This morning I flew back from a three-day work trip in New Orleans.

It was the first flight I’d taken in six months, since I came back from my honeymoon, and I had no idea what to expect.

Normally, I travel two to three times a month. Now, it felt strange having to take a car to RDU and board a plane. Not only strange, it was also kind of scary.

But I put on my mask, grabbed a big bottle of sanitizer and some wipes, and rolled my bag right up to the Delta counter to check in.

It was actually quite comfortable — or as comfortable as it could be — and in some ways better.

There were no people sitting in the middle seats, they delivered the snacks and water in a sanitized plastic bag, and they enforced people to stay seated until it was time for their row to deplane.

That last one alone made the experience a positive one and I wish they’d keep that rule!

But when I got to New Orleans, I was shocked at what I saw.

My Airbnb was located on Frenchman Street, historically the district most known for its live music scene. But instead of people walking around with drinks, spilling out of different venues and dancing in the street, it was like a ghost town.

I thought I was in the wrong location.

Everything was closed. Shops were boarded up and covered with grafitti. And the only interaction I had was with four stray cats out on my stoop.

When I woke up the next day, I went for a jog around town before heading to work. It’s one of my favorite ways to see the different cities I visit.

Granted, it was 9:00 on a Monday morning but I was shocked. After running around downtown for about an hour, I saw maybe 50 people in total — most of them construction workers or others out for their daily exercise.

Bourbon street, empty. Jackson Square, empty.

I showered up and spent the rest of the day interviewing doctors and nurses at Ochsner Medical Center for one of my client’s videos.

That night I tried again to find a heartbeat — some semblance of the city whose vibrance usually spills out of people’s cups, trumpets, and souls.

I stopped by an oyster bar for some gumbo and charbroiled oysters, which were amazing. But with six people in the bar area, it still felt like another dimension — familiar, yet strange.

As I left, I turned right to head back down Bourbon Street and go to bed.

Just as I did, I heard the faintest sound of live music behind me and my body was pulled towards it like a moth to a flame.

When I got to the sound, I found what I was looking for: a bit of hope.

There, on the corner of Bourbon and Canal, was a scene that could be seen nowhere else but New Orleans.

A man in a Darth Vader mask, black cape, and black bikini trunks stood and did interpretive dance to John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” blasting out of his own loudspeaker while a strobe light lit up his face sporadically.

Behind me, a toothless man with a bandana tied around his head like 2Pac, freestyle rapped in another man’s selfie video.

Young girls and their mothers bounced to the beat of a jazz band as it warmed up.

And a man in a wheelchair with a lime green shirt and camouflage pants popped up into a wheelie and spun in circles in the middle of the crowd.

About 30 of us stood around, socially distanced as best we could and wearing our face masks (though some had devolved into chin straps) as the jazz band burst into their first number.

They were kids — maybe 12 of them — and they reminded me of the youth in New York that hop on the subways yelling “It’s showtime!” before they launched into their dance performances. But these kids come from New Orleans. Jazz is in their blood. Their horns blew loud and we all danced and the music bounced all over the city.

For a brief moment, it felt like things were normal again.

But they aren’t. They likely won’t be for a while. And just like our favorite cities, we must hold on to the things we love and that make us a community until we can get out of this together.

Though our heartbeats have slowed down, our souls still remain.

Hold on to them with all you’ve got. And please wear your masks.

 

 


Rain Bennett is a two-time Emmy-nominated filmmaker, writer, and competitive storyteller with over a decade of experience producing documentary films that focus on health and wellness. His mission is simple: to make the world happier and healthier by sharing stories of change.

You can read the rest of “Right as Rain” here, and check back every Wednesday on Chapelboro for a new column! 


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