Traveling is a good time to think. Things are up in the air, time is moving around in funny ways, perspectives are fresh. The world moves at a different speed than usual. It’s a good time to reexamine what you’re up to in your life, take a bird’s eye view. I read Let My People Go Surfing and savor the unstructured, internet-free free time inherent to long travel.
Time to reflect, to dream.
New Orleans makes me think of expectations. Music in the streets, rowdiness and hubbub, women flashing their tits, beads and blues and bbq sauces.
Not much happens in New Orleans during the day, possibly because it’s so ungodly humid. There are people leaned out bar windows day-drinking, a tap dancer with taps stuck directly into his tennis shoes chants “Well it’s hard work, but it’s hon-est work” in time to his steps, a man organizes books in one of many used bookstores, the air so thick the pages practically melt on the shelf. The city is doing its best to make breakfast and get the kids out the door, but really, it’s a night city.
At a bicycle rental shop I meet Slag, former band member who lived in Chicago for a stretch as a furniture mover. Their band had originally planned on moving to New Orleans but cancelled the plan when Katrina hit. He’s Missouri born, laid back, likes to work with his hands; the band broke up but he made it down here anyways.
There’s a storm cell sitting over the city as we talk, walls of water cascade off the tin roof and out the open garage door. The weather dictates the pace of life here- might as well shoot the breeze and wait it out. Because I’m impatient and foolish I don’t wait it out, instead head right into it, and become completely sodden before making it the two blocks to Cake Café. I drink a cup of chicory coffee and wait for it to stop. Chicory root was originally blended into coffee by the poor to stretch the expensive stuff for longer, now it’s a popular drink here. Go figure.
I wind through New Orleans and get about 20 minutes out of town on the rented bike, hoping to make it to a bayou about an hour away, when I catch a flat. I try to hitch back, get an unhelpful thumbs up from the first pickup I see, end up walking back into the same storm I just left. I can hardly imagine what the hurricane here was like. The museum exhibit about Katrina tells of flying doors, water coming up multiple feet in as many minutes, people cutting their way out of attics with hatchets to escape the water. They were hit over ten years ago and it looks like parts of the city are still recovering.
Back at the cafe I get the “Any Portabella in a Storm” sandwich. It takes me a while to get the joke.
Flat fixed and rain abated, I head out again. A young white woman passes me in a car. One bumper sticker reads “Evolution is Science Fiction”. Next to it, “God Bless America”.
I get a second flat not half a mile down the road from the first. I sit on the curb at a gas station, eat sour peach rings and call a cab. Looks like this adventure is not to be. How do I “rightly consider” this inconvenience? At the gas station they sell single beers in buckets of ice, an odd practice in a state that doesn’t allow open containers in vehicles. Maybe I’m avoiding getting hit by a drunk driver. Small consolation.
Expectations get you into trouble that way. I had gotten my hopes up about seeing a bayou, about exploring far and wide by bicycle, getting off the beaten path. I had been determined to see the city and surrounding area on my own terms, where maybe a more organic approach would have served me better, maybe I should have sat and waited out the rain. Or maybe I just had bad luck. The people here know something about that.
The day cools off and I head out into the evening to see the city as it is meant to be seen. I use my third set of wheels to see the city park and discover live music on the grass. I get a cafe au lait, beignets and gumbo and begin to see the appeal of this place. There’s a night market with a man selling slide guitars made out of old doors, a street poet writing poems for donations, live music coming out of every bar. I stop at a few windows until I find something I like then sit down and listen to the blues.
All the people I talk to over the weekend came from somewhere else. People come to New Orleans to visit and never end up leaving. I’m not convinced it’s my rhythm yet, but I’d be happy to come back and dance a little more to find out.
Above, a letter in a mailbox fixed to a tree labelled, “The June Project: Love letters to New Orleans and Beyond.”
“I found love in France, just a few xxx before leaving to the New Orleans for three whole month. I used to feel sad and even a bit depress. But I came here at the Big Easy, and it literally changed my life, and bring back my joy. Now I live at the rythme of this amazing city and of the fantastic people who lives in here. So I xxx going come back with my xxx my time
Love to you all, from a French girl”