15. FROM THE ORIGINALS TO REALITY

What Just Happened

The five of us stood at the Geismar port, waiting for our cab, the afternoon stretching quietly around us. After sometime, our driver arrived with a seven-seater, and we all climbed in, still unsure where the road would take us. When he asked where we wanted to go, I said simply, somewhere nice to eat, may be a nearby restaurant or a shopping mall. He nodded. Smith asked how long it would take. Thirty minutes, the driver said, and 100 dollars. One way? Yes. Two ways-200 dollars. We looked at each other and agreed, and the cab began to move.

Barely ten minutes into the drive, Smith casually asked one question-how far is New Orleans? One hour, the driver replied, 200 dollars one way. Without hesitation, Smith said, let’s go to New Orleans. The driver smiled and said, Fine. Let’s go. And just like that, everything changed. I went silent. My heart skipped, then raced. What just happened? Oh my God…. really? I sat there, stunned, and letting the reality sink in. The driver mentioned that Bourbon Street stayed alive all night. Smith told him to pick us up from there at midnight-we had to sail early next morning.

Then smith turned towards me, pulled me gently closer. His left hand rested on my shoulder, and I leaned my forehead onto his right one. In a soft voice, he asked, “Are you happy?” I smiled and whispered, too much.

Where Story Begins-The Soul of Bourbon Street

Before I tell you about my journey, let me take you to the heart of it-Bourbon Street. It lies in the vibrant city of New Orleans, in the state of Louisiana. Within this city is the historic French Quarters- a place where time seems to slow down and history quietly breaths through every corner. Once ruled by the French, the city carries its legacy even in the name, inspired by Orleans in France.

New Orleans is a city soaked in history, and Bourbon Street reflects that charm with its old houses, narrow roads, and a character that feels both, timeless and alive. The French Quarter, in particular is known for its beautiful French-style architecture-balconies, aged walls, and quiet-churches that seems to hold stories in their attics. And yes, for someone like me, it felt even more special knowing that The Originals was shot right here, in these very streets I had only seen through a screen before.

From Screen to Streets

The five of us were on our way to New Orleans, and I still could not believe it was real. I kept kissing Smith’s pink cheeks, telling him, how unbelievably happy and excited I was. The cab sped along, with dense wood lining both sides of the road, and everything felt like a build-up to something magical. Smith smiled and told me to enjoy every second, because this city comes alive from evening till deep into the night.

Within an hour, we entered the city. Tall buildings rose to welcome us, along with a gentle drizzle that made the moment feel even more cinematic. And everywhere I looked, on different walls and corners of the city, “NOLA” was spray painted in bold letters. The moment I saw it, I instantly remembered how Marcel in The Originals Season 3, used to call New Orleans “NOLA” with so much pride and ownership. And suddenly, it hit me so hard. So real. NOLA. I am in NOLA.

The city I had watched, imagined, and dreamed about for years was right in front of me.

And then I saw it-the iconic St.Louis Cemetery No.1. Established in 1789, it is the oldest “City of the Dead” in New Orleans, famous for its hauntingly beautiful above-ground white marble tombs.

It is also known for being the resting place of the legendary Marie Laveau. But for me, it was more than history. I recognized it instantly from The Originals. In that very moment, scenes started replaying in my mind. I could almost see Klaus and Elijah fighting side by side, Marcel protecting Davina, it all felt surreal, like I had stepped inside my own memories. And then, just like that, the cab dropped us at the entrance of Bourbon Street-right where it begins. As if on cue, the rain stopped. The five of us stood across the street, just taking it all in. The energy, the sound, the whistles from passing trams- it all felt so familiar, like a scene I had already lived through my laptop screen years ago.

Smith looked at me and said, “We made it Baby.”

I smiled and said, “You promised me in 2016, and here we are in 2024.” And in that moment, standing at the edge of a dream I had carried for years, I knew-this night was going to be unforgettable.

Let’s have a blast.

The Sound of a Dream-Jazz at First Step

And then, we finally stepped into the Bourbon Street. Right at the very beginning stood the iconic Bourbon Orleans Hotel- a place I had seen countless times on my screen. And just in front of it, a tall, dark, handsome man was playing jazz on his saxophone. The moment I heard it, I froze. The music was so rich, so alive, that it did not feel real. For a second, I thought it must be recorded, something playing in the background to set the mood. I kept asking Smith, “Where is this music coming from?” and he simply pointed and said, “Look…he is playing it.”

