Walking Royal St. and going in and out of galleries, I actually didn't find a lot that really spoke to me.  I was kind of surprised by that fact, but it is what it is.  Outside of the first gallery I went to, I found most of what I saw rather quotidian (No, I didn't just look that word up!).  I did find one artist in a small section in the upstairs of a gallery that held quite a bit of appeal to me.  There were a few of this artists paintings in the gallery, but some were not even hanging, and sat on the floor, such as the one above, which was my favorite.  It was small compared to the paintings by the same artist hanging above it.  Unfortunately, I didn't get the artist's name, and the people working the gallery were downstairs and talking to other people.  As I said, the artist had both very large, and relatively small pieces, so they do not adhere to a specific size of canvas.  I do not know if the difference in size had anything to do with what they were attempting to convey.  I do not even know what direction is up with this painting.  How it appears in the picture is how it was when I found it.  The colors and shapes, and how they were configured just really appealed to me.  Perhaps I like it partially because it doesn't, at least to uninformed viewers, seem to be of anything, or at least anything immediately and easily identifiable.  This does allow for interpretation by the viewer of what it is, or if it is truly of nothing in particular, it frees up the viewer to simply feel, unaffected by the artist's interpretation of a thing.  I just know that I was immediately drawn to this painting, after walking past many other pieces of work, usually moving past in a robotic, unemotional fashion.

To be honest, though, my favorite work I've seen may have not been in an official gallery.  As someone who loves the history of hip-hop culture, I usually find graffiti and tagging rather appealing.  I've seen some great tags done on sidewalks where the tag seemed to be done by dripping the paint; I'd never seen that before, but I like it.  The below picture, though, is my favorite.  A collective piece of the people's art.

For as much as I love music, I have to say my favorite part of our music and Treme tour to start the day was all the stories about the Mardi Gras Indians.  I love the tradition, and that they actually act as tribes, representing their people, their neighborhoods, so far as to not recognize the authority of the city power structures.  It reminded me of the stories of the post-hip-hop New York scene, when gangs largely brokered peace, and conflict was settled often with dance battles.  Actually, I take that back.  My favorite part was Milton, our tour guide.  You can tell he really knows and cares about the things he's talking about, and he not only studies, but participates in it.  He's also incredibly warm and nice.

Our second tour guide of the day, this time at the pharmacy museum, was definitely different than Milton, but no less great.  He was very knowledgeable, fun, funny, and flamboyant.  He was undoubtedly my favorite aspect of the tour, but what he was talking about was incredibly interesting.  Maybe the most interesting thing he brought up was the social and cultural effect this early medicine had, in that women and men were treated differently, and this resulted in some of the patriarchal domination that was so prominent, and still survives today.  Though, the fact that sickness was fashionable may be tied for first.  It is distressing that that happened, but I gotta give the rich credit for making the best of the situation.  The bottles of old ingredients were often crazy and hilarious (we can laugh now), and this one in particular caught my eye, and I dared not ask what it was used for, though I'm guessing not birth control.

It was a long day, and I'm tired and going to bed

...is what I would say if I didn't give a shit, and didn't like to talk.  That being said, I'm going to keep this brief, because I am legit sore and tired, and have another early start to a day of funnnntastic learning =)  We did the history tour today, and I was a big fan of it.  One of the first things I took notice of was our tour guide before the tour even started.  He seemed an obvious offspring of New Orleans' culture, not just in experience and knowledge, but in physical attributes.  He had lighter skin tone, bright, intriguing eyes, and somewhat straight hair, despite his African-American heritage.  A perfect person to speak on the city and how it came to be.  The graveyard at St. Louis #1 was beautiful, morbid, and beautifully morbid.  I am often someone who could be described as being irreverent, and am quick with humor (appropriate or not) in all situations, but I caught myself being very silent, and staying more to myself on our stroll through this city of the dead.  The exception to this was passing Nicholas Cage's future grave; screw that guy.  I enjoyed that people had left combs, as I'm assuming they are referencing his tremendously awful head of hair made famous by the internet.  When learning of the VooDoo queen of New Orleans, I couldn't help but think of the song "Dark Lady" by Cher, which is a good song, by the way.  She sings of the "fortune queen of New Orleans".  Probably not related, but so many people think I'm gay already, why not shoehorn Cher in somewhere.  Anyway, back to the tour.  Congo square was awesome.  Not because of what it is, but what it was, what it represents, and what it evokes in my imagination.  I love music, and I have a special appreciation for African and African American culture within this country.  This isn't because of the typical middle-class-wants-to-be-black cliche (though I went through that phase as a kid, though no pictures exist of me and my African medallion necklace), but because of the dirty prism through which African-American culture is viewed in this country because of our history of oppression, neglect, and minimization when it comes to the magnitude of the African-American impact on this country and its culture, and the fact that so many of my heroes and influences have been African-American.  So, standing in that square, picturing this massive gathering of the oppressed enjoying themselves, and for those hours, thriving, and creating in the shadow of established power is beautiful and inspiring.  It reminds me of the modern interpretation of this tale, one that I'm more familiar and personally connected to; the birth of the OTHER true, American music, which is hip-hop.  Congo Square and then Storyville birthed jazz, and the South Bronx and then the other boroughs birthed hip-hop.  Jazz from slaves and free people of color, hip-hop from the black and brown kids from the burnt out and forsaken Bronx and the resulting gang culture.  Both were born of need for expression and fun in situations that should be devoid of both, given the circumstances.  Necessity is the mother of invention, especially when that necessity is maintaining ones humanity and spirit.

