Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans…Now I do.

“Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans…” — Louis Armstrong

I didn’t understand that line the first time I came here.

I thought I did. I heard the music, saw the crowds, did what you’re supposed to do. But I left without really taking any of it with me.

This time was different.

This time, I stayed.

I walked more than I planned to — miles at a time, especially around Magazine Street, where the houses feel just as much a part of the experience as anything else. Balconies draped in beads, colors layered on colors, little details everywhere. Because it was Mardi Gras season, the whole city felt like it was still holding onto the celebration — beads caught in trees, wrapped around fences, scattered across sidewalks like they had just decided to stay.

Nothing felt cleaned up.

And that’s what made it feel alive.

I spent time in places like Sacred Grinds, tucked inside a cemetery, drinking coffee in a place that somehow makes perfect sense for this city — where life and history and memory all sit right next to each other.

I went back to Saba and ordered the same charred cabbage and hummus I couldn’t stop thinking about from my last trip. Some things are worth returning to exactly as they are.

I treated myself to a bottle from Le Labo — my name on it, “New Orleans” stamped underneath. It felt small at the time, but now it feels like something I’ll keep for a long time.

I leaned into the things I didn’t expect to love, too.

Like the American Alligator Museum — started from a collection of alligator salt and pepper shakers, now something much bigger. Fossils, artifacts, a live baby alligator, and a 30+ foot taxidermy alligator named Fideaux that you don’t really forget once you’ve seen it.

It’s strange, specific, a little chaotic — and completely perfect for New Orleans.

Of course, I made my way through Bourbon Street. In and out of jazz bars, music spilling into the street, people dancing without needing a reason. Places like The Spotted Cat where you walk in for a minute and end up staying longer than you meant to.

It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s a lot.

And somehow, it works.

One night, I stayed near Lake Pontchartrain — the windiest night I’ve ever spent in the van. The kind of wind that makes you question your decisions for a second. But underneath it, you could hear the water.

And that part was quiet.

Even the more practical moments became part of it. Parking near Whole Foods on Magazine Street when I needed a reset, something simple, something familiar.

Honestly? Still one of the better decisions I made.

Because that’s the thing about New Orleans.

It doesn’t ask you to experience it one way.

It gives you everything — the music, the chaos, the history, the stillness — and lets you find your own version of it somewhere in between.

And this time, I did.

There’s a reason Louis Armstrong sang about it the way he did.

It’s not just a place you visit.

It’s a place that stays with you — in small details, in moments you didn’t expect to matter, in the feeling that you were part of something while you were there.

And somewhere along the way, without really realizing when it happened—

it became a place I miss.

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