And there he was. Right in front of me. I have loved jazz ever since I first heard it back in 2011-2012, all because of The Originals. That show just did not tell a story-it gave me a sound, a feeling. And now that same music, the same soul, was being played live in front of my eyes outside Bourbon House Restaurant.

Staying there, I looked at the hotel, and it did not feel like a building anymore. It felt like a memory I had walked into. I could almost see Klaus Mikaelson walking through the alley beside it-calm, intense, always planning his next move. I had watched those scenes so many times imagining the place, the mood, the energy. And now I was there.

Breathing the same air. Hearing the same music. Living the scene I had only ever paused, replayed, and dreamed about.

For a moment, I was completely out of breath-not from walking, but from the overwhelming feeling that my world on screen had quietly turned into reality.

Hand Grenades, Voodoo Shops, and the Soul of Bourbon Street

And after that, the five of us slowly started walking through Bourbon Street. The street felt alive in a way I had never experienced before. On both sides of the road stood old hotels with beautiful French-style balconies and vintage architecture. Most of the ground floors were crowded with DJ, jazz clubs, bars, and glowing neon lights spilling music into the streets.

But what fascinated me the most were the voodoo shops.

I had traveled to so many countries before, but I had only ever heard about voodoo shops in movies and in The Originals. Somewhere in my mind, I always thought it belonged to an imaginary world created for television. But that night, standing there in Bourbon Street, I realized it was real. Real shops. Real symbols. Real stories hidden behind the glass windows and candle-lit corners. There were so many voodoo stores lined across the street, mysterious and magical at the same time.

Me and Smith entered one small shop and bought a fridge magnet made of marble stone with “Bourbon Street” written on it. I still have it on my fridge today. Every time I look at it, it takes me back to that night instantly.

The roads were made of old cobblestones; the same kinds of roads that always make me feel like history still breathes beneath our footsteps. The houses looked aged but beautiful, carrying the soul of French culture in their walls and balconies. Everything around me felt cinematic.

Then Smith smiled and said, “Let’s try one Hand Grenade.”

We walked into Tropical Isle-the famous original place known for creating the legendary Hand Grenade cocktail. The pub looked old, authentic and timeless. Inside DJ were playing music in low volume, while an old guitarist in one corner, filling the room with soulful jazz melodies. A few elderly musicians were singing in rough yet magical voices, the kind of voices that only come from years of living. The entire atmosphere felt raw, classic and beautifully real. And then, our Hand Grenade arrived. I am not much of an alcohol person, but I still took a sip. The taste was strong yet citrusy, different from anything I had tried before. The drink came in a bright green plastic container shaped almost like a guitar, playful and iconic at the same time. Me and Smith shared only one because it was very strong for me. But somehow, that one drink, that music, and that night became memory much bigger than alcohol itself. I still have that bottle carefully kept inside my showcase at home, a tiny souvenir from unforgettable night in New Orleans.

A Stranger from The Mountain and The House of The Mikaelsons

While the five of us were enjoying our Hand Grenade inside Tropical Isle. I suddenly felt the urge to step outside alone for a little while.

Bourbon Street had a strange pull-every corner looked like a story waiting to happen. So, I told Smith, “You all enjoy your drink. I will just explore outside for 10 minutes and come back.”

Just opposite the pub, across the road, there was a souvenir shop glowing under warm yellow lights. I walked inside completely mesmerized. Everything in that shop looked so unusual and theatrical. There were seductive alligator-shaped pottery statues, quirky masks, mysterious voodoo artifacts, old-style decorations-the kind of souvenirs I had never seen anywhere else in the world. Every shop in Bourbon Street felt artistic, haunted, playful, and magical all at once.

As I was looking around, the shopkeeper started talking to me. He looked South Asian-very tall, fair and unbelievably handsome. One of those faces you strongly never forget. He asked me where I came from. I smiled and said Mexico. Then he asked, “Are you Mexican?” I laughed and said, “No, I am Indian.”

And suddenly in Hindi, he asked, “Kaisi hain aap?” I was surprised instantly. I asked, “Aap Indian hain?”

He smiled and replied, “No, no….I am Pakistani.”

