BACK TO THE BIG EASY
Guest Blogger Becky

In a nowadays-rare spontaneous move, I went to New Orleans last Sunday.

As I came over the Bonnet Carre’ Spillway at the southwestern edge of Lake Ponchartrain, I saw a couple of fishing huts moved from their foundations, and some of the beautifully eerie dead trees that pierce the swampy water listing at unnatural angles. Further on in populated Kenner were blue roofs, commercial buildings with smashed and missing glass, and the beginnings of what would become significant trash on the shoulder.

By the time I exited onto Esplanade, I had to maneuver to avoid debris. On the boulevard, I was amazed that most of the big oaks are still standing, albeit heavily pruned (and at the wrong time of year.) There’s a lot of trash yet to be removed (think Manhattan during a garbage strike), along with the dreaded refrigerators. A small crowd was gathered outside the Port of Call bar, but they didn’t look right. I realized they must be government employees: much too plain and clean cut for the average New Orleans tourist.

After a good dousing with mosquito repellant, we walked through Debbie’s Bywater neighborhood and into the Fauborg Marigny (which borders the French Quarter.) I saw more trash waiting to be cleared and more refrigerators and lots of flies. I smelled a vague stench in the air, but tried not to think about it. We saw stoic soldiers on watch. A few people sat on their porches and greeted us, and a couple of houses seemed to have parties in progress, but most homes sat silent.

We headed to Washington Square Park where modern-day hippie volunteers offer free food, clothing, information and camaraderie to those in need. I talked to an elderly gentleman who had finally left almost two weeks after the storm. His only impetus for evacuating was the threat of being forcibly removed by the National Guard. He told me about his friends, who finally agreed to let soldiers transport them. They spent two days at the airport, and were then herded onto an airplane, with no idea where they were going until the cabin doors were locked. They then made their way home.

From the helpful hippie encampment, we walked into the Quarter to go to a party. I noticed that our late night cheese-fries-stop Checkpoint Charlie’s was open, but only a couple of patrons were inside. We saw more militia. Along Decatur, several bars were open, but the French Market was dark. After a few stops to chat, and one to buy a drink, we arrived at the party address.

This might have been the first and last time I ever see the inside of a French Quarter private residence, completely and beautifully restored and furnished. Weird that I ended up there now when everything outside is in such disarray. We were served vodka lemonades by our charming hostess (who declared that they decided to turn lemons into the proverbial cocktail.) Most conversations around us were the same as at the park: How’s your house? When did you leave? When did you come back? What about your job? I met a man named Marcus who owns a shop called The Garage that I’ve frequented. He told me that he paid his rent for September, in an act of good faith because he likes his landlady. Plus, he was concerned that if he didn’t, he might lose the space his vintage store has occupied for many years.

So many stories, the same yet different, and I tried not to feel sad.

We walked down Bourbon Street where the crowd looked like the one at the bar on Esplanade. Even though many were toting drinks, they lacked the decadence and abandon of the usual visitors. More feds of various types I guessed. We talked to a stockbroker who lives uptown. He still has a job (unlike so many), and told us he spent the day clearing his yard, and had found extra work grinding tree stumps.

With curfew approaching we caught a cab. The driver (a Croatian of all things) lamented his few fares, and inability to cash in on potentially abandoned lease spaces. It seems his relative owns various properties in the Quarter, one of which is Marcus’ shop. Small world. Then again, I heard someone say they estimate that there are currently only 10,000 people living in New Orleans.

Debbie’s neighbor Clint came over for awhile, and related his story of leaving, returning and the subsequent damage to his home. He had recently, painstakingly refinished his original, barge-board floors. The rain from a hole in the roof made worse by Rita buckled them.

I slept for a few hours, but woke up before dawn to an awful smell. It took me half the morning to figure out what it was: the toxic stew, dried up but still lingering, in spite of a lovely crisp autumn beginning to the day. All too familiar to any resident near I-10 in Texas or Louisiana: the petrochemical stench of gasoline alley, but in this case, its not airborne, it’s on the ground.

I drove home in a daze, amongst heavy traffic and numerous dump trucks with their contents blowing out onto the already littered highway. I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t go back for a long time, at least until Halloween.

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