French Quarter – Story by Carrie Genzel

French Quarter

I visited New Orleans for the first time in July of 2000—though the feeling was anything but “first.” As a Canadian with no prior connection, I’d long been inexplicably fascinated. My skeptical friend—a Boston native who only believes what’s right in front of him—joined me. We stayed at the Place d’Armes Hotel in the French Quarter. The moment I arrived, I felt like I’d lived there before—knowing landmarks without explanation. My friend teased me for memorizing maps. I hadn’t.

I heard phantom sounds—voices, horses—when none were near. On a walking tour, I flushed hot before the guide revealed the spot where a man in the 1700s burned down the Quarter. Once we moved, I cooled—coincidence, maybe, but only then.

At the Chalmette Battlefield (Battle of New Orleans, 1815), I sensed movement—like glimpses of soldiers, even gunpowder scents. I felt like an observer through time.

Later, a voodoo priestess at Voodoo Spiritual Temple, during a tour, singled me out with a knowing nod—my friend was baffled.

The final night, he saw something I missed. Nervous the next morning, he described a mist at the foot of his bed. It formed into a soldier who, without speaking, “said” he’d come to see me, and that he hadn’t seen me in a long time. My friend was paralyzed—he couldn’t even wake me. The soldier vanished as he stood staring at me from the foot of his bed.

I’ll never forget that trip—it felt like New Orleans remembered me, and I’ve never forgotten her.