NOLA ’07

Last weekend was my ten-year high school reunion. It would have been good to see old friends – and foes – throw a few back and reminisce. Instead I went to visit my dear friend Emily in one of the craziest cities I’ve ever been. That’s right, New Orleans.

“New Orleans used to be treated as a foreign country,” Meze, our plantation tour guide said. “And guess what? It still is.” Meze really nailed it with this statement. The city does feel like a foreign country in many ways; and the evidence of this mentality held by the rest of the country and the current administration is spread throughout this fine city. But I’ll get to Meze later…

Day One

I flew into New Orleans on Wednesday afternoon, Halloween. Emily picked me up at the airport, sporting a sexy-ass new ’do (that’s right, girlfriend!). Screams, hugs and ass-slaps ensued. We drove to Emily’s house uptown to drop off my stuff and say hi to Nina and Vicki, who was home after her double shift at K-Mart. Emily lives in an adorable double-shotgun with wood floors and high ceilings. The FEMA trailer park down the block takes nothing away from this cute abode.

Our first venture out was a walk down Magazine Street just a few blocks away. There are a lot of trendy shops and bars housed in some modern, some ancient establishments. We had a traditional Nawlin's lunch – me red beans and rice (I got my red beans cookin’…), her shrimp gumbo – and shopped for the finishing touches for our costumes.

That night we embarked on Frenchmen Street for the Halloween extravaganza. First, we stopped at our dear friends Jeremy and Lindsey’s house. As I said many times throughout the trip, Emily and Lindsey looked hot in their roller girl costumes, but Disco Stu a.k.a. Jeremy stole the show. I was dressed in full go-go glamour so as to shine under Disco Stu’s ever-present portable disco ball.

Before hitting up the Quarter, we stopped for a daiquiri. Now, the daiquiri is quite a New Orleans phenomenon. There are daiquiri “stands” everywhere in the city. They aren’t typical stands like a hot dog stand on a street corner, but actual shops that only sell daiquiris in 20 different flavors and varied alcohol contents. These are served in Styrofoam cups for the drinker on the go. They even have a drive-thru at many of these “stands.” Apparently, not only is it legal to drink in the streets of New Orleans, but it’s also legal to drive with your daiquiri as long as the lid’s on and the straw has not yet been pushed through. As Emily so aptly described, the daiquiri in New Orleans is like the bowl of greens in Colorado. Instead of seeing someone in the next car leaning over to light one up, you see people peeling back the lids of their daiquiris for a quick sip.

Tonight the girls went for the 32 oz. “190 Octane” while Disco Stu went for the marguerite. (I later came to find that the mystical ingredient in the high-powered Octane is no other than grain alcohol. The presence of Everclear explains the development of one of my famous hangovers the next day.) The daiquiri is a smart move for anyone planning a trip to the busy French Quarter. The cup is Styrofoam – so it won’t cut you up like a glass bottle may when you eat shit – and it stays nice and cool while gallivanting. Also, on special occasions like Halloween when the lines at the bars are horrendous, the daiquiri is a nice treat.

When we finally made it to our destination we were greeted by festive Halloween party-goers roaming the streets. The girls and Disco Stu strapped on their skates and off we went – sans skates for me (my boots were made for walkin’…). D.S. blasted disco tunes, waving his disco ball, while we moved towards the French Quarter, dancin’ in the streets. Frenchmen Street was packed and there were some great costumes. My roller-skating friends made quite a splash, though, I must say.

The night was somewhat of a blur after that 190 Octane started kicking in. At one point, the gentlemen of the New Orleans Fire Department were kind enough to let us use their facilities. They were a little suspicious that we may be using it to blow some drugs, especially with Lindsey’s nose covered in white powder, but they were good sports and their bathroom was exceptionally clean.

The night was a success and much fun. The injury report was as follows: Jeremy = 4 falls; Lindsey = 1 fall; Emily = 1 fall, 1 flat tire, and 1 fucked bumper. My injuries all came in the form of puking and head-pounding the next morning.

Day 2

My hangover took up all morning, giving Emily enough time to get her car fixed (pesky utility trucks!) and hit on by a father/son duo. When I finally came to, we ventured out on a NOLA devastation tour – a very different devastation than what I transpired the night before. Lindsey lived in New Orleans for four years prior to Hurricane Katrina. She provided an interesting perspective as we passed the Central Business District, the Quarter and finally into the 9^th Ward.

“It’s hard to tell if it was like this before Katrina, or if a lot of this stuff (run-down buildings and such) was caused by Katrina,” I said.

“Yeah” was her only response. One sure way to tell is by the spray-painted markings on the outer walls of some of the buildings. These indicate if any bodies were found in the building after Katrina. We passed only one house with a morbid “1” marked under the “X.” Another read “1 bird” and “1 dog.”

