Downriver Review – Letters from Louisiana
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 1, published January 22, 2006
The call came in late on Friday afternoon – I was to leave for Louisiana in three days. From that moment a sense of apprehension grew inside of me like hunger. Actually, it probably was hunger because for the next several days I lost my appetite and I could hardly sleep.
Departing from Detroit very early in the morning and stopping over briefly in Atlanta, I was in Baton Rouge by noon the following Monday. As the plane set down I peeked out the window, partly expecting large swaths of devastation. There was no visible damage on the ground in Baton Rouge, though the devastation wrought by the storm to lives and institutions was great. This was not apparent to me immediately though..
The airport was in order and fully functioning. The first indication of complexity and trouble to come was that the rental car company was out of compact cars. These are required for people like myself working with and for government agencies. So they gave me a free upgrade and I left the lot with a luxury car that had a fancy navigational system – something that would come in quite handy in the days ahead.
Leaving the airport, the driving experience was bizarre at first. Despite having extensive driving experience, having a car paid for by my company that was in turn paid for by the government, gave me an odd sense of purpose that felt something like invincibility. Then I had to remind myself that traffic laws and the laws of physics still applied – a mental exercise I had to repeat often, if for nothing else than because of a profusion of police cars everywhere I went.
From the airport it was a short trip to downtown Baton Rouge and to the Joint Field Office (JFO) where I was told to report to. My directions said to look for a parking lot off of Florida Ave. Instead, every square-inch of space available was improvised for parking with hundreds of cars pulled up on sidewalks, along the sides of streets, and in vacant lots.
A security perimeter had been established around the JFO, and I was directed to the main gate, where I had to use my cell phone to contact my person on the inside to come outside and to escort me in. While waiting I struck up a conversation with the security guards at the gate – one from Montana and one from the Southwest.
After waiting for several minutes, and realizing how I had not eaten and how I was running on pure adrenaline, I went to a large blue bus outside the gates that was selling food. I asked for something that could be made quickly and that was local – a Po’ Boy. Upon returning to the gate and opening the box, I was surprised to see what appeared to be a massive reddish pink hot dog. And just as I started eating this, I was whisked away to an office within the JFO.
Then there were a series of forms to complete and waiting a little bit longer, before I was directed to drive to another building to get my fingerprints done. After completing this, I was informed that the background check would be completed in to 3-5 days. I was asked to check in daily, but otherwise I was free to move about freely. So I got on the expressway intending to go to New Orleans, but ended up in Natchez, Mississippi two hours later.
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 2, published January 29, 2006
Where my last letter left off, I had just arrived in Baton Rouge by airplane, been shuffled around through the various agencies, and then finally set free for 3-5 days, awaiting the results of my background check.
It was close to two o’clock, and wanting to make the most of my time, I got on the expressway and had hoped to go to New Orleans. But, somehow I got misdirected and seeing signs for Natchez, I decided to go there instead.
The drive through the countryside was pleasant, though I found myself frequently distracted by the many tourist attractions and signs pointing to historic sites along the way – though I kept my focus and finally made it to Natchez.
Upon arriving I was immediately struck by the rich collection of historic buildings there. Now, I had already known about this through reading reports from the National Trust for Historic Preservation and other sources. But, still, I was amazed by how much historic architecture was concentrated in this small area and how well it was taken care of.
After wandering around a bit through the downtown and nearby residential neighborhoods, I settled down for dinner at a distinguished restaurant just outside of the city proper – in a carriage house behind a large Southern Colonial plantation house.
Before sitting down to a meal, it was a few drinks – including a local brew from New Orleans and an Old Fashioned. Now I can’t describe the setting and experience as anything but blissful.
And sitting at the bar I was given my introduction to southern hospitality and the darker side – an initial sense of embrace and welcome, but then a detachment once they determine you are an outsider.
The dinner at the “Castle” restaurant was a rich experience too. This began with fresh piping hot rolls, and a wonderful salad incorporating local and regional fruits and nuts. The main course was delicious red fish. And being thoroughly full by this point, I asked for them to box everything and to give me bread pudding to go.
