Palm Trees and Snow

New Orleans – Palm trees and snow 

New Orleans, known for jazz, heat, and humidity, transforms after Mardi Gras with beads hanging from trees and the scent of beignets and gumbo in the air. Arriving late Sunday night in January 2025 at Louis Armstrong Airport for a five-day stay, our Uber driver mentioned the city was expecting snow on Tuesday. 

‘New Orleans can’t handle any amount of snow,’ he said. ‘Last time we had any was in 1989, and that was just a smattering on the pavements—but the city still came to a standstill.’ 

We shrugged it off, assuming it might cause some minor disruption to our long-anticipated trip but nothing more. Maybe I was just feeling unsettled after a long and exhausting flight, but there was a niggling sense of unease in my gut. In hindsight, perhaps it was my internal radar warning me that this trip wouldn’t go as planned. 

Our hotel Le Marlais was near Bourbon Street—the famous party strip, like Dublin’s Temple Bar but on steroids. It was loud, chaotic, and still buzzing from the aftermath of New Year's Eve, when a tragic incident had left 29 people dead after a madman went on a rampage. The energy was high, and as we stepped out to explore, it felt like we’d been dropped straight into Mardi Gras—except this was mid-January.

music throbbed through the streets like a heartbeat, neon lights flickered in the night, and tourists stumbled between bars in feathered masks and beads. It was exhilarating and overwhelming all at once. 

By the next day, things had calmed down, but the forecasted snow was no longer just a passing mention—it was becoming a serious concern, with frequent updates on the news and text alerts our phones from the government warning of impending snowstorms. . 

We decided to make the most of it and booked a city tour while we still could.

The guide took us through New Orleans’ most famous landmarks: the hauntingly beautiful above-ground cemeteries—where bodies are entombed in crypts due to frequent flooding, a practice dating back to the 18th century. The tombstones in these cemeteries are ornate and often elaborately decorated, with intricate carvings, statues of angels, and inscriptions that reflect the rich cultural heritage of the city. Some tombs are family vaults that have been used by multiple generations, creating a layered history within a single structure. We also visited the historic French Market and the legendary music scene along Frenchmen Street. We drove past grand colonial mansions, their wrought-iron balconies laced with creeping vines, and soaked in the city’s unique blend of cultures and history. 

By the time we returned to our hotel, the snow warnings on the news were dire. Government alerts pinged on our phones: the city would be shutting down, and everyone was advised to stay indoors. Memories of similar warnings in Ireland flashed through my mind—where even the faintest whisper of snow sends the entire country into a frenzy, stockpiling bread and milk. New Orleans was no different. Supermarkets were jammed with people panic-buying essentials, shelves emptying fast. 

That night, we went to bed expecting to wake up to a light dusting of snow. Instead, we opened our curtains to an unbelievable sight. 

Snowfall. Several inches of it covered New Orleans. According to Wikipedia, the last time this amount of snow was recorded in the city was in 1895. 

The world outside had been transformed overnight, like a stage set struck by a blizzard. The swimming pool in the courtyard was surrounded by a thick white layer. Sun loungers, palm trees, rooftops—all covered in snow.

The streets were eerily empty.  We woke up to a deafening silence—no honking horns, no street musicians, just the muffled quiet that only heavy snowfall brings. Like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie, shops and businesses were shuttered, with the entire city frozen in place.  This was even before Trump's inauguration.  

Checking our phones, we saw the dreaded message: flight cancelled, no rescheduled departure for at least three days. Outside, the French Quarter looked like something out of a fever dream—snow piled on iron balconies, Jackson Square buried under a white blanket, and people attempting to navigate streets that had become makeshift ice rinks. 

By Wednesday evening, our worst fears were confirmed: our Thursday home flight was cancelled. The next available flight was on Saturday. 

Three more days stranded in New Orleans. 

With our accommodation booked only through that night, we had to face reality—we needed somewhere to stay, and fast. What followed was an exhausting, surreal traipse through Booking.com I found a hotel nearby. It had to be within walking distance as the New Orleaners  had no experience driving in the snow. We dragged our luggage through the snow-laden streets, over slushy pavements, find a hotel that wasn’t fully booked. The novelty of the winter wonderland wore off quickly as we slipped and stumbled.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, we secured a room. It wasn’t what we’d planned, but it would do. That night, we sat in a nearly empty bar, watching as the city around us tried to make sense of the storm. Locals, used to hurricanes and floods, were just as stunned as we were. 

‘It was one we’d never forget. And honestly, there’s something strangely beautiful about the memory of New Orleans in the snow—a fleeting, impossible moment in a city that’s seen it all. A winter storm—historic, record-breaking—turned the streets white, dusted palm trees with frost, and, most importantly for us, we eventually got home.