It’s eerie driving through the devastated areas, wealthy or not. It’s difficult to picture what it must have been like under ten feet of water. At the time, I couldn’t quite grasp what I was feeling while we drove around. It was like driving around a ghost town, but you can’t tell if the inhabitants are alive or the walking dead. The 9^th Ward, in the area closest to the levies, was the most horrifying. Driving down one street, the levy can be seen in the distance; only one or two houses are left standing on a once crowded lane. Cement foundations are all that are left to indicate a structure was there at all, a somber reminder of what used to be before the crashing flood waves washed them away. The houses that are left are hollow and dilapidated.

The bridge leaving the 9^th Ward offers a better view of the levies, which just look like an eight-foot cement wall. The Army Corp of Engineers probably has a very scientific explanation about how these levies are supposed to work, but through my layman’s eyes, all I could think was, “How the FUCK is that supposed to stop anything?!”

Next we drove around the Lakefront area, which was also hit hard by the storm. This was a different scene, though equally disturbing. Gorgeous homes still marked by water, five, six, seven feet high on their walls. The insides were gutted on many. FEMA trailers are parked in front yards so residents can oversee the work being done on their homes. Many have the familiar “X” on the walls.

As an outsider, and someone who had never visited New Orleans before, I was constantly confused by our driving through one neighborhood that seemed completely unaffected and suddenly being in another that had been hard hit. Lindsey and Emily explained that the areas of the city built on high ground – uptown where they live and the French Quarter, for instance – did not flood. Originally, New Orleans was all swamps, which were eventually drained and developed on. This is the 80 percent of the city which did flood.

Ready to cleanse ourselves from the thoughts of nature’s destruction, we went out for a hearty Italian meal and then back to the French Quarter. For dessert we visited the famous Café Du Monde for beignets and café au lait. We sat on the patio, relaxing while a woman with a fantastic voice sang jazz outside the restaurant.

Next we walked around Jackson Square in search of the perfect tarot card reader. After passing a dying wizard and several guys that looked unpromising, we came upon a woman who had strung beads from the low hanging branches her chairs were under. Candles were lit all around her little station; it looked warm and inviting. She appeared worn and weary, just as a New Orleans spiritual guide should.

After an impressive (and, quite frankly, a bit frightening) reading of Emily and my cards, we said our goodbyes. But we took with us these words of wisdom she shared:

Your father makes counterfeit whiskey
Your mother makes counterfeit gin
Your sister has sex for ten dollars
And the money keeps rolling in.

Ten years from now we may not remember the cards’ predictions, but we’ll sure as hell remember this. (Okay, maybe not.)

But the fun didn’t end here. Emily and I later ventured out to the Howlin’ Wolf, one of NOLA’s most revered music venues, to see Rebirth Brass Band (http://www.rebirthbrassband.com). Opening for this New Orleans staple were the Mardi Gras Indians. Their sound is a fusion of jazz, blues, Creole and Caribbean music. They’re known for performing all over New Orleans at festivals and, of course, Mardi Gras. As a tribute to Native Americans who were allies for centuries to many of the blacks in the region, these performers dress in elaborate costumes of feathers and garlands. Only one of the members was in full costume at the Howlin’ Wolf, but it offered a taste of how magnificent they must look singing and parading down the streets of New Orleans.

Rebirth came on around midnight, and what a treat. This high-energy, seven-piece brass band lit the place up. They play regularly throughout New Orleans, so if you’re there, check them out. The place was rockin’ as they showcased their unique versions of Michael Jackson’s greatest hits like Billy Jean and Bad, soon to be featured on their new album, according to Emily. After an hour of booty-shaking, the band ended their set and we went home, exhilarated and exhausted.

Day 3

Renewed and refreshed, Emily and I woke up early to take Nina for a walk around Audubon Park. This beautiful park flanks the Mississippi River and includes the zoo and a ferry that transports visitors to the recently renovated aquarium downtown. A walking path leads bikers and runners past several ponds, Tulane and Loyola universities and through a well-maintained golf course. Multi-million dollar houses line the greens.

To get a better sense of Louisiana culture, next we were off to Vachery, La., to tour a Creole plantation. There we met and fell in love with our down-home tour guide Meze, a short, friendly woman who grew up only ten miles from the sugar plantation. This was no Gone With the Wind style plantation. As Meze informed us, the Creole people didn’t flaunt their money where they worked. This was done where they partied – at their homes in the city. The plantation was lush, the scenery beautiful; Meze was engaging and taught us a lot about the history of the plantation and the Creole culture.

There was only a limited amount of discussion about the slaves who worked the farm. Meze did mention that during the plantation’s prime it was run by a woman, and that there were several free people of color in the area who owned plantations and slaves. After the tour, Emily and I lingered to look at some slave documents hung on a carriage barn wall, including a price card listing the names of several of the plantation’s slaves, their descriptions – most of which were unfavorable – and their dollar worth. Two other women lingered as well.