Now it was quite late and dark outside, so getting the food to go, I hit the road and drove the 90 miles back to Baton Rouge listening to the Sunset Boulevard soundtrack on the incredible speaker system in my luxury car.
Returning to Baton Rouge might have been an error in judgment, for my stipend would have allowed me to stay anywhere I preferred (including Natchez) but being back in Baton Rouge, I was at one of the least desirable hotels, that was full of contractors like myself and those displaced by the hurricane.
Walking into my room, the first thing I discovered is that the lights did not work – with many of the lamps without light bulbs and other bulbs dead. And as if that was not bad enough, children were yelling in the courtyard and would do so throughout the night. Brief solace came from turning the television on, but it did not help to hear everything happening in every nearby room and outside as well.
Suspecting the un-cleanliness of the room, I just laid on top of the covers, pulled a pillow over my head, and made the best effort to get a few hours of sleep in before a new day began.
And sure enough it did, seeing my wake up to a pleasant quiet and stillness before the sun rose, with me quickly making it to my car and driving toward New Orleans in the early morning hours still under the dark cover of night.
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 3, published January 15, 2006
Minutes after waking up to my first morning in Louisiana in Baton Rouge, and feeling no nostalgia for my dirty hotel room that had no light bulbs, I was hurtling with great speed towards New Orleans.
Now the maps would make it seem that it is a fairly direct drive southerly and easterly, and within about an hour – boom – you are in New Orleans. Though as I was quickly learning here, “nothing is as it seems.”
Much has been made of the deluge of contractors who descend on New Orleans each day. And this day I was one of them. Because so little housing in New Orleans is livable, this has required out-of-town contractors like myself to compete with the displaced, many of whom are in search of new housing to replace other housing in the city that they lost. Ironically many in both groups receive money from the government to pay for places to live, though the two are in desperate competition with one another, with competition increasing as more people return. Imagine adding several thousand people visiting to this mix later this month for Mardi Gras, and you seemingly have a recipe for disaster.
Returning to the drive – I started under the cover of darkness, but as I approached New Orleans, light began to fill the morning sky, so that by the time the road I was traveling on passed by the western edge of Lake Pontchartrain, I was able to witness a beautiful sunrise of orange and reddish color with thin stratospheric clouds crossing the sky like fingers with a purplish hue. And this gave me hope.
Then there was the fact that I was hungry again. On the passenger side of the car were the leftovers from my incredible dinner in Natchez the night before. Were it not for the fact I was driving alone, and by this point driving at a very high speed, then maybe I could reach down and get them, except that the pace of traffic was unrelenting and I would just have to stay hungry a little bit longer.
As I got closer to the city the delays began. Within a point about ten or twenty miles outside of the city, traffic stilled to a slow crawl. The upside was that I was able to eat my bread pudding, and leftover red fish and herbed potatoes with relative ease. And by slow stops and starts I finally made my way into the city.
Traffic became somewhat more tolerable once in the city proper. I-10 is elevated and passes through the center of the city. Seeing signs for the French Quarter, I pulled off and because of a few happy turns found myself driving along Bourbon Street through the heart of New Orleans. And what did I see?
While approaching there were roofs covered in blue tarps. Occasionally there was a collapsed house and sometimes piles of debris. The area underneath the elevated expressway was like a parking lot, with a mix of cars that had been consumed by the flood and others that appeared to be in use. The difference between the two is that the flooded cars had residue on their windows, providing visible evidence of the height of the flood waters.
There was far less visible damage to the buildings in the French Quarter, though the social fabric was seriously torn. Gone were the street musicians, the eccentric locals, and the throngs of visitors. Here and there you saw a person, but generally it was a ghost town. Sensing that this was not the area that was hardest hit, and wanting to see more, I started driving west.
Along the way the only store I could find that was open was a Super Wal-Mart. So there I picked up supplies, reoriented myself, refueled, and set out for the area hardest hit – the east side of town, exiting I-10 on a ramp appropriately titled and leading to the “Elysian Fields.”
