Deep East

Spent last weekend in New Orleans. Here is a mish-mash of notebook and journal excerpts:

Baton Rouge. Friday morning I begrudgingly wake up at 9 to watch the U.S.-Slovenia match. Turn on the TV just in time to crank up the Star-Spangled Banner to wake Eric up. (We've had the conversation that the World Cup is the only time every four years that we feel patriotic, albeit a warped patriotism, but still we won't stand for the National Anthem.) Staying at Ben's uncle's house, and I go wake Ben up too. Says he's going back to bed until the second half (he's English), but eventually changes his mind. Switching back and forth between beer and coffee this morning, and we end up with a 2-2 draw, which most certainly should've been a win for the U.S. But okay, onto New Orleans.

I am thoroughly enjoying this drive through the bayou. Tall trees spiking out of open water, a village of power plants in the distance, wet warm air.... Shortly thereafter we're in the French Quarter (which we will scarcely leave for the weekend), and the terrain becomes: tight streets, grassy medians, amazing Colonial and Creole houses side by side, street after street, all unique. This city is alive, in spite of, and because of, the seeds of Old Europe and the natural disasters of the New World. I love it already, and feel quite comfortable.

We're out all day and much of the night. Towards the end, Ben and Eric are very tired, and I'm not, so I stay out a bit longer. The street our hostel is on dead ends going southwest, and my walk home puts me on the other side of it. Once I realize this, I ask two pretty ladies if they have any idea where it is. They don't. But they're nice: "Are you trying to go into the projects?" No. "Do you realize you're about to walk into the projects?" I did not. "You might wanna turn around." Okay, thanks, I will. It takes longer, but I backtrack to get home safe. Who knew?

A weekend in the oratory tradition of Henry Miller and George Carlin: a complete disdain for censorship of words and thoughts. This means that absolutely everything that comes to the mind finds its way out through the mouth, or at least it seems that way - bad puns, inanely ironic catchphrases, lurid and ridiculous sex fantasies that can be described in one sentence, and intoxicant-fueled proclamations ("I won't be caught alive without a pen in my pocket", etc.).

Saturday, after a rejuvenating late lunch of red beans and rice and sausage, we're walking the streets of the Quarter. A woman abruptly turns back to her significant other, who's pushing the stroller, and makes a suggestion: "Hurricane?"*** The man nods his head and they cut immediately into a bar, as if this was the obvious and only action to be taken. Later, a girl in panties steps up from a candle-lit dinner on her balcony to blow bubbles over the railing, over our heads, into the marmalade-hued sky. A woman walks down Decatur Street with a full glass of wine (you can drink in public in the Quarter, but you're supposed to use plastic cups). Multi-generational groups, oddballs and goddesses, and even families out for wholesome entertainment, all come together, descending upon the gaudiness of Bourbon Street. And we three, walk the other streets, with no agenda and no pace. Directions, stops, whole journeys are dictated by a gesture of beer-guided hand.



***One of those fairly alcoholic specialty drinks that's served in a big plastic neon receptacle