The Historic New Orleans Neighborhood That Tourists Almost Never Visit — And Locals Hope They Never Find

The majority of travelers who arrive at Louis Armstrong International depart from the airport with a fairly rigid mental map. Bourbon Street. Jackson Park. A trip up St. Charles by streetcar. If they have an extra afternoon, perhaps a swamp tour. In some ways, the city encourages the itinerary to write itself. However, a neighborhood that hardly any tourists ever see is located fifteen minutes downriver from the French Quarter, past the train tracks and an unremarkable stretch of road. It’s called Holy Cross, and the locals appear to be quite happy with that arrangement.

Hugging the Mississippi behind a tall green levee, Holy Cross is located in the upper part of the Lower Ninth Ward. You wouldn’t know the river was there until you climb up and see the cargo ships drifting past, slow and impossibly large. The neighborhood itself is a maze of shotgun houses and Creole cottages, some of which are gently sagging into themselves and others of which have been meticulously restored. Nothing in this place seems to be performing for anyone. Not a single busker. There are no to-go cups for daiquiri shops. There were only porches, ceiling fans, and the occasional dog barking through a gate made of wrought iron.

It’s easy to forget that the Lower Ninth was synonymous with destruction for a considerable amount of time following Katrina. The footage from that August of 2005—the rooftops, the breached levees, the terrible, slow aftermath—became a kind of mythology in and of itself. Over 1,300 people lost their lives in the storm, which also caused about $200 billion in damage (adjusted for inflation), most of which was concentrated in this area of the city. Though not as badly as the blocks south of Claiborne, Holy Cross also flooded. Many of its older houses, which were stubbornly well-built and perched high on piers, survived.

Now, when you stroll through the streets, the little things catch your attention first. A magnolia tree leaning against a chain-link fence. The sno-ball stand’s hand-painted sign is only open on Saturdays. A child riding a bicycle that is too big for him is being waved at by a grandmother on a porch. The ordinariness of it has an almost defiant quality. Ordinary feels like an accomplishment after everything that transpired here.

Locals will tell you, sometimes quite bluntly, that they don’t want to be the next Bywater or Marigny. Over the past ten years, they have witnessed the transformation of those neighborhoods: coffee shops have taken the place of corner stores, rents have increased, and strangers with cameras have been arriving slowly. The tourists themselves are not the main source of the fear. It has to do with what travelers typically bring. short-term leases. boutique lodgings. The kind of focus that turns a location into a background.

Families in this area pass down a specific type of New Orleans tale. a grandmother who worked as a teacher at the neighborhood school. An uncle in the insurance industry. A house full of single aunts showering one pampered nephew with affection. On a Monday, red beans simmer. In a bedroom upstairs, the radio was tuned to a baseball game. Perhaps that’s the reason these stories don’t fit on a brochure. They belong to the people who lived them.

It remains to be seen if Holy Cross continues in this manner. Real estate listings have started creeping in. Some cyclists from the other side of the Industrial Canal have started incorporating it into their weekend rides. This article might be read as a sort of farewell in ten or fifteen years. However, the neighborhood remains silent for the time being. That seems to be how the locals like it. To be honest, it’s difficult to hold them accountable.