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 4, published February 12, 2006
Having not yet been in Louisiana for 24 hours, I took the Elysian Fields exit off of I-10, and found myself entirely alone, seeing no other person, and driving through the 9th Ward.
In Egyptian and Greek mythology, the Elysian fields is a place associated with death. Commonly the Elysian fields were considered the final resting place of the souls of the heroic and the virtuous. Elysium is a more obscure and mysterious name that evolved from a designation of a place or person struck by lightning.
Block after block of devastation unfolded before me, as if entire blocks and neighborhoods had been struck by lightning, and just stopped like the hands of a clock, marking the moment when everything changed.
Cars lined the streets more or less in the location they sat before the storm and flood. Most cars had become submerged and were covered in residue deposited as the water rose and receded. From time to time a fresh car could be seen, and this seemed to indicate the house was occupied, though this was no place to live, and certainly no paradise. I’ve never seen a place before that so closely resembles hell.
Then there were the houses. Every house had been stripped of drywall with the naked wood frame of the structure visible inside. And this was visible because doors and windows of nearly every building were open, making passage in and out quite easy.
Schools and churches took on added meaning and were particularly poignant as visible representations of the community – and the destruction of a community as evidenced by these buildings, just as homes evidenced the disruption to individual lives.
After overcoming the initial shock and disbelief, it then became clearer I was viewing three disasters here: the disaster that occurred before the storm, the disaster caused by the storm and flood itself, and the disaster that occurred in the response phase after the waters receded.
There is a tendency to mythologize and sentimentalize the New Orleans from before the storm. This place, like all other places, was far from perfect. In the 9th Ward especially and in other areas outside of the historic core, speculative development produced a proliferation of inexpensive houses built quickly.
Most of these were built after the automobile was made available to a mass market (thanks to Detroit) through the mass-production of a large number of inexpensive cars. Thus, inexpensive mass-produced cars and inexpensive mass-produced houses combined together to create a place unlike any the world had seen before.
The process of city building was neglected here and the market when left to itself made little accommodation for civic or public spaces – and where these places did occur, they were incidental in the form of a school or public building, or perhaps a church tucked away on a piece of marginal property (certainly not on a highly visible street corner or at a location convenient to access on foot and creating the sense of a neighborhood). These places could only be rationalized and made functional through use of the automobile – excluding the very young, the very old, and those who cannot drive.
Then there were the two hurricanes and the flood. These events transformed these already inadequate places into wastelands, undoubtedly making people who lived during the storm and afterwards wonder if people were ever meant to live here?
These first two crises are overpowered by the third – the response after the storm. Entire neighborhoods have been drained of life, thousands of homes have been decimated to the point of possibly being unable to salvage, and thousands of people have been displaced possibly permanently, with serious questions remaining about whether there will ever be a place for them to return to, and if so, how might it appear? And this left me wondering in this context what could a young man from Wyandotte do to make life better here? There were no quick or easy answers.
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 5, published February 19, 2006
Gradually as I went eastward from the 9th Ward along St. Bernard Highway and Bayou Drive, the devastation shifted from densely settled blocks to something that in the countryside was fundamentally different.
Perhaps I saw this as being different because of my background as a preservationist or because of certain views I have about how city development should and should not be done, but as I passed through St. Bernard Parish I was somewhat less sympathetic towards the destruction that occurred in these outlying burgs.
Of the areas that had been developed, these were often on former wetlands or other areas that once captured tidal surges and protected the inland from the ocean and storms. But developing these areas had deleterious effects environmentally.
And that is not to mention their social impact. People often would leave densely settled urban areas, where connection between people and a sense of community was facilitated, to these distant and detached settlements on acre-sized lots or larger, where neighbors need not know each other, and many most likely scarcely ever did. The home, the television, and the automobile in this context are the apparatus of disbelief and symbols of the alienation and retreat of the individual from society.
So while traveling through this area I thought in many cases the effect of the hurricanes eliminating settlement here, in some respects, could be considered a welcome improvement. For in the wake of the storm was an opportunity to design places better.
I took Bayou Drive as far as I could to a point where I could go no further. And there the road just stopped and there was an improvised sign that said “Caution, Road Ends Ahead,” and ten feet beyond that a small bridge had collapsed, forcing me to turn around.
