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Valediction: New Orleans
Sep. 5th, 2005 11:40 pmThe following is an essay that I just wrote for my Lyric Essay class. The assignment was to write about five significant places in a city. I found that I was physically unable to write about anything other than New Orleans. I wonder how many more will have the same sentiments.
Anyway, I haven't journalled about any of it, because there's been too much to say. This essay is inadequate, as all such responses are. It's just a feeling. And some memories.
Here it is. (The bits in bold are from various news articles.)
Two New Orleans Stories or Five Significant Places in a City
“New Orleans finally collects its dead.”
“'It's just ghosts left here now – it's like the end of the world'” .
616 Ursulines Street
Someone once told me that the laws of the Vieux Carre state that nothing can ever be changed in it. You may own the inside of a house but the outside belongs to history. If you repaint or rebuild, everything must remain exactly the same, down to the color of the paint, the tiles on every roof and each curl of wrought-iron grille-work.
We always meet there, in the French Quarter, even if we meet nowhere else. You see, we carved our names in fresh cement, on the street, somewhere by the Hotel Villa Convento. I watched for the police as you recorded us illicitly on the pavement, across the street from the Ursuline Convent, where the vampire-tour guide, lisping on his fangs (they must have been newly grown) had told us that not-so-dead nuns lay in their coffins, locked up forever on the top floor.
“If they rebuild the city, they’ll have to keep us too,” I said.
“At least one animal made a break for freedom. The zoo is missing a large alligator, a reptile well-adapted to survive and join the wild alligators in the bayous of southern Louisiana."
"Sharks were reported swimming in the streets and even the Superdome – a shelter of last resort for 20,000 people – was at risk from the rising waters."
A Restaurant; Somewhere atop Bourbon Street.
Looking down at strings of lights and colors, from that second floor balcony restaurant whose name I do not remember, I thought of strings of Mardi Gras beads, and cursed myself. But that is New Orleans, always fictional. I knew it by heart without ever setting foot in it.
We ordered alligator and Dixie beers, remembering the great slabs of cured reptilian meat that hung in ropes at the French Market, looking like dried white tree-flesh. Alligator tastes like chicken, alarmingly. You were smoking cigarettes. I looked at your dyed black hair, the string of beaded lights below, and I thought we were in a story that I would only dare to read between brown paper covers so that no one would know.
The barbecued shrimp wasn’t actually barbecued; it came in a huge platter covered with spicy tomato marinade, and with huge hunks of crispy French bread. I spattered my face and hands with it, and you laughed and licked bright red sauce off the corner of my mouth.
“This isn't the last dance for the city that held my heart. New Orleans has always been at ease on the edge of death."
"Experts Say Katrina's Floodwaters Could Unleash Toxic Chemicals, Dislodge Coffins in New Orleans"
St. Louis Cemetery # 2
We never got to the cemetery.
It was the first place I wanted to visit, and we never made it.
We walked down Royal Street, all the way to the edge of the Quarter; then we turned to walk towards Rampart Street. The neighborhood became ugly, and I thought of how cities lie next to each other without ever touching. This isn’t the New Orleans I read about.
This is New Orleans, you said. It is ugly. It is poor. We could be lynched ten miles out that way, and you pointed. We could still hear the thumping beat from the strip clubs on the seedy side of Bourbon, and we were still drinking frozen green synthetically poisonous drinks. Why are the graves above ground, I asked, even though I already knew the answer. This is a city written on water, you said, if you dig too deep, the coffins begin to float.
We never went inside.
"Deputy chief: New Orleans 'a hazard'; But he sees progress: 'We moved from chaos to organized chaos'"
Dragon’s Den; 435 Esplanade Ave.
Drunk already, we stumbled up the stairs to the Dragon’s Den, a bar which resembled nothing so much as an opium-house, red velvet everywhere. It was even above a Thai restaurant. I almost wanted to ask if there’s a brothel in back and I restrained myself with effort. As we fell back down the stairs and onto the street, we were greeted by, “Betcha ten dollars I can tell you where you got dem shoes.” We tried to move past the old black man who approached us. We failed: he was gentle, but immoveable. There was nothing for it.
“Where did we get our shoes?”
“You got your shoes on Esplanade,” he said with a friendly grin.
We paid him.
