Our New Orleans
adventure begins with Bloodroot and Barkley returning to the airport to
retrieve Barkley’s lost luggage. Keith and I take well-deserved showers.
Earlier, Toby, our
Lafayette Airbnb host, worried about us visiting New Orleans. “People are crazy drunk there,” he
warned. “Most of the Mardi Gras stuff is
just silliness to entertain the ludicrously intoxicated tourists. The chicken runs and the mud wrestling are
the only authentic events remaining,” Toby continued. After a pensive pause, stroking his beard
with careful consideration, he added, “Well, they’re too wasted to really harm
you – just make sure you aren’t puked on.”
Believing Mardi
Gras to be a one-day celebration, we figure that coming into the city ten days
early, we’ll avoid it. Right?
Wrong! Plastered people stumble
along in front of us at 1 PM, surprising us by remaining ambulatory. Sven presents a confusing obstacle; staring
glassy-eyed, most avoid tripping over him, if just barely. “Don’t worry Beaver,” he purrs reassuringly, “I’m
made of steel. With my motor, we can
take out any of these fools.” The intoxication increases as the day progresses,
until being vomited upon becomes a distinct possibility.
Elbowing our way
through sloshed people, we aim for the New Orleans Jazz National Historic Site
(NHS). Our first crisis arises, not caused by the blottoids. We have forgotten our National Park
passports! How will we get our novelty
stamps now? Bloodroot runs back to the
car to retrieve the passports.
In solidarity with
Bloodroot, Barkley, Bear and I exit the NHS. We can’t tour a museum without
him! We walk down the street and climb
up onto the levee overlooking the Mississippi.
“Wow! What a huge river!” Barkley
exclaims. Cruise-ship-size boats and
tankers speed along the river. The sun
shines on the water, illuminating a wide commercial, industrial, riparian
environment, nothing magical. Dwelling
eternally in my imaginary eco-friendly universe, blinders on, I had forgotten
the Mississippi’s importance as our main shipping waterway. Now forcibly reminded, I learn that the port
of New Orleans is one of the largest in the world with 60% of North America’s
farm products leaving the country via the Mississippi, while barges ship petroleum
and steel back up.
We find it
somewhat disconcerting to see a river ABOVE us, contained only by massive dikes
and levees. What if they break? Unlike the West, we see no canyon walls
allowing us to climb to safety. No “up”
exists. The possibility of another
Katrina terrifies us.
Turning back
toward the city, we descend to the trolley tracks lining the river to watch the
trolley cars go by for a bit. We search in vain for a streetcar named Desire.
Wouldn’t it be cool to find a streetcar named Desire to certify that Tennessee
Williams just hadn’t invented it? But no, no such streetcar: another fantasy
cruelly quashed.
(Actually, New
Orleans had a Desire Street Line which lost its trolley in 1948. In the
mid-90s, San Francisco Muni leased the actual streetcar named Desire (number
952) from New Orleans. Muni has restored
and uses car 952 to this day, in San Francisco, not New Orleans.)
Bloodroot returns
with the passports, ushering us into the Jazz NHS as a family. The site has
lots of photos of jazz greats, none of whom I recognize, save Dr. John. I’ve
seen Dr. John with both of my husbands. I remember the first one saying, “Look
at that guy! He’s so fat he’s just asking for a heart attack.” Ah, the irony of life! My first husband died from obesity related cardiac
arrest in 1997, while Dr. John is still alive and still obese. Bear and I saw
Dr. John in Asheville in 2005, enjoying a great show. Dr. John does always appear to be at death’s
door. Perhaps living below sea level at
the water’s edge produces a certain insouciance toward life, heroin addiction
aside.
For lunch we
indulge in a New Orleans special called the muffaletta, sandwich meat on white
bread with olives. We sit at a counter reminiscent of the Woolworth’s dime
store of my childhood. My mom loved Woolworth’s; she ever fantasized about
working the lunch counter. Mom struggled leaving her working-class roots behind,
never entirely comfortable with my father’s financial aplomb. We all have our dreams;
mine do not involve Woolworth’s. We see a signed photo of Bob Hope eating here
with his wife Dolores, presumably after being pardoned for stealing cars in
Cleveland. The sandwiches suck, but we enjoy tradition.
Nearby, we find
the old New Orleans mint, which has been a museum longer than it functioned as
a mint. Keith’s eyes glaze over as he gazes at coins to his heart’s content.
Upstairs, we find an exhibit about the Preservation Hall Jazz Band. Another room contains an auditorium where a jazz
singer, unrelated to the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, regales us with tales of
the jazz life. She’s not an inspiring speaker; we catch naps on the comfy
theatre seats during the interview.
Onward! We wander
the streets of the French Quarter watching gaily, garishly dressed people three
sheets to the wind. On one street 20 people sing Christian songs unamplified,
totally drowned out by a rock band playing Ray Charles. If the Christians could
properly lip-sync, they could look like they were singing Ray Charles. Perhaps
an improvement? At least more people would pay attention to
them.