Then we started talking. He told me he was from the Pasto mountain region near the border areas of Pakistan and Afghanistan .There was something very calm and grounded about him, almost like the mountains he came from had stayed inside his personality. He told me he had been living in New Orleans for almost 10 years with his wife and baby daughter. He worked part time at the shop while also teaching as a professor, and his wife was perusing her PhD.

I asked him, “Are you happy here?”

And he answered with such honesty, “Yes, once life settles down here, life is not very difficult.”

Then he became curious about my life at sea. He asked me what we eat on ship, whether we miss home, how we survive long voyages.

I told him that sometimes I deeply miss homemade food, but I also cook onboard whenever I can.

Then came a gesture I still remember with warmth even today.

He offered me homemade polao. Just like that. From one South Asian heart to another, in a foreign land thousands of miles away from home.

I thanked him and told him I was already too full to eat anything more, but I would never forget his kindness. And I truly never did.

Sometimes people stay in your memory not because you knew them for years, but because for a few minutes they made a strange city feel familiar.

Later, after finishing our Hand Grenade, we continued exploring the French Quatres in Bourbon Street. And then suddenly, I saw something I had dreamed about for years.

Hotel Royal

The moment I saw it, I froze.

For many people, it was just another beautiful old hotel in New Orleans.

But for me, it was the house from The Originals-the Mikaelsons’ home. The house of Klaus, Elijah, Rebekah, and Hayley. The house that had witnessed love, betrayal, wars, heartbreaks, and endless fights to protect family.

I stood there on the road side silently staring at it.

The same balconies.

The same old architecture.

The same flags hanging outside.

The same haunting beauty I had seen years ago sitting in my hostel room on my red Dell Inspiron laptop, watching the series episode after episode.

And now that dream was standing right in front of me. Real. Tangible. Alive. It was a residential hotel, quiet and elegant, without loud bars or music, so we could not go inside. But honestly, even standing outside felt enough. I kept gazing at it as if I was looking at a memory from another life.

And somewhere in my heart, I made a silent promise to myself:

One day, years later maybe, me and Smith will come back to New Orleans again. And when we do, we will stay in that hotel only.

Where Fiction Became Real

After exploring a few more roads, bars, and souvenir shops of Bourbon Street, we finally reached one of the places I had always wanted to see with my own eyes-the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral, standing there in the heart of the French Quarters, the cathedral looked timeless.

Old, elegant, and glowing softly against the evening sky. It is one of the oldest Church in New Orleans, and for me, it carried not only history but also memories from The Originals.

So many important scenes of the series happened there. Meetings, confrontations, secrets, betrayals- the cathedral appeared throughout almost every season. And I still remembered how in Season 1, Marcel had hidden Davina in the attic of the Church to protect her.

As I stood there watching it quietly, I felt strangely emotional.

I had seen this cathedral countless times on a screen while sitting in my hostel room years ago, never imagining that one day I would right in front of it in real life. But there I was. Watching the same towers, the same structure, the same atmosphere- only now it felt more alive, more magical, and far more beautiful than television could ever show.

New Orleans itself felt like a character. Not just a city, but a living, breathing soul.

After sometime, hunger finally reminded us that we had been walking for hours. So, we stopped at a small pizza shop nearby and bought a ham and cheese pizza. It was definitely expensive, the French Quarters is full of tourists after all, but honestly, in that moment, even that simple pizza tastes wonderful.

And then we continued walking again. By then, the evening had slowly started turning darker. The streets were glowing into colourful lights, loud music echoed from every balcony, and more like one giant open-air dance floor. People were dancing openly on the roads, musicians were performing everywhere, children were laughing, strangers were singing together, the whole atmosphere felt wild, carefree and electric.

But as the sky grew darker and darker, I slowly started noticing another side of Bourbon Street emerging.

The softer evening charm was changing.

The louder, wilder, more mischievous side of the street was beginning to wake up.

When Bourbon Street Lost It’s Innocence

As the evening slowly slipped into night, we started noticing a different side of Bourbon Street waking up. One by one, glowing neon signs began lighting up the street.

“Gentleman’s Club.”

“Gentleman’s Bar.”

“Gentleman’s Pub.”

The entire atmosphere was changing slowly, almost like the city was removing one mask and revealing another.

Before diving into that side of Bourbon Street, we decided to have dinner first. And there was one thing I absolutely wanted to try in Louisiana- alligator meat.

