early mornings and plane trips

Can't sleep!

I lost my (formerly impressive) ability to sleep in about a year ago, when I first moved back home for several months to take care of my mom. The anxiety of the situation forced me awake before nine, regardless of how late I stayed up the night before. (Which typically was rather late, as I concurrently couldn't fall asleep either. Good combo, I know.) This newfound early riser syndrome has continued to plague me even though I'm no longer in the same sort of stressful environment. Most days I don't mind, but it sure as hell is painful on days when I spent a late night out drinking, or even just when I could really use the rest.

I leave for France in approximately 12 hours, and I definitely stayed up way too late yesterday night packing, (aka cramming my body weight in clothes into a too small suitcase and swearing) saying last minute phone/e-mail goodbyes, and generally lounging around. But old habits die hard and there I was this morning at 8AM forced to resignedly zombie walk to the coffee pot.

Like many people seem to be expressing, this MOVE doesn't feel real. In fact, it doesn't feel like a move at all, but rather a trip, just an exciting little vacation. But sooner or later it will sink in that a one way ticket away from a country in which I literally have no home is a pretty fucking big deal. I think I haven't let myself think too hard about it for several reasons. Obviously there's the fact that I don't think I could exist with so much excitement in my body, so I've taken to ignoring all the good that is about to happen. But also, by acknowledging the good I would have to face up to all the stressors, comme le fait que je ne parle pas assez francais pour habiter en France. I hope my school doesn't hate me.

oh my god, what is wrong with me? i don't speak french.

wrap up

DAY SIX

In a striking contrast to Saturday morning, today I definitely wake up still drunk. This has the upside of granting me precious hours to have an intense session of bread and water consumption, but the downside of having to function like a productive (sober) member of society in daylight. Since the rest of the household left Frenchmen street at a reasonable hour yesterday night, (while I made new friends...don't ask) I'm the only one who is apparently dancing around to songs in my head. The recovery period for today is much lengthier than yesterday, but again I don't feel overly guilty about the waste of day. By this point I've officially convinced myself that I will move to this city, so sightseeing can wait.

After a restorative shower I'm ready to see Audubon Park, a beautiful green space bordered by the Mississippi and Tulane University. Statues, fountains, and ponds are scattered throughout, and a paved trail winds around the approximate two miles of park. It's packed with joggers, which on the surface seems healthy and idyllic, but ultimately reflects the fact that so few places in the city are actually safe for a nice long run. Still, city planners have done an excellent job as it is peaceful, surprisingly quiet, and filled with ducks. (Side note: I can't believe how shocking it was to see actual non-vermin wildlife in a city.)

The rest of Sunday is spent with last minute catching up sessions, more beignets, and a trip to a "Creole Taqueria" which tastes suspiciously like any Mexican restaurant ever. Being eaten alive by mosquitoes become one more New Orleans experience I can unhappily...scratch...off my list.

I definitely learned a lot from this visit. For one, it was very new and disconcerting to be in a place where safety is a major concern. I've never thought twice about walking home after a late night out, whereas here it's inadvisable to even wait outside for a cab. Being a racial minority, dealing with vaguely sexual comments from strangers, and trying to reconcile living a life of excess while surrounded by poverty were all new experiences. In many ways New Orleans feels like two cities, or rather, one city with an incongruous section of tourism forcibly inserted. But I don't think this is accurate either, because the New Orleans of jazz, mayhem, and French charm certainly has an important heritage. Maybe it is just that this segment of the city is so commercialized that at times it hardly feels real. However this doesn't make it any less magical, and I can't wait to return to this sexy sweaty city.

living the lifestyle

DAY FIVE

Thanks to my 5 am dedication to drinking approximately 13 glasses of water I wake up feeling (relatively) normal. This doesn't prevent me from resting gently on the couch for the next four hours however. I would feel guilty, but spending Saturday morning trying not to move my head too rapidly feels integral to the New Orleans experience.