There’s no
recycling in New Orleans. The city doesn’t feel French, the way Acadian
Lafayette did, just beaten-up, rode hard and put up wet. Every street sign
labeled Bourbon Street has been stolen. I see a city dirtied by the filth of
addiction. The French Quarter does have
lots of brightly colored homes with ornate grill work. I ponder, would we like
the city far better had we missed Mardi Gras?
But perhaps New Orleans only exists as a world of alcoholic
overindulgence, no matter the time of year.
We become lost and
wander through several tourist information (TI) places, all completely worthless.
Unlike Europe, where the TIs dispense useful information, like maps in English
of the city you’re visiting, the American ones exist only to fleece travelers
by aggressively promoting overpriced tours.
No maps today.
At long last we find
our final museum, another portion of the Jean Lafitte National Park. Having
spent a great deal of time lost, we arrive only a bit before closing. We meet the most engaging Ranger. “No one can
wholly separate the myth of Jean Lafitte from historical reality. Jean helped
Andrew Jackson win the war of 1812 in the Battle of New Orleans. Lafitte was
also a privateer, a slave trader, and like all of us both good and bad –
perhaps more bad than most.” The Ranger provides no satisfactory answer to why
we have a National Park named after a pirate and a slave trader.
The Park Visitor
Center has a great timeline showing when each ethnic group moved to the New
Orleans area: Indians, Europeans,
Africans and lastly the Vietnamese, who arrived following the Viet Nam war.
“Does the
Mississippi River want to jump into the Atchafalaya River?“ I ask. “Absolutely,”
states the ranger, confirming my suspicions. “Given a good hurricane or earthquake,
the Mississippi River will change her course, becoming one with the Atchafalaya.
This would produce a new delta-built city somewhere south of Houma, eliminating
New Orleans’ vital port. The Army Corps of Engineers has spent years working to
prevent this.” “Who do you think will
win, the Mississippi or the Atchafalaya?” asks Bear. “I’m not a gambling man,”
the Ranger responds, “but in the short-term I’d put my money on the Corps of
Engineers, over the long-term, mother nature via the Atchafalaya will win.”
What has changed
since Katrina?” we ask. The ranger
replies:
“We now have
higher levees but nothing has been done to ameliorate the problems associated
with living below sea level.
The Mississippi,
courtesy of the Army Corps of Engineers, remains one large drainage ditch, her life-giving,
delta-building sediment diverted into deep waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Thus, New Orleans continues sinking.
The world over,
ocean levels rise.
No one wants to
spend the money on a seawall as the English, Russians and Dutch have. The city
remains a sitting duck awaiting the next big hurricane.
The French Quarter
property retains its value due to its being both the most historic and highest
land around.
New Orleans will
continue as it has until climate change reality in the form of hurricanes,
floods and rising sea levels make it too expensive to be here.”
The petrochemical
companies we saw back in Lake Charles have no interest in rebuilding the
wetlands. Is it cheaper to abandon the
factories as they become untenable? Or
in the new classic move, will they wait for a disaster, be deemed too big to
fail and let the feds build the seawall?
Considering the importance of oil in all of our lives, perhaps we should
force building the seawall with federal funds, NOW, before a disaster occurs.
The Ranger locks
the men’s room before closing time. Unfortunately, the women’s room has already
been decimated by retching tanked-up morons. Assholes! Is there ever a thought
for anyone else in inebriation? Does wiping out the only accessible restroom
for miles matter? I find myself hating blitzed jerks even more than I already
do, a feat and feeling I did not consider possible.
As the museum
closes, we’re tossed out once again. We head back to our house to prepare
dinner.
Relaxing after a
wondrous repast, the four of us discuss Bloodroot’s cousin Drew. Since it’s obviously our business, where
should Drew go to college? Miami of Ohio offers an $11,000 per year
scholarship, John Carroll competes with a full scholarship and Notre Dame costs
$58,000 per year with no scholarship.
It’s 11:30PM in Ohio, but we feel that we must warn Drew about Notre
Dame. Barkley currently lives in South Bend, having earned his MFA from Notre
Dame. Barkley dials the phone. For some
reason, probably involving familial insanity, Drew answers.
“Drew,”
Barkley begins, “people who graduate from Notre Dame are called Domers. If you
get both a Bachelor’s and Master’s degree from Notre Dame, you’ll be a Double
Domer and have two heads like Zaphod Beeblebrox.”[1]
Barkley then regales Drew with tales of various infamous Domers. “Did you know
that one Domer populated an entire sperm bank with only his own sperm?” Questionable behavioral examples exhausted, Barkley
returns to Drew’s life. He continues, “Drew,
do you know what you plan to do with your life?” Drew’s response, if any, is
inaudible to those of us sitting about the table. Drew is brilliant and not
very talkative. “Well, I did,” Barkley pontificates, “I went to college knowing
I wanted to be the best writer ever! And you know what I am now? A complete
failure!” Barkley thunders. “But I knew what I wanted to do! That’s the difference between you and me Drew!” I wish fervently for a tape recorder to
record this spectacular Barkley rant. Even transcribing this part of the
conversation, I dissolve into helpless laughter. The conversation ends, we laugh a bit more,
then turn in for the night.
[1] Zaphod
Beeblebrox is a comedic character sporting two heads in Douglas Adam’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
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