Going back, certain views captured me and just asked to be photographed. It was the boat uprooted by the storm and thrown down beside some trees beside the highway. And at another point it was a church with the doors open and a ethereal orange glow cast inside. Then there was the monument to a plantation that had formerly been there now surrounded by piles of litter, and at another place a home built in a historical style with the living level raised above the ground, and this house set among a beautiful grove of trees. This is how country life ought to be.
But then there were the cul-de-sacs and developments of 20 or 30 houses or trailers cut from the countryside. Economic necessity created these places. Far from any urban center, these homes at this location were cheap. And while they represented the possibility for people to own a home, they had costs associated with them. And those costs were breaking community connections and gutting historic centers, and people living detached and isolated lives.
Though under these conditions you can’t pass judgment. The devastation and the loss is simply too great. All you can do is look at the destruction that occurred here and witness how life will never be the same again. And in some respects that gave me hope.
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 6, published February, 26, 2006
My travels took me through the flood ravaged 9th Ward and then to St. Bernard Parish. But finding the eastward road I traveled on blocked, I turned back and returned to the historic core of New Orleans – the French Quarter.
Returning to the city, I felt compelled to call my colleagues in Detroit to report of what I saw. Something about it all was so overwhelming, that my only way to cope with the profound loss and devastation was to tell someone else about it all.
And upon returning to the city I called a friend who originally told me about the job opportunity that brought me here, with her recently having completed a similar assignment. She advised me to seek out the bed and breakfast where she had stayed. This was fortuitous, for as I found, finding housing in New Orleans – even when on a government stipend – was nearly impossible to do.
Perhaps this is because nearly everyone here was on a government stipend from the displaced to contractors like me. And all of these people were placed in a position of having to compete with one another to find whatever limited space there was.
One person described that the reason for the shortage was a large number of evacuees who returned for Christmas and decided to stay. And another person told how around June the numbers will increase even more – because families with children faced with the end of the academic year wherever they are staying, will then have the freedom and flexibility to return.
So using the fancy navigational system on my car, I found the place my friend directed me to on Esplanade Avenue, just outside of the French Quarter. No one was in the office though, so instead of sitting around, I set out towards the Quarter, carrying my backpack with my computer in it and a stylish umbrella that I used like a cane to measure my paces with.
The best way to see a city is on foot. And New Orleans is full of surprises, even “After Katrina” or as the signs say – simply AK. And the French Quarter is New Orleans showcase neighborhood. Here streets and blocks continue seemingly endlessly, with cast iron porches suspended from facades covering the sidewalk below in many places, and most buildings between two and five stories, creating a consistent and pedestrian-friendly environment.
This and the fact that this place was designed BA or “Before the Automobile” so that everything about this place is not governed by accommodating the needs of bulky, noisy, and space consuming vehicles. Granted, there are a few garages attached to buildings here and there and even structured parking in a few places, but generally parking in the Quarter is mostly on the street and extremely difficult to find.
Fortuitously, this very special place was largely untouched by the hurricane and the floods that followed so the physical fabric was largely intact, though the social fabric was clearly torn – with many businesses and buildings closed, and with a paucity of people walking on the street. So New Orleans much touted street life BK “Before Katrina” dissipated to a large degree, making the renowned vitality and hospitality of this area diminished somewhat.
I do not know how many hotels I walked into. My stipend would pay over $200 a night for housing, but even with that I was unable to find anything at all. So somewhat dispirited, I returned to the place my friend originally directed me to on Esplanade Ave. And while walking there I took a few photos and tried to make sense of all that I saw.
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 7, published February 26, 2006
My reason for going to New Orleans was to assist as a government contractor in the relief efforts. As my background check was going through, instead of staying in a dreary hotel in Baton Rouge, I went to New Orleans to see this great city. After covering the city by car and foot, I was posed with the challenge of finding a place to stay the night.
After visiting ten or twenty hotels and inns in the French Quarter, only to find that everything was full, I left the Quarter walking along Esplanade Avenue to a bed and breakfast that a friend of mine recommended.