In Louisiana, especially around the Mississippi region, controlled alligator hunting is legal during certain times of the year to manage the population. Because of that, alligator meat is commonly available in New Orleans, and I was extremely curious to taste it at least once in my life.

So, we entered a restaurant somewhere in French Quarter. I sadly do not remember the name anymore and ordered alligator meat along with fries, steak, and cocktails.

And honestly? I loved it.

The meat was white and tender, softer than chicken but slightly richer in texture and flavor. I had expected something strange, but it turned out surprisingly delicious. That dinner itself felt like another part of the New Orleans experience- adventurous, bold, and unforgettable. And then, the real Bourbon Street experience began.

We entered our first Gentleman’s club. Outside the entrance, a few dancers stood inviting people inside under flashing lights and loud music. The entire street had transformed into something seductive, theatrical, and wildly alive. I had never stepped into strip club before in my life, but somewhere deep inside, I had always been curious to experience it once with Smith.

So, we did.

Inside, it felt like entering another world entirely- loud music, dancing lights, confidence, glamour, laughter and people simply letting go of reality for a few hours. We explored, laughed, enjoyed the madness of the night, and honestly had so much.

The detailed stories of what happened inside those clubs deserve their own separate blog someday.

And just like that people do café hopping or pub hopping, we somehow ended up doing strip-club hopping across Bourbon Street, visiting almost four different clubs that night. Every place has its own energy, its own music, its own chaos.

Later, we entered another live music club where a band was performing on stage- drums, saxophone, guitars filling the room with energy. A beautiful as well as graceful singer was singing famous party songs from Dua Lipa, Britney Spears and Jennifer Lopez.

The entire crowd was dancing. At one point, she called me towards the stage.

And I went.

I danced with her while Smith stood there smiling, recording videos of me, genuinely happy seeing me enjoying myself so freely. I danced without overthinking anything.

No hesitation, no awkwardness. Just music, lights, laughter, and the feeling of being completely alive in that moment.

After coming back down, we danced even more. We sang loudly.

We laughed endlessly.

And then we came out into the street again. By then, Bourbon Street had fully transformed. The roads themselves had become dance floors. Music poured out from every balcony and bars. Couples were making out openly, strangers were singing together, people were drunk on music, alcohol, freedom, and the night itself. I was not drunk, but the four guys definitely were.

Me and Smith danced through the streets, kissed in front of the bars, laughed like teenagers, and got lost in the energy of New Orleans. And the funny thing was- we were not the only ones. Everywhere around us, people were celebrating life in their own way. What fascinated me most was how strangely respectful the chaos still felt. The dancers outside the strip clubs would quickly cover themselves with the board on their hand, whenever children passed by. The street somehow balanced wildness and awareness together in its own unique way.

As night grew darker, French Quarters became more seductive, more electric, more dreamlike.

And honestly, if someone truly loves nightlife, music, dancing, freedom and unforgettable energy, then Bourbon Street is not just a place to visit, it’s a place to experience at least once in life.

Midnight Madness

The night kept flowing like jazz music itself- one pub after another, one dance after another, then back again to dancing on the roads of Bourbon Streets. There was music everywhere.

Inside the bars.

On the balconies.

On the streets.

People were dancing freely under neon lights while strangers sang together as if the entire French Quarters had become one giant celebration. Couples were kissing, laughing, holding each other close, and somewhere in between all that noise and music, me and Smith kept falling in love with each other all over again.

That night felt less like reality and more like one long dream soaked in jazz, alcohol, sweat, lights and freedom. At one point, we met a large group of girls from Chicago. Our three permanently single boys- the 3rd Officer, the 4th Engineer and Batti Saab, immediately became very interested in making new “friendship”.

The girls were equally playful and friendly, and somehow, we kept bumping into that same group in almost every club and every pub throughout the night.

By the end of it, everyone was laughing together like old friends.

The boys were flirting shamelessly. The girls were flirting back. And the entire night felt light hearted, chaotic and ridiculously fun.

We kept partying until almost midnight. But unlike the others, I was still fully aware that our cab driver would be waiting for us at the starting point of the Bourbon Street near the beautiful Bourbon Orleans Hotel exactly 12 o’ clock.

At around 11.55pm, I suddenly realized we had to leave immediately. So, I practically gathered all the four drunken men together and dragged everyone back towards the entrance of the street. Our cab driver was already waiting there patiently.

