I hated New Orleans from the first moment I set foot in it. I hate Tulane for giving me a scholarship. I hate the Newcomb girls for being so ugly and overdressed all the time. I hate the all-night bar in the basement of the school’s university center. I hate that friends who stayed active in Greek life remained friends with ones who never joined it. I hate not attending a party school, and, more importantly, not living in a party city. I hate that my mom convinced me to visit and that my dad also fell in love with the city once he visited. I hate that my baby brother went to school next door after he visited during spring break.
I hate that I moved here over ten years ago, tried to leave, and came crawling back. I hate that it took me this long to write a “transplant” essay like the insightful ones I’ve seen in the New York Times and in Esquire Magazine.
I hate the weather (except the occasional hurricanes). I hate endless summer and tropical afternoon showers that make for good naps. I hate coming back… every, single, time after EVERY, SINGLE, STORM. I hate that Katrina didn’t Sodom & Gomorrah this place off the map. More than anything, I hate the evacuee puppy my family adopted right after the storm whom I brought back to her home when I moved back to NOLA.
I hate that this is the most well-organized city in the United States and the least well-organized city in the Caribbean. I hate that this city gave birth to jazz. I hate all the books, photos, poems, and art inspired by here. I hate that there are no shitty clubs like in Los Angeles. I hate the music scene and bars that have live bands with no cover.
I hate working in the CBD of the fastest growing city in the nation. I hate that my boss likes to go out in the French Quarter on work nights and then power through the morning afterwards. I hate my coworkers. I hate that some of my former coworkers are some of my best friends. I hate all the bars, free concerts, and restaurants walking distance from my office. I hate that every hour is happy hour.
I hate both the historical buildings and the new green housing developments. I hate the mismatched homes and their gardens, intentional or not. I hate the architecture everywhere.
I hate that all my closest friends live here, visit as often as possible, or are scheming to find ways to move back. I hate friends who work in the service industry and that all their regular customers become de facto friends. I hate that everyone is so friendly here; the residents are the worst, and even the tourists want to learn what “Where y’at?” means.
I hate “Who Dat.” I hate that I moved here ready to root for a losing team. I hate that the Saints got surprisingly good, and I hate that they restored this city’s faith after a hard time. I hate that they party with their fans and still set a good example for kids. I hate that the Saints won the Super Bowl. (I hate the iconic Beyoncé Blackout Bowl too.) I hate that there’s a WHO DAT NATION now. I hate all the players and all their charity work.
I hate “The Hollywood of the South” and the tax incentive filmmakers get here. I hate that we’re a city that location casting can’t replicate in another city. I hate that celebrities walk in and out of my life and are just regular people here. I hate that locals don’t bother them. I hate that I worked for Treme and got to meet some of the coolest cast and crew around. I hate that chefs from all over come down here for inspiration. I hate that Top Chef decided to have a season here.
I hate that bars close later than 2AM. I hate drinking on patios and balconies by candlelight. I hate the unpretentious bartenders who have worked in prominent bars elsewhere yet still sling drinks at dive bars. I hate that some bars stay open during hurricanes because everyone needs shelter from the storm.
I hate that every time you turn around there’s a holiday, a parade, a festival, or just random musicians playing in the street. I hate the St. Charles Streetcar. I hate wearing locally designed and produced t-shirts that reflect all these cultural aspects.
Mostly I hate the food. I hate how affordable fine dining is here. I hate the mom’n’pop poboy shops. I loathe Popeyes. I hate all gulf seafood. I hate that the cuisine here is the only true, regional cuisine that the USA has. I hate that “eating locally” isn’t a trend here—It’s just the way we’ve always done it. I hate that we have more signature dishes than every other American city and state. I hate that here, pop-ups and food trucks become brick-and-mortar restaurants. I hate that chefs are humble and ask “Was it good?” I hate them because they’re the ones who serve things ranging from great to near perfection. I hate the blend of Caribbean, African, Spanish, French, Creole, Cajun, and southern recipes.
I hate the way this city welcomes all immigrants. I hate the Vietnamese, Irish, Italians, and everyone else who’s brought their food here and merged it with local ingredients. I hate Catholicism, voodoo lore, and hedonism. I hate that you can move from neighborhood to neighborhood and no one judges how you look or how you dress. I hate the gays and the way they thrive here. I hate that straight people are so accepting of them here. I hate that people like to wear costumes and that – on Halloween – if you’re not in costume, you’re the “freak.”
I hate Mardi Gras. Obviously.
I hate that I will probably die here with a smile on my face.