Earlier in the day I stopped by the same place, but was unable to find the owner or anyone else to talk to and see if a room was available. This time around I was luckier though, for the owner was in his office and was able to take a few minutes to speak with me.
What emerged was the oddest of negotiations. I was attempting to make the case why I deserved a room, while he told me about the challenges he faced. One woman staying with him was about to have a child, so he could hardly put her out. Then there were a few people who had not paid him for several days.
Not to mention that the fact that he and his one assistant have been working non-stop since the storm. And this was her day off, so to let me stay with him would require calling her up to clean my room before I arrived.
After haggling a little more like this, and me putting whatever bargaining chips I had on the table – I’ll sleep anywhere, I’ll clean up myself, I’ll help to cook my own breakfast. Finally an opening emerged.
A high ranking FEMA official had a permanent reservation with him for one of his choicest rooms. It just happened this official was out of town and would be for the next three days or so. So what harm would it be if I stayed in his room while he was away?
It being so late and me being so grateful to have a room, I went there hastily, and what I discovered was remarkable. There was an 1830’s Southern Colonial home with two-story porch on the front. Going inside, apparently walls and plaster had to be removed after the flood, and the interior, though sparse, was warm and welcoming.
So grateful to have a place to stay the night, instead of going out for the night, I held on to what I had. There in my room I camped out, having a picnic of Nutrigrain bars and bottled water that I purchased earlier in the day. And sitting there on a spacious sofa with a candle lit, I sat and reflected on all the things that had happened to me thus far.
Briefly I turned the television on, though unlike watching television any time before, I was shocked by what I saw. Having witnessed such devastation that day, to see the images and actions on the screen, made them appear like farce or caricature. It was inconceivable to me how after everything I saw this day, for there to be anything else on television but that, much the less things that had nothing to do with New Orleans at all.
That night I could have gone to some fine restaurant or could have done something fun, but, instead, I lived the life of the displaced – just grateful to have a roof over my head and walls around me that night.
Hungry and fatigued, I settled down to sleep for the night. And this sleep was much deserved. Because for the past several nights I had been plucked from my home in Wyandotte, flown to Baton Rouge, drove around hundreds of miles, and finally with an opportunity to rest and settle down, I was in an immaculate guest house – an oasis in a city on its knees. And that night I slept very, very well, as I quietly awaited my fate – whatever that may be.
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 8, published March 12, 2006
One of the hazards of sleeping in an unfamiliar place is that when you wake in the morning it takes a moment to get oriented.
Such was the case when I awoke to find myself in an 1830’s Southern Colonial house. Looking to my right, the alarm clock told me it was after 8a. The clock on my phone told me it was 9a. Depending on which account I chose, I was either early or late for breakfast.
So while time seemed suspended I pulled myself together in a state of disbelief and made my way to the main house where breakfast was to be served. Somehow I must have missed breakfast, so I sat in the courtyard and watched a crew of people dressed in orange shirts, expertly take down some massive trees with chainsaws in the adjacent yard.
In a way time was not suspended just for me, but for this entire city. And there I realized what was missing – the stuff of daily life. Of people going about their lives and doing the ordinary things they do each day – having a cup of coffee in the morning, taking a walk through the neighborhood, going to and from work, and working of course.
Instead, this city felt as if was under siege – with contractors in unmarked white trucks and more clearly marked police vehicles apparent on nearly every block and every street. And while this comprised activity, it is not the sort of activity that makes a city. A city is made through the millions of little things people do, the planned and chance encounters, accumulated over extended periods of time.
What I witnessed in many respects was New Orleans learning how to be a city again, after losing so much of its vitality from before the storm.
With a growing hunger in my belly once again, and seeing how I missed breakfast, I went out driving in search of food. I saw a few promising places as I drove, but it was not until I parked and started walking around the Quarter that I found what I was looking for.
The Café Beignet called out to me. Maybe it was the three large sculptures of jazz musicians at the entrance, or the festive lights and welcoming café chairs and tables behind them. I had the Muffaletta, a New Orleans sandwich with Genoa salami, ham, swiss, provolone, and olive, served on Italian bread.
