ARRIVAL
The train ride from LaCrosse Amtrak Station took me first to Chicago, Then all the way south by way of Memphis to the station on Loyola in my fair Nola, though I did not know New Orleans, Louisiana by that Name at the time. I truly did not know Her yet at all.
It was almost a solid two day trip with the layover in Chi-town. I wish I could say it was peaceful but some sadistic young woman played an obnoxious audio file on her phone nonstop. It was all noise and even had the horrible "worst sound in the world" from Dumb And Dumber. Apparently this was her idea of retaliation for my snoring, but this claim did not come to light until near the end of the journey. I and the other passengers endured it until she finally disembarked about 5 hours out from my stop.
By this time I was struck first by the trees being DIFFERENT as I looked out the window at the scenery rolling by me. It helped me to not think about how few people I had been in company with wore their masks correctly and consistently. Thinking had become something of a burden by this point anyway. The poison I had been exposed to in March of 2020 had demolished much of me, and my physical and mental health were on very shaky ground indeed. Now in mid November I was at least no longer in freefall in this regard. My time spent guarding the dojo had allowed me to see to my wellbeing as well as possible. No small thanks for the spiritual part of this was owed to a dead man, a Master honored by the dojo's kamidana named Takamatsu San. He alleviated the bitterness of my grief for my poisoned friends and recently slain Igbo brother Justice Ihechi Raphael. More on him and Justice later. Suffice for now to say that Takamatsu San rode with me, as did many of The Dead Masters, because I had invited him and them to accompany me on my Way.
The station in Nola was hauntingly empty. The evidence of charming shops closed down due to the pandemic would prove to be the tenor of my first days here. A kindly elder gentleman with a sharp sense of business was just outside the station waiting for someone exactly like me. I asked for a ride to Jackson Square. He helped me with my rolling luggage, packed for urban survival, and $15 and ten minutes later I found myself on a park bench awaiting my contact, a woman I shall here call Gabby that has a great many Names.
Gabby was at work until evening and so I found a bench between the Square and the Cathedral in the heart of the French Quarter. The air was to me extremely pleasant of temperature and filled with the noise of people, and a brass band played for hours rather expertly. I was soaking in "the vibe" of what I hoped would be my new home and finding it quite to my taste. At least I did until dusk slowly began to descend. I was suddenly acutely aware that I was in a haunted place, but I had never seen a haunt SO BIG that it enveloped an outdoor area entirely. The dead here were the sort that happen with MASSIVE amounts of violence and rage. I knew nothing of the history of Jackson Square at the time. I just knew that a haunt like this was no place to be drawing attention to myself and switched off my "vibe soaker".
Not too long after night had fully fallen Gabby appeared out of the crowd wearing a long, modest, and simple black dress. There was no mistaking the person that I had gotten to know through chance encounter on FB that had sparked a meaningful friendship in the hard months of desperate doom scrolling that had kept me occupied in the worst year of my life, perhaps of all my lives. We embraced briefly and slightly awkwardly. I mentioned the dead on and under the Square as she led me and my luggage down to Decatur St, and she laughed pleasantly with a slight exasperation as if I had told a rather tired old joke.
We meandered through streets that were empty in a rather visceral way indeed having at last opportunity to speak on many subjects frankly that were none of Zuckersnitch's thrice-damned business. She had a friend in the St. Roch (pronounced like rock) neighborhood that she was fairly sure would put me up for the night there and I absolutely could not wait to catch a shower and change clothes after nearly 3 days. We made our way in no great hurry by way of many then nameless back streets and along Elysian Fields to North Roman. As we passed the massive crypt-walls of the St. Roch holy cemetery I sensed another powerful haunt, but VERY different in nature. She seemed amused as my gaze lingered through the iron gates to one of two whole city blocks that comprised the site. She also warned me that many local practitioners used it as a ritual space of the not-very-nice sort, and that an Entity even she would prefer to let be was bound under the Chapel of St. Michael. I resolved to visit at the very first opportunity available of course.
We went on to the home of her friend Arkicide. He seemed a bit exasperated and none too sure of me, 10 years in Nola will make you VERY wary and even weary of people, but he consented to put me up for the night. I have seen Gabby only a small handful of times since that night. She seemed to prefer to just let me run free in Nola without her, and I have been content with that. This journey is mine, and I am never truly alone anyway.