They are very polite in New Orleans.
"Many Still Refuse to Leave New Orleans."
"We, who are from New Orleans, are no less American than those who live on the Great Plains or along the Atlantic Seaboard. We’re no less important than those from the Pacific Northwest or Appalachia. Our people deserved to be rescued. No expense should have been spared. No excuses should have been voiced. Especially not one as preposterous as the claim that New Orleans couldn’t be reached."
Somewhere between Decatur Street and the Mississippi
Early in the morning, on our last day, we got Japanese winter-pears from the French Market, beignets and chicory coffee from the Café du Monde. It had rained the night before and the morning was still damp. The streets were black and glistening. Jackson Square was empty, except for one lone guitar player, in a purple and yellow jester’s cap, playing to some invisible audience – hat out, because nobody sings for free in New Orleans.
We sat on a bench by the Mississippi, and were misted on. There was powdered sugar everywhere, and my hands were sticky with pear juice. We watched the street kids pull themselves up from benches and banks where they had been sleeping. Barges drifted past, ruining the view, and I thought of dead bodies decomposing in the river, and wondered how many crimes were secreted in the waters. Nearby a couple of boys were kissing furiously, before they headed off to the coffee-shop for breakfast.
I’ve never wanted to be homeless anywhere else.
*article quotes are from (in order)
Times Online, Sept. 5, 2005.http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,11069-1766122,00.html
Times Online, Sept. 6, 2005, http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,11069-1766599,00.html
Science Daily, Sept. 5, 2005, http://www.sciencedaily.com/upi/?feed=TopNews&article=UPI-1-20050905-17490600-bc-us-katrina-animals.xml
Associated Press/Reuters, Sept. 1, 2005, http://www.stuff.co.nz/stuff/0,2106,3395867a10,00.html
Houston Chronicle, Rick Bragg, Sept. 3, 2005
ABC News/AP, Matt Crenson , Aug. 29. 2005, http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/Weather/wireStory?id=1076867
CNN.com, September 5, 2005, http://www.cnn.com/2005/US/09/05/katrina.new.orleans/
Washington Post, September 5, 2005, http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/09/05/AR2005090500523.html
New Orleans Times Picayune, Sept. 4, 2005 http://qconline.com/archives/qco/sections.cgi?prcss=display&id=256187
Anyway, I haven't journalled about any of it, because there's been too much to say. This essay is inadequate, as all such responses are. It's just a feeling. And some memories.
Here it is. (The bits in bold are from various news articles.)
“New Orleans finally collects its dead.”
“'It's just ghosts left here now – it's like the end of the world'” .
616 Ursulines Street
Someone once told me that the laws of the Vieux Carre state that nothing can ever be changed in it. You may own the inside of a house but the outside belongs to history. If you repaint or rebuild, everything must remain exactly the same, down to the color of the paint, the tiles on every roof and each curl of wrought-iron grille-work.
We always meet there, in the French Quarter, even if we meet nowhere else. You see, we carved our names in fresh cement, on the street, somewhere by the Hotel Villa Convento. I watched for the police as you recorded us illicitly on the pavement, across the street from the Ursuline Convent, where the vampire-tour guide, lisping on his fangs (they must have been newly grown) had told us that not-so-dead nuns lay in their coffins, locked up forever on the top floor.
“If they rebuild the city, they’ll have to keep us too,” I said.
“At least one animal made a break for freedom. The zoo is missing a large alligator, a reptile well-adapted to survive and join the wild alligators in the bayous of southern Louisiana."
"Sharks were reported swimming in the streets and even the Superdome – a shelter of last resort for 20,000 people – was at risk from the rising waters."
A Restaurant; Somewhere atop Bourbon Street.
Looking down at strings of lights and colors, from that second floor balcony restaurant whose name I do not remember, I thought of strings of Mardi Gras beads, and cursed myself. But that is New Orleans, always fictional. I knew it by heart without ever setting foot in it.
We ordered alligator and Dixie beers, remembering the great slabs of cured reptilian meat that hung in ropes at the French Market, looking like dried white tree-flesh. Alligator tastes like chicken, alarmingly. You were smoking cigarettes. I looked at your dyed black hair, the string of beaded lights below, and I thought we were in a story that I would only dare to read between brown paper covers so that no one would know.