And there I sat enjoying my sandwich while a Frank Sinatra CD played in the background. The area in which I was sitting also served as a stage with a canopy and lighting equipment hanging above my head. And despite the fact the music was recorded, gradually I could feel the life of the city coming back here.
Two police officers sat beside me at a nearby table, and a few minutes later a young woman with beautiful designer clothing settled in and started working on her Mac. And despite the fact that New Orleans still appeared like a city under siege, for this brief moment I witnessed a city coming back to life again, and felt encouraged by what I saw.
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 9, published March 21, 2006
Where I last stopped writing, you saw me eating my Muffaletta, a tasty New Orleans sandwich, at the Café Beignet. French speakers will tell you the profound meaning of the word beignet – fritter. Of course that is nothing like the lyric Cole Porter uses in his haunting begin the Beguine, where beguine means infatuation.
You could say with my meal, I took the first step into seeing the true New Orleans – not just what tourists come for, but what the city actually is – and by infatuation began.
Feeling strengthened by my meal, I walked around the city, ducking in and out of galleries and antique shops. In Rome a man by the name of Polli once created the most elaborate maps of the city, showing not only roads and blocks and some landmarks, but showing details of the interior of buildings on his maps as well – including courtyards, locations of murals and artwork, and grand public spaces. On my adventure in New Orleans I thought how nice it would be to have such a map here.
I’d go from one gallery and antique shop to another, soaking in all of the beauty this placed contained, and reflecting how for a brief moment nothing appeared to have changed at all. I was particularly struck by one antique store which must have had millions of dollars of objects – from silverware and plates, to furniture, and many fantastical things.
One of these was an elaborate fireplace surround showing scenes of war and what I was sure were other mythological figures. I had a great time speculating with one of the curators about what we saw. We didn’t come to any solid conclusions, but when looking at an object of such majesty, the speculation is half of the fun.
Maybe the reason galleries and other places containing such exceptionally value remained here after the storm was because this area was on higher ground, say, than the Lower Ninth Ward and other areas hard hit by the storm and flood because of their lower elevation and closer proximity to the levees that failed.
My next stop was at The Historic New Orleans Collection. Now, this is not an expensive line of handbags and fragrances, but, instead, a sort of museum spread across several different historic buildings. I was fortunate to arrive to see the close of the exhibition “The Terrible and the Brave: Battles for New Orleans 1814-1815” that opened on May 17, 2005 and closed at February 11, 2006.
Walking into the gallery and museum space at 533 Royal Street was like walking into a history book on New Orleans. And, there in a beautiful and historical setting, I came up close and personal with the history of New Orleans (http://www.hnoc.org/).
Often I must remind people there is a vast difference between those who study history and the work I do as a preservationist. It is something to the effect that as a preservationist I am forced to work with what exists today, rather than lament about things from the past which are lost. And, if I do my job well, then perhaps I can inspire the people of today to care for the historic resources that we do have, so what yet remains is not lost.
In that spirit I asked for directions to the Preservation Resource Center – the leading non-profit historic preservation organization in the city. The staff provided these to me and I was on my way to another adventure and to meet another Detroiter who had made his way down to the Gulf to assist in the relief efforts as well.
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 10, published March 27, 2006
Being in an area after a disaster has occurred, leaves one yearning for a sense of normalcy – something familiar to serve as a foil, and distract attention from the devastation all around.
For me this was meeting Detroit preservationist Jim Turner, seemingly by chance, at the Preservation Resource Center – the leading historic preservation organization in New Orleans (http://www.prcno.org/).
I was drawn to this place from what I read and studied about its innovative programs to transform neighborhoods in New Orleans (before the storm). “Operation Comeback” helped prospective homeowners purchase a historic house and renovate it. Of course, after the storm, the PRC is needed more than ever.
So there I met Jim as he was about to go out and document the conditions of buildings in a nearby neighborhood. He invited me to join him for the ride, deputizing me as his note taker.
At first it was overwhelming, having to understand all of the categories and questions on two separate sets of forms that we were asked to fill out. Soon enough I figured out the forms and was filling them out myself.