My other favorite part of the history tour was the neighborhoods adjacent to Congo Square, where we saw the smaller homes compared to the parts of the French Quarter we had previously explored.  They were so colorful and quaint.

The food tour, I feel, was probably a little more enjoyable for others, given my self-imposed dietary restrictions.  Still, the history aspect of the tour was very enjoyable, learning about the origins of the foods and their cultural etiology.  The food was pretty good, though, I must say.  It ended on a little bit of a down note, as I realized the red beans and rice has some meat in it after I had already began eating.  So, I inadvertently broke my beliefs, and didn't get to finish my red beans and rice, a double whammy.

Frenchman street was smaller than I expected, but still enjoyable and delivered on the promise of nearly wall-to-wall music.  Unfortunately, by that time of the night my feet were really starting to hurt, and I was getting a little low on energy, and my anxiety started kicking in a little bit more.  On the positive side, I made a "new friend", as a classmate and I who didn't know each other prior to this trip ended up pairing off and getting to know each other.

Well, I didn't do very well keeping this brief, but it's a relative term.  Time to call this morning a night, and hopefully get a nice, long 3:45 minutes of sleep.  Shutting up and shutting my eyes.  I'm out!

Arriving at the Amtrak station in New Orleans was such a relief, more than anything.  Long, largely boring, sleep-deprived trip was over, now enjoying myself seemed like an attainable reality, rather than an abstract idea at the end of a thousand miles of train track.  Enjoying myself was going to begin with relaxing; sitting down on something that wasn't moving.  Unfortunately, our perceived short jaunt to the hotel turned out to be a little longer than expected.  It was made more cumbersome for me by the fact that I tried to be helpful and I traded one of my rolling suitcases for bag with a strap that I wore like a satchel, and was probably as heavy or heavier than my rolling bag I traded.  I was already wearing my heavy backpack, so whatever side I put the bag on, that shoulder started getting very sore.  I also offered to take another person's bag, as it was not rolling right, so, since I had a free hand, I could just carry it.  I ended up carrying 50 lbs or more on me for blocks and blocks, and I began to wear down a little as we got close.  It may have been more psychological than physical, with my mind becoming anxious and weary, so it produced somatic symptoms of fatigue.  Regardless, I made it, though I soon found out the train ride was haunting me, as I felt like I was a buoy on a choppy ocean, or just really buzzed.

Jump ahead and we're on the ghost tour, which was pretty interesting.  I love good stories, and our tour guide told a good story, but then again, the city provided the fodder, her script written by history.  Walking through the French Quarter and hearing these sad and brutal tales, I couldn't help but think of Disney World; going there as a kid and seeing the different parts of the park with different countries and cultures as a general theme.  A family friendly, white-washed facade.  Now, walking the real streets of New Orleans, picturing in my head the people and events being spoken of, feeling the soul of the city creep up and overtake you momentarily like an aroma on a breeze, I still couldn't help but think I was still walking through Disney World, viewing not history, but a sketch of it, too real to be real.  That being said, I still got caught up in the poetry and darkness of it all, reveling in the exquisite beauty of human tragedy provided by a city whose world-renowned liveliness is matched by the death that it is both literally and figuratively built upon.

Once returned to my hotel room, lying in the dark with my eyes closed, I was still haunted by one particular spirit....that damn train ride.  I still felt like I was floating in choppy seas, and I could see trees going by on the screens of my inner eyelids!

Our bus ride to Champaign would have been nearly unbearable had it not been for all the time spent laughing.  No heat, and but the vents kept blowing cool air, and even delayed because the windshield kept fogging up.  The Amtrak station felt about as close to heaven as I can reasonably imagine it can, save for escaping a pack of wolves, I guess.  We ordered pizza to the station, and normally I wouldn't eat something like that, especially that late, but I partook because I was going to be short on calories if not, and I had a long trip ahead of me.  It helped that it was hot, and continuing to warm up seemed like a good idea.

I knew it was going to be a long trip, but I underestimated, and I had no pillow, so even if I had fallen asleep, lifting my neck up probably would have been similar to unbending a hanger.  Also, no wifi, so even as I came close to zoning out and dozing off with my earbuds in, the signal would get weak or go out, and no more music.  I tried reading, but too bumpy and couldn't concentrate.  So, I decided to make the first entry into my physical journal.  That entry read as such: "12/15/15 - It's just past 1 am, and it is too bumpy to write comfortably".  I did give it another shot once we stopped for a while.

