This was the first of our “last-week-of-the-year” getaways. A tradition born of opportunity, but maintained for the spirit of it—chasing magic in the gap between one year and the next.

A City in Disguise

December 2020. The world was masked, and so were we—me in gloves and a scarf too, not just for warmth but for added protection against the virus we still felt so uniformed about. The city itself was in a post-rapture state, most of humanity ascended, leaving just a handful of us weirdos behind to finish the story. Us weirdos, and, of course, the city’s undeniable population of ghosts.

The French Quarter was quiet but not still. The air felt thin and even more otherworldly than it usually does here. Something about it made us feel like we were ourselves ghosts on tour, drifting through bouncerless doorways and echoing in empty nightclubs, drawn to places that still pulsed with life despite the conspicuously absent drunken revelers and the eerie emptiness.

Staying at the Villa Convento

We checked into Hotel Villa Convento, where local legend claims the building inspired The House of the Rising Sun. Originally property of local Ursuline nuns, the building was converted into a (reportedly very popular) brothel before being further upcycled into a boutique hotel. If that isn’t an upgrade path, I don’t know what is. The legends say young women’s laughter (and sobs) occasionally echo along its halls. If you listen closely, you may even catch who they’re chatting about.

Our room was charming in that specific New Orleans way: a little crooked, a little dusty, probably blessed and cursed in equal measure. From our wrought-iron balcony, we looked out onto Ursulines Avenue below where ghost tours paused in reverent awe as their guides explained the building’s storied past. We couldn’t help but give them a bit of the theater they came for, edging just out of sight and moaning overly dramatic “Booooooo, I’m a ghooossssttt” from our balcony before dissolving into giggles at our own joke.

Gloves and Green Silk

Somewhere between wandering and haunting, I treated myself to a visit at Trashy Diva—a brand I’ve loved for years. I bought a deep green dress and a pair of green felt gloves with soft velvet trim at the wrist, decorated with tiny frog closures. They matched the color of a silk mask I favored at the time.

Back at the hotel, I tucked them away in my suitcase together with the mask, admiring how well they matched and planning to wear the full look on New Year’s Eve. I imagined us dressed up and glowing, clinking drinks and stepping into a fresh year, even if we were planning to celebrate it back home in our living room in Atlanta. That outfit waited patiently in my bag.

New Year’s Eve, or Something Like It

That last night in New Orleans wasn’t quite New Year’s Eve—but it might as well have been. The streets shimmered like a mirage. People appeared and disappeared. Conversations came and went like dreams. Hallways appeared in our hotel we’d never seen before, humming with an odd newness in the storied structure. Every corner felt like a place to fall in love—or fall through time.

We danced. We laughed. We toasted with Veuve Clicquot in a hidden courtyard. We felt ourselves come alive in that city’s strange magic—New Orleans has a way of showing you what can be found in-between, whether it’s crowded with people or left to echo against the spirits.

Of Course They Vanished

So I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that the gloves vanished.

There was no trace of them when we packed to leave. Not in the drawers. Not under the bed. Not tangled in the new dress from Trash Diva or tucked in my suitcase where I distinctly remembered leaving them. Just, poof! Gone.

Looking back on it now, of course they were claimed—by the undoubtedly Femme ghosts of Villa Convento. As was customary at the time, there were no housekeeping services provided during your stay, only in between guests, so we knew no one else had been in the space. Instead, I imagine some flirtatious phantom slipping the gloves onto her hands like a debutante in glittering candlelight, finally properly equipped to step back out onto the Quarter’s shifting streets like a lady.

It made me smile. Still does. That trip sealed something into our hearts—a rare spell that keeps calling us back. We’ve returned to New Orleans a couple more times since then, but nothing quite compares to the eeriness of that echoing emptiness in 2020.

Always with love,
La Donna