He had just picked up his new vehicle that day, and guess who he called to take “the inaugural ride”, as he called it? Of course, Wanda.

Wanda was clearly happy to have Joseph and his stylish ride back in her life. You could tell that for both of them, this represented an important step back to normalcy after a few very difficult years. I guess that’s why they didn’t even wait until the morning to get started. They were out taking their first ride when they saw us standing there helplessly and decided to be good citizens.

The incredible good fortune of that incident still leaves me gobsmacked. Who gets stranded in the middle of the night in a dangerous area only to be picked up by kind strangers out for a 2:00 am joyride in a limo? It’s a very New Orleans kind of story.

New Orleans is known to have some less safe neighborhoods. I remember wandering past the tourist area once and going into a general store for a bottle of water. A dumbfounded man looked at me and said in a low voice: “You shouldn’t be here.” It was broad daylight. I still took his advice.

That said, it’s also an incredibly warm and welcoming place. Residents of the Lower Ninth ward stopped by the Habitat construction site on several occasions with homemade food and cold drinks for the volunteers.

This story embodies both facets of the city.

Joseph dropped us off close to our hotels and we all got home with no issues. I’ve been to many great American cities. I’ve seen the breathtaking view of Manhattan from the top of One World Trade Center. I’ve admired the incredible history of Chicago. I’ve stared in awe at the enormous redwoods of San Francisco. But in my opinion, New Orleans is the most unique and poetic American town. I loved it before, but after that incident, it has legendary status in my mind.

Thanks for reading. Here’s another article about a storied city if you’re so inclined.

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