The barbecued shrimp wasn’t actually barbecued; it came in a huge platter covered with spicy tomato marinade, and with huge hunks of crispy French bread. I spattered my face and hands with it, and you laughed and licked bright red sauce off the corner of my mouth.
“This isn't the last dance for the city that held my heart. New Orleans has always been at ease on the edge of death."
"Experts Say Katrina's Floodwaters Could Unleash Toxic Chemicals, Dislodge Coffins in New Orleans"
St. Louis Cemetery # 2
We never got to the cemetery.
It was the first place I wanted to visit, and we never made it.
We walked down Royal Street, all the way to the edge of the Quarter; then we turned to walk towards Rampart Street. The neighborhood became ugly, and I thought of how cities lie next to each other without ever touching. This isn’t the New Orleans I read about.
This is New Orleans, you said. It is ugly. It is poor. We could be lynched ten miles out that way, and you pointed. We could still hear the thumping beat from the strip clubs on the seedy side of Bourbon, and we were still drinking frozen green synthetically poisonous drinks. Why are the graves above ground, I asked, even though I already knew the answer. This is a city written on water, you said, if you dig too deep, the coffins begin to float.
We never went inside.
"Deputy chief: New Orleans 'a hazard'; But he sees progress: 'We moved from chaos to organized chaos'"
Dragon’s Den; 435 Esplanade Ave.
Drunk already, we stumbled up the stairs to the Dragon’s Den, a bar which resembled nothing so much as an opium-house, red velvet everywhere. It was even above a Thai restaurant. I almost wanted to ask if there’s a brothel in back and I restrained myself with effort. As we fell back down the stairs and onto the street, we were greeted by, “Betcha ten dollars I can tell you where you got dem shoes.” We tried to move past the old black man who approached us. We failed: he was gentle, but immoveable. There was nothing for it.
“Where did we get our shoes?”
“You got your shoes on Esplanade,” he said with a friendly grin.
We paid him.
They are very polite in New Orleans.
"Many Still Refuse to Leave New Orleans."
"We, who are from New Orleans, are no less American than those who live on the Great Plains or along the Atlantic Seaboard. We’re no less important than those from the Pacific Northwest or Appalachia. Our people deserved to be rescued. No expense should have been spared. No excuses should have been voiced. Especially not one as preposterous as the claim that New Orleans couldn’t be reached."
Somewhere between Decatur Street and the Mississippi
Early in the morning, on our last day, we got Japanese winter-pears from the French Market, beignets and chicory coffee from the Café du Monde. It had rained the night before and the morning was still damp. The streets were black and glistening. Jackson Square was empty, except for one lone guitar player, in a purple and yellow jester’s cap, playing to some invisible audience – hat out, because nobody sings for free in New Orleans.
We sat on a bench by the Mississippi, and were misted on. There was powdered sugar everywhere, and my hands were sticky with pear juice. We watched the street kids pull themselves up from benches and banks where they had been sleeping. Barges drifted past, ruining the view, and I thought of dead bodies decomposing in the river, and wondered how many crimes were secreted in the waters. Nearby a couple of boys were kissing furiously, before they headed off to the coffee-shop for breakfast.
I’ve never wanted to be homeless anywhere else.
*article quotes are from (in order)
Times Online, Sept. 5, 2005.http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,11069-1766122,00.html
Times Online, Sept. 6, 2005, http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,11069-1766599,00.html
Science Daily, Sept. 5, 2005, http://www.sciencedaily.com/upi/?feed=TopNews&article=UPI-1-20050905-17490600-bc-us-katrina-animals.xml
Associated Press/Reuters, Sept. 1, 2005, http://www.stuff.co.nz/stuff/0,2106,3395867a10,00.html
Houston Chronicle, Rick Bragg, Sept. 3, 2005
ABC News/AP, Matt Crenson , Aug. 29. 2005, http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/Weather/wireStory?id=1076867
CNN.com, September 5, 2005, http://www.cnn.com/2005/US/09/05/katrina.new.orleans/
Washington Post, September 5, 2005, http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/09/05/AR2005090500523.html
New Orleans Times Picayune, Sept. 4, 2005 http://qconline.com/archives/qco/sections.cgi?prcss=display&id=256187