6 am and stopped in Memphis.  Haven't slept but maybe a half hour, max.  I definitely need something to stabilize my neck on the way back.  Couldn't really enjoy all this time awake, since Shannon and everyone else was asleep, no wifi, in-and-out phone signal, and it's dark.  Sun is coming up now, but may not be as bright as the woman in the front of the car with the bright red afro.  She's wearing a hoodie of the same color, and that seems overkill, if not just a bad fashion sense.  I mean, I don't wear a lot of light brown or dirty blonde clothes.  Deep thought of the night: traveling on this train in the dark, especially in relative silence, is similar to suffering with mental illness.  You feel the ride, the bumps, the swaying, and you feel the momentum and the pull of time, but you remain largely unaware of what is going on around you, the people and joy, and you feel like you aren't the one driving.  You know there's better out there, you see glimpses, but it feels somewhat distant, and you're unsure of how to take control of the ride, and scared that if you do, you'll just wreck it all, so you begin to think of how to just make it stop...

When the world was lit up again, now in the south, I began noticing, especially once we hit Mississippi, that the towns are a little more spread out than what you usually see back in the midwest, and there's a different hue to the land.  A lot of trash, a lot of rundown, burnt out, abandoned buildings.  Everything seems a little more sun bleached and dilapidated.  The age, and the scars of war and segregation, seem to show through.  This land has beauty, though.  Seeing the Mississippi in its true, massive glory from the observation car was pretty cool.  Also cool was my conversation with another passenger, and Louisiana native.  It began as he was commenting to Lisa and I about the weather, and then some of the history of Louisiana, as Brandon and I had just discussed the history we researched with the class.  Once Lisa left to eat, the man and I kept talking, mostly about history of the state, but we did it from a distance.  Eventually, I walked over to him and the discussion turned more towards the political.  It did not get contentious, and we agreed on most things, despite him being a southern Christian who seems to lean more towards the Republican or conservative side, and me being an agnostic Yankee who leans more towards the Democratic or liberal side.  I take this as just another example that we as a nation off normal people are not as divided as politicians and the media are, and portray us as.  I bid him adieu, and finally went to eat my lunch, and then it wasn't much longer until our arrival.

Prepping can get dicey for me.  I vacillate between laissez faire and perfectionism.  I hadn't really done much prepping prior to today, and that is a good example of the laissez faire part of me, as I kept procrastinating and thinking I'll be able to handle what comes.  An example of the perfectionism reared its head when I went out to get some new clothes; I hadn't bought much in the way of new clothes in a while, and a lot of my pants don't fit anymore because I've lost about 20 lbs.  So, I set out to the mall(s), and per usual in my shopping expeditions, I found the general selection of clothes for men limited, and lacking much in the way of style.  This led to some frustration, exemplified by my text mid-shopping to my friend, saying "Shopping around here makes me want to stick my head in a wood chipper".  I also ended up going home and eating some of my frustration away, which led to more frustration, now placed upon myself.  I only came home with one pair of jeans and 3 new pairs of socks.  No new shoes, and I couldn't find a pair of pants not colored black, khaki, grey, or navy that wasn't some muted, bland tone.  Just because it's not summer does not mean colors cease to exist!  On the positive side, I met my teacher's daughter at the mall.

Seeing as I ate my frustrations away, mostly with cookies, I decided to go to the gym for the first time in a while; my cardio is lacking at this point.  On my way back home I convinced myself to go to WalMart and pick up a few things for the trip; a journal and some travel containers, along with some food that is not for the trip.  I don't have much else to get, and I'll probably end up doing some shopping down in New Orleans, where there will be a bigger selection, and color still exists!

I’ve never done anything like this course.  Except for maybe once as a kid, I have never taken time out of a trip to do homework, let alone go to a class.  While the school aspects of this trip will often be pulling me away from likely more enjoyable activities, I can’t say that bothers me too much, given that I will still be away from the repressive nature of the campus, and frankly, this region.  Also, with the journaling we will be required to do, I will now be forced to do something I’ve told myself I need to do regularly in my life.  I need to do more healthy reflection, rather than just dwelling and ruminating, like I often do, and writing things down will make that easier.  So, with learning nothing, I expect to gain at least that from the class, and hopefully keep it going when I come home.

I do expect to get more from the trip than just experience journaling, though.  Mostly, I want to see and experience new people and things.  I haven’t done a whole lot of traveling in my life, and most of what I have done was under the auspices of my parents and other family.  Granted, I won’t have a car and total independence, but hey, I still get to go somewhere I’ve never been; somewhere historical; somewhere a little more accepting of the odd.  I may feel similarly to what I did when I experienced Los Angeles for the first time; I didn’t want to leave, or I at least didn’t want to go back to Peoria.

I really don’t have a lot of real concrete or lofty expectations of what this trip will be or what I’ll gain from it.  I worry enough as it is, so I don’t need to be thinking too much about expectations.  I just want to try to operate out of my norm and just live in the moment and enjoy myself.