What fascinated me most about what we saw is how little damage was caused by the storm, and how much was caused by “demolition by neglect” – meaning that owners of the buildings failed to care for the building over extended periods of time and the buildings were falling apart.
That evening, needing to wind down after a busy day of activity, I returned to the French Quarter searching out a good meal, and I came upon the Bourbon House at the corner of Bourbon and Iberville. The ambience inside was remarkable, as if the city had never been affected by the storm. And the service was impeccable.
I started with a sampling of oysters – Rockefeller, Bienville, and Fonseca. And for dinner it was the New Orleans Barbeque Shrimp – large head-n-tail shrimp sautéed with black pepper, Worcestershire and butter with French bread for dipping.
All together this made a delectable setting and meal. One that by the time it ended left me refreshed and refueled after a very long day. All that was left was to return to the house I was staying at to wait out the morning and what was to come with the day.
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 11, published April 2, 2006
There are few better feelings than waking in a city one morning and all of the sudden realizing that a place feels like home.
Such was the case when I woke in the morning and instinctively made my way to the dining room of the Degas House B&B that I was staying at. There they made me a tasty breakfast, though considering the conditions everyone in New Orleans was operating in – I suppose even a simple breakfast was spectacular.
Feeling a need to work that day, first I went to the art museum to see if any works of the man whom my bed and breakfast was named after were on display. Degas spent a brief time in New Orleans in the late 1870’s, with his studio in one of the houses I was staying at – with this being the last remaining place on earth where it is known that Degas worked. So, understandably, visiting this room was a remarkable experience.
After the end of his stay, Degas was referred to as “almost an adopted son of Louisiana.” And, I found this title a perfect way to describe my growing connection with this strange and mysterious place.
Regrettably, the museum was closed, and even more ominous was the river snaking around behind it. Perhaps this was the only land available, somewhat detached from the city center, but to have a museum so close to water which only recently had wreaked such havoc, seemed at least to be a lapse of judgment.
Making my way back into the city from the museum, I passed through one of New Orleans famous cemeteries with crypts above ground, and even there I found ominous water lines several inches up on the crypts, showing that this sacred resting place did not escape the storm and flood.
Then continuing back in towards the city along Esplanade Ave, I stopped by the Café Degas, just before it opened.
There a character by the name of Ray engaged me on a slowly rolling conversation. His sun-burned shoulders and tank-top might make you think of him as a bit of loafer, but in the recovery efforts every one was working overtime. That and the fact Ray was full of passion and insight about his home town.
Hanging from his neck were an assortment of chains and icons, some of these religious, some of these associated with Mardi Gras – an appropriate combination in a town where mysticism, magic, and religion are mixed together in a combustible cocktail.
We talked about the issues – the river, luxury condos, parks to be built, and the profound change in the political structure now taking place. And then it occurred to me, here with Ray I was witnessing a revolution taking place – one to even startle the French who are so fond of such uprisings (form time to time).
The talk with Ray was nice, though all I wanted was a drink. Or better yet some place with wireless access to catch up on e-mail and communicate with those back at home. So after Ray was done, one of the waiters and he gave me a cup of locally brewed beer. And fortuitously there was wireless Internet so I could write this letter to you.
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 12, published April 9, 2006
After a brief wait, I made my way into the Café Degas and I was served. Not their full menu – but a sort of bare-bones after-Katrina selection.
I had the Esplanade Salad (pronounced locally as ehs-plah-naid), a plate of cheeses, and a single glass of the Estancia Merlot – a red wine with a hint of chocolate taste.
The Café Degas escaped the flood water, while a few blocks away there were waters several feet deep. This allowed the café to reopen, albeit with a far more limited menu.
The hostess had a wonderful French accent. Later I found she was a tour guide and give French-language tours. But upon first meeting her I took it as a pleasant novelty.
She told me how business was slow in August, September, and October, but how after that the business gradually picked up – to the point where the café felt as if it was fully functioning again. The café then in a way served as a barometer for New Orleans and its resurgence.