We somehow managed to enter the cab. The 3rd Officer and Batti Saab collapsed into their seat like they no longer care about life itself. Smith immediately fell asleep with his head on my lap.

And then I noticed something terrifying. The 4th Engineer was missing. I quickly got down from the cab and ran back searching for him. After a few moments, I found him on the roadside flirting with a homeless woman while she sat there casually on the pavement.

In his drunken confidence, he was apparently negotiating romance with six cents in his pocket.

I dragged him back towards the cab while shouting abuses at him and somehow managed to push him inside.

The cab driver took one look at the four completely drunk sailors and immediately warned us: “Vomit outside now if you want. But if anybody vomits inside my cab, I charge extra.”

Everyone confidently promised that they would not vomit, which, of course turned out to be complete lie. The cab finally started driving while all four men slowly passed out one by one into deep sleep. Smith’s head rested quietly on my lap while I gently rubbed his forehead and watched the city lights disappear outside the window.

For a few peaceful minutes, the madness became soft again. Then suddenly, after about half an hour, the 4th Engineer announced dramatically that he needed to pee immediately. The driver stopped near a gas station. Everybody stumbled outside half asleep and half drunk. Smith vomited a little outside near the station.

And then disaster struck.

The driver suddenly discovered that Batti Saab had already vomited silently inside the cab behind my seat.

The poor driver lost his mind instantly. He started shouting at us, reminding us how he had warned everyone earlier. The others were too drunk to even respond properly, so naturally I became the official negotiator of the disaster.

He demanded 250 dollars.

I was honestly scared at that point because I was only functional human being left in that cab. I kept requesting him calmly, telling him I only had 200 dollars with me. I reminded him that he himself had earlier mentioned 200.

“Please just take us safely back to the port,” I told him.

After a lot of frustration and shouting, he finally accepted the 200 dollars and continued driving us back. The entire ride after that was silent except for occasional drunken noises from the boys and the driver angrily cursing all of us under his breath.

Finally, we reach the port near our ship. The 3rd Officer held one side of Smith while I held the other. The 4th Engineer and Batti were somehow balancing each other like collapsing dominoes. Everybody looked absolutely destroyed after night.

And after one final round of vomiting near the berth, we somehow managed to climb back onto the ship and returned to our cabin.

Once inside, the chaos disappeared. It was suddenly quiet again.

I cleaned Smith up properly, changed his clothes, wiped his face and body gently with wet towel, and put a blanket over him. He kept apologizing in his drunken sleepy voice again and again.

“I am sorry Baby, I am sorry…”

But I was not angry.

Not even a little. He looked exhausted and innocent, sleeping there like a child after one of the wildest nights of his life. I softly put some talcum powder on his neck and face, fixed the blanket around him, and watched him fall asleep peacefully. And somehow that moment became my favorite memory of the entire night.

Not the clubs.

Not the music.

Not even Bourbon Street itself.

But the quiet moment afterward- when all the madness ended, and the man I loved slept safely beside me like a baby while the ship waited silently outside in the dark.

One Night in New Orleans

And as I finally lay down beside him, the noise of Bourbon Street was still echoing softly inside my head- the jazz music, the laughter, the dancing lights, the wild streets, the strangers, the kisses, the madness of the night.

Just a few hours ago, we were dancing under the neon lights in the heart of New Orleans, lost among crowds of people and music. And now, here we were again- back in our tiny ship’s cabin in complete silence, somewhere between the dark waters and the sleeping port. I looked at Smith sleeping beside me, his face finally peaceful after all the chaos, and I smiled quietly to myself. Life at sea had given us storms, loneliness, long separation from the world, and endless days surrounded only by water. But sometimes, in the middle of all that uncertainty, it also gave us night like this- nights so alive, so reckless, so beautiful that they almost felt unreal.

That night, New Orleans did not just give me memories.

It gave me a feeling.

A feeling of being young.

Wild.

Free.

In love.

And even today, whenever I look at that Bourbon Street fridge magnet on my refrigerator or that empty Hand Grenade bottle standing quietly standing in my showcase, a part of me goes back there instantly- to the cobblestone roads, the jazz music floating in the air, the warm Louisiana night and the boy sleeping beside me after loving life a little too much.

Some cities you visit.

Some cities stay inside you forever.

And for me, New Orleans will always be the city where fiction became real, where the nights turned seductive and endless, and where love danced with me under neon lights until midnight faded into memory.

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