My first impressions of New Orleans (apparently pronounced New Or-lans not New Or-leans as I’ve always called it) is one of a rich, vibrant and creative city. Not at all what I was expecting. To be truthful my ideas of what this city should have been came from half formed media images of prisoners waiting for rescue atop a highway overpass or from loosely written characters such as Abbey from the television series NCIS. My impressions could not have been more wrong.

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For starters, I was anticipating the city to be significantly more African American. It is after all called the most northern city in the Caribbean but upon arriving the people here surprised me with a wonderfully diverse mixed cultural. During the days of slavery, New Orleans was a primary market for the buying and selling of blacks as well as the industry which sprung up to support the trade yet when you delve a little deeper into the history you also discover that it was one of the few places at the time where African and European’s lived side-by-side as middle class citizens. To me, that was a strange discovery.

I have yet to see a voodoo doll despite being promised this about New Orleans in popular culture. What I have discovered is some wonderful Catholic churches built at the height of the cities booming cotton trade days. The cities architecture is a strange mix of stylized French with heavy influence from France but also brilliantly integrated Spanish, Acadian and Caribbean styles. It is a clean city painted with vibrant colors against a backdrop of even more vibrant life.

For any Canadians reading this, I should point out the Acadian Expulsion is evident everywhere here and for the non Canadians let me explain quickly. Once upon a time, the French occupied most of the land now known as Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island until the British seized the area forcing the French to adapt the English way of life or leave. Backed into a corner (the Shippegan Peninsula of New Brunswick) some stayed, many integrated but those who could fled to the port city of New Orleans. While picking up my luggage yesterday evening I heard a mother and daughter speaking in a deep, heavily accented French which immediately spawned memories of my own grandmother from the small port of Shippegan New Brunswick. Everywhere you turn, the city proudly displays the Fleur-de-lie as a vivid reminder of those times.

Now, exactly what I’m doing down here will have to remain a bit of a mystery until I’ve worked out the details myself but while I’m here I’ve discovered that unlike the victims displayed on the TV and the damage we all remember (I recently drove under the infamous inmate overpass) this city is a musical, joyous and tenacious place.