“Where y’all from, California?” one asked. Colorado, I said.

“Well, you see, the South’s the only place you get the real truth about slavery,” the other said in her Southern drawl. “Women and blacks had slaves too.” Her defensiveness shocked me for a moment, but then I just accepted it as a touch of flavor added to this fantastic trip.

Back to the city we went, soaking in the lush Louisiana countryside and the fabulous views of Lake Pontchartrain. We rocked out to the local radio stations – some of the best stations I’ve heard anywhere. You can’t help but jam to their variety of jazz, blues, Creole, Caribbean, brass and southern rock.

That night Lindsey, Em and I got all dolled up and had a lovely dinner at Dick and Jenny’s. The highlights were the blue crab cake and fried green tomato appetizer (yum!) and talking with the 27-year-old NOPD officer on detail. He was originally from Sacramento, and had been in New Orleans for quite some time. Yet he didn’t seem fazed by New Orleans horrifying underbelly of crime and destitution. He still carried a sparkle in his eye and almost a naiveté that one would think quickly fades after a week working as a New Orleans cop. I’d like to think it was just his kind spirit and his willingness to help make a difference in that crazy town.

Day 4

On the fourth day of my journey, we woke early to be at the Bayou Barn by 8:45 a.m. We were going canoeing at Jean Lafitte National Park, which soon became the highlight of my trip. Jeremy and Lindsey joined us for our swamp adventure, as we canoed through the canals of the park. The trip was two hours long, exposing terrain I had never seen before. It was a gorgeous sunny day, the humidity low. A few baby gators were out, but no mamas. The herons, with their long white necks, gracefully flew through the fields and the trees lining the canals. Yellow and purple wildflowers were in bloom. Despite my poor canoeing skills – thankfully Emily’s a master paddler – it was an amazing, relaxing morning in the bayou.

Famished after our early-morning jaunt, we decided to eat out by the lake in the city. Neither Jeremy nor Lindsey had been back to the lakefront since Katrina and we were disappointed to see none of the restaurants still standing. Again, that eeriness crept over me as we drove along the lake. Wooden poles far out in the water stood alone where they once supported fine eateries I could imagine boasted of their spectacular lake views. The houses on our right were practically gutted from the storm waves that crashed through them.

Despite this, we still found a place to eat; a rebuilt Landry’s which turned out to be an overpriced disappointment but still had those spectacular lake views. After lunch we walked through one of the many New Orleans cemeteries and then went home so I could pack for my flight home.

Before we left for the airport, Emily and I took Nina for a quick walk around the block. This gave me a better view of the FEMA trailer park down the street. About thirty trailers are parked on one city block. The trailers are surrounded by two sets of chain-link fences, and there’s a security guard on duty at the entrance 24-7.

“It looks like a jail,” I said. Emily explained that the heavy security is more to keep people out than to keep people in. The trailers are flimsy and can be easily broken into.

We did have an ulterior motive for this last minute walk: to find the frisky feral feline who had recently chased Emily and Nina down the street a couple weeks before. Since Emily told me this story, I’ve cherished the picture of her and her companion chased down the street by a black cat, very similar to my own, the cat hissing and huffing the whole way. To prove this actually happened, we were on the lookout.

Alas, the cat was not found, but this disappointment didn’t ruin my trip. I had a fabulous vacation, and I thank my BFF Emily for showing me such a splendid time, Jeremy and Lindsey for sharing in our adventures, and Miss Vicki for keeping me warm in the scary slanting room every night.

* * * * *

P.S. Emily would like me to add a note about a humorous story the NOPD officer shared with us. She asked him to tell us the craziest story he had from his experience as a cop in New Orleans. I'm not sure if he didn't want to ruin our high spirits or just didn't have a captivating drama to share, but he told this story instead.

Two guys on bikes decided they were going to steal a couple iguanas from the zoo. They made away with them on their bikes, riding with the large lizards across their handlebars. The officer was unsure if the culprits knew the value of the animals or if they were just meaning to get away with a prank -- the iguanas were estimated to be worth $10K a piece. One of the guys was caught, iguana in tow, while the other got away, not before releasing the stolen lizard into the wild.

The local precinct received a call from a woman who said there was a koala in the tree in her backyard. Yeah, yeah the officers harumphed as they went to check it out. When they got there, it was the missing three-foot iguana. The woman continued to say, "Get that koala outta my tree!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's an iguana."

"I don't care what you call it! Just get that koala outta my tree!"

Thankfully, both iguanas made it safely back to the zoo.

(As we'd just about finished our first bottle of wine at this point -- and maybe part of our second -- Emily I'm sure will correct any discrepancies.)