New A'wlins. Nostalgia. Now.

New Orleans is one of my favorite places to visit. Brent and I just returned from what was, I think, my seventh trip to that unique American city. I used to get off work from my 7a-3p shift at the hospital and drive down 59 to visit Ruthie who lived there at that time. No map. No cell phone. No GPS. No real directions. But, I found her! We still laugh about the craziness of that first visit.

New Orleans was the destination of my first ever plane flight. A plane ticket acquired through some consulting work for a hospital. I used the precious ticket to visit the Big Easy and Ruthie again. I was so excited. Flying!  Me! The trip was done in a blink. It was filled with wonder and pride. I was having my own adventure, earned through my own talents, enjoyed alone, by choice. A thrill I wish for anyone, at any age, if you have yet to experience that kind of personal challenge, independence, and autonomy.

Over the years, the myriad aspects of my nostalgia for New A'wlins has expanded exponentially. Growing up among the swamps, mossy live oaks and pines of South Alabama makes the bayous of Louisiana comfortingly familiar. I have so many fond memories of fun with Ruthie. My first hurricane... Yep. From Pat O'Briens. Have to say, not a big fan of an odd mixture of alcohol combined with fruit juice that turns out to be incredibly similar to red Kool-Aid. But, I am ever so glad I've been there, done that! My first egg roll!  My first city bus ride. Lame, I know!  No Chinese restaurant or public transit available where I grew up!!!  But, true, nevertheless! 

So many great visits with Brent. The American Academy of Pediatrics has their meetings there periodically. While pregnant with Fred-o we had a wonderful visit. Brent went off for his morning run with the promise of bringing me breakfast on his return. MANY hungry minutes, if not hours later, a very bedraggled Brent FINALLY appeared with a sad, beat up, sack of pastries. It was February. Not thinking, Brent had taken off for his run, only to discover on retracing his steps, that his path was cordoned off for an early Mardi Gras parade. He ended up running a total of 15 miles that morning in order to reach the end of the parade barricades and double back to the hotel. The parade officers were apparently unsympathetic and unmoved by his desperate plight. I still don't feel particularly sorry for him either. Hungry pregnant lady left in the lurch! We still have our Panama hats from an earlier visit, as well as fond memories of Miss Ruby's...one of the best restaurants I have ever had the privilege of having barbecue shrimp in. Now, you have to understand that barbecue shrimp in N'awlins has nothing to do with barbecue. Never mind...it's just too complicated for this post. Then, there's the memory of B's questionable appreciation of the small, perfectly cooked crab hanging from the side of his cup of gumbo at the same meal. His real sentiment was, "Waiter! There's a bug in my soup!" Silly boy! 

On our last visit, just before Katrina, we took the kids to Mardi Gras.  Bourbon Street was shared in small doses.  They got to see some of the early parades.  We almost froze to death, after I had promised balmy weather.  They were so excited to catch the beads being thrown from the floats.  Unfortunately, drunken adults also think that plastic shiny beads are of great value and have a much greater reach on a then 10 and 12 year old.  Fred was a pretty agile guy, but bead accrual was not going well.  I gave Brent the heads up to sneak over to a stand that conveniently sold beads to the unsuccessful parade watchers and purchase a handful so that he could provide a selection of beautiful beads heroically 'caught' by dad!!!  The kids were so enthralled with all the sights and sounds that they didn't notice his absence.  However, Brent was gone so long, I wasn't sure the subterfuge would hold out. He finally returned...loads of beads in hand.  The hero indeed!!!  Later, I asked about the incredible time it had taken.  He maintains the following...to this day...  

"I made it over to the stand, which was over in the dark, by the way!!!, and got a handful of beads from the guy.  I was almost back over to you when I finally got under the street lights.  I looked down.  I couldn't figure out what was on the beads for a minute.  Then, I realized!!!  I had beads with penises threaded on the chain between them!!!!!  I couldn't give those to Rose!!  I had to go back and exchange them for different ones." 

I couldn't stop my laughter or myself from interrupting...."What excuse did you give for needing to exchange them???!!!!" 

"I told him I had thought they were chickens!"

Only in New Orleans...do they sell penises on a string.  Only there, does B take them back "because he thought they were chickens!!!!!"

Sometimes, nostalgia catches me by surprise. As Brent and I walked along St. Charles and picnicked in a park near the universities, I couldn't help feeling the long ago ache of wanting so much to be smart, to be educated, to do something important.  In my teens I wanted to attend either South Alabama (and then train in marine biology at Dauphin Island....a whole plan that B finds incredible since I am fearful of many animals and desperately sea sick on most any boat! Good points, I realize, but I still love the bay, tidal pools and marshes!!!), Tulane, or UAB. With no fairy god mother waiting in the wings, I soon adjusted my perspective and called on the pragmatist within.  Those universities and their tuition were not within my grasp.  However, a full books and tuition scholarship to the local junior college was.  I set my aim on that and was awarded it upon high school graduation.  I am not sad about how things turned out.  I attained my BS from the University of TN.  Years later, I was admitted to Emory, Vanderbilt, and UAB, where I ended up getting my MSN because they had the schedule that best met my needs.  With all that said, it was still a tangible pain, just last week, to walk in that place, and feel the ache and desire of that girl...who wanted to do so much.

And then, there are the streets.  I love the street names in New Orleans.  I would move there, just to be able to use them in everyday conversation.  Annunciation. Tchoupitoulas. Felicity. Carondelet. Derbigny. Constance. Liberty. Magazine. Chartres. Harmony. Pleasant. Terpsichore. Toulouse. Poydras. Constantinople. Bienville.


Today, there are still far too many roof tops with blue tarps.  Too many tall buildings, many seem to have been hotels, with broken windows and overgrown parking lots, abandoned. Too many homeless.  Canal Street and St. Charles, main avenues for the genteel, are rutted and difficult to drive on because of the inundation of water and heavy emergency vehicles in the wake of Katrina. The lower part of Canal and all the roads in the quarter are currently under massive construction.  Skinned and waiting for resurfacing. Sidewalks broken with street lamps down...awaiting and in process of repair.  All good of course, but really?  Only now?  This many years after Katrina who wrought her devastation in 2005!  The wheels of government assistance move slowly. Treme and the 9th Ward continue to struggle.  Which they always did, only now, more so.  Many buildings, homes, are boarded up.  Abandoned.

As Americans, we are always at our best when our various immigrant ancestors put down roots, meld with the conditions and produce and people at hand.  They bring their culture and blend it with those of others.  No dish served daily in New Orleans is replicated in Spain or France, Canada or Africa. Yet, without all of those folks, the gumbo, etouffe, macque choux, red beans and rice, andouille and boudin, po boys, remoulade, jambalaya, cajun coffee and beignets would not exist.  And the world would be much sadder for it. - c