In the café people gathered together for drinks and a meal, but perhaps more importantly to weave together the social fabric that had been disrupted and torn by the storm and the displacement that it caused.
And all around me as more and more people arrived, I overheard the conversations, and broken narratives being brought back together again.
Two government contractors like myself at a far away table could be heard talking about how their flight home was delayed, and then going back and forth about the merits of various strategies and plans for the Gulf Coast – speaking with the detachment of an outsider who flies in and out after a crisis has occurred.
At another table a survivor could be overheard saying, “I would not have done anything differently.” Lacking an understanding of context, this statement sounded as if it might be associated with great loss – though one cannot be sure. Loss of property like a home or car is most familiar here, then there is the loss of life which is even more severe, but perhaps the greatest loss is the loss of peace of mind.
Loss is visible everywhere. It is not uncommon to see buildings with words and phrases spray painted on them, such as “one cat found” or “one dog dead.” Every building in some areas had a circle with a cross mark through it, and numbers to either side, indicating whether the building had been inspected and whether any bodies had been found there.
Then returning to my dialogue, my writing, and my own thoughts – I felt grateful that the Café Degas was back, even if it was not quite what it was like before the storm.
Then I reflected how this café was not unlike the great cafes of Amsterdam and Paris when each of these cultures were nearing their cultural climax. In the cafes of those great cities, different people came together, exchanged ideas and views, and conceived the world as we know it today.
Then I thought if New Orleans ever comes back, it will not be because of the big plans (though these are necessary), but through the small changes and thousands of uncounted encounters where gradually life starts to resemble what it did before. Conceived as such, the renewal process is an ongoing dialogue.
Though the surest evidence of its success is returning to places like the Café Degas in five or ten years and seeing what is on the menu. Though I hope they still have the delicious meal that I enjoyed during my brief visit there.
Letters from Louisiana, Letter 13, published April 16, 2006
Almost as quickly as my journey began it ended.
As a contractor for the federal government, there were several days where I had to wait for my background check to go through. So instead of waiting it out in a dingy hotel room in Baton Rouge, I traveled to Natchez and then to New Orleans.
At these places I witnessed an intermingling of past, present and future. A very glorious past that in just a few generations produced one of the most unique and beautiful collections of architecture anywhere in the country – making this region and especially New Orleans one of the greatest places to live and visit.
Part of the secret of why this architecture is still here today is that what followed this burst of economic activity was a prolonged period of neglect where little else was built and what was left from the past was preserved because there was nothing else to do with it, nor the resources to replace it with something new.
Then there are those things built in the last fifty to seventy-five years. Most of this was of an inferior quality, and located in flood prone areas or scattered throughout the countryside. And it is the destruction of these areas that caused some of the most powerful, provocative, and haunting images after the flood.
At some level the human tragedy and the economic impact of the flood was so great that it is hard to see it as an opportunity – from which good things emerge. When looking closer though, that is precisely what it is.
Most American cities have experienced some cataclysm or disaster, deeply ingrained in the city memory, and after which nothing can be the same again. After this initial sense of dislocation disappears, then the real impact becomes clear. Conditions before the crisis are amplified after the crisis and even strengthened.
New Orleans is a city that peculiarly honors and preserves its built heritage. That and for the past several decades it has become a destination for visitors throughout the world. Expecting both of these trends to continue, the recovery will not be immediate, but when it does occur (as it is slowly occurring now) – the city will likely emerge for the better.
Those who remain are the ones most committed to this place, and those who fall away may have been more associated with the problems of this place rather than positive change and solutions.
Though ultimately no action from the federal government or even the state government in and of itself will be enough to bring New Orleans back. Instead it will be the accumulation of thousands of individuals actions and decisions that will recreate a city again.
In the years to follow as we watch this transformation unfold, such change ought to give people of all cities throughout the nation and the world hope. That even in this day and age when everything seems determined, secure, and set on a fixed path – surprises can still happen and people and places they live in can change for the better.
Though after my entire experience in the Gulf Coast there is one thing I can say for certain – that while visiting was a wonderful experience, I am glad to be home again in Wyandotte and Michigan.