When the rest of the house has recovered we head out into the surprisingly energizing humid air. Maybe it's just the fact that I spent the past five years in a land of perpetual winter, but I can't help but feel amazing the second I step outside in New Orleans. On today's agenda is Riverwalk, which disappointingly turns out to be a glorified mall on the banks of the Mississippi. The river itself is impressive however, and it's nice to just watch such a mighty symbol of the US.

I feel like this trip has given me a new appreciation for my country and the diversity within it. With all the constant negativity that surrounds the US, it is easy to forget that this is a country made up of a multitude of exciting, charming, and culturally vibrant people and places. Maybe this seems obvious, but prior to this trip my only thoughts were of how to best avoid living in the States. I'm happy that I've managed to get one step closer to undoing the obvious trauma I suffered trying to take politics courses in Canada. (P.S. Americans, never do this if you love your country.)

Since the day was pretty much shot nursing our various headaches we plan to have a decidedly more exciting night, and make reservations at an upscale restaurant with live jazz. We clean ourselves up, round up some friends, and hit the town. Though both the food and the jazz turn out to be only so-so, the conversation is good, and entertainment is unwittingly provided by the 60-something proprietor of the restaurant. Dressed in a skin tight electric blue cocktail dress, this fiery lady made the rounds to every table trying to coax dances out of unsuspecting men. After hearing her speak we took bets as to whether she was very foreign or drunk, and eventually concluded it was the latter.

After dinner we hit a house party which eventually migrated to a bar hop on Frenchmen Street. If Bourbon Street is where the tourists congregate to get drunk and laid, Frenchmen Street is for the locals, and where the true good times are had. Unfortunately I can't really attest to this, except to say that I'm pretty sure I had fun.

my soul mate bar

DAY THREE

Rain! I love the rain here. Hot and thick it makes everything feel sultry and sexy. I fuck umbrellas and walk from shop to shop on Decateur Street. I spend the majority of the torrential part of the storm in Beckham's Books, an extremely large and creaky used bookstore. I buy a novel in french because it feels appropriate, and walk back to Café du Monde for more café au lait and to read.

I feel like I belong to this city. I've already been offered a lap dance, a proposal, and a house. For the second time in two days I am fooled by a convincing transvestite--and in both occasions I was first struck by her awesome fashion sense. The day I look that good I'll know I've succeeded. I literally do not ever want to leave this city, and am already daydreaming of reasons I could live here post-France.

DAY FOUR

After having essentially done nothing other than wander and eat, I decided it was time to check out some cultural attractions. I head back to the official voodoo museum I spotted back on my first morning here. In this city voodoo is synonymous with Marie Laveau, New Orleans' very own queen of voodoo. Marie first gained notoriety in the mid-1800's, when she and her band of followers were the only healers able to cure yellow fever. However, her specialty was love potions. The museum itself is tiny, though packed with information, and I learned many useful things such as how to fashion my own voodoo doll and the process of turning a human into a zombie. (Horrifying, by the way.) I also was able to submit my own special request and offering to Marie Laveau herself, through her magical "wishing stump." (No joke.)

Having had my fill of animism I decided to hit the other end of the spectrum with a visit to the oldest Catholic Church in the U.S. Built in 1794, the St. Louis Cathedral was designed in the Spanish style, and has become an enduring symbol of the city. The inside is a dizzying array of gold and stained glass, and I was literally stunned the moment I walked inside. I tried to soak in as much godliness as I could. (This would become useful later.)

Nighttime in New Orleans

After a breathtaking bout of indecision about where we should go, we finally decided to go the tourist route and do Bourbon Street. First stop was the Bourbon Street standard, a noisy dingy bar with live music. The clientele consisted essentially of older men and women trying to re-live their youth by getting drunk and rowdy to music of the seventies. However this was no problem for us, as the open container laws allowed us to pour our beers into plastic cups and walk the streets. (And by walk the streets I mean dodge drunkards and avoid eye contact.) Blaring music and flashing lights are the norm, and revelers line the balconies above the street dangling beads and dancing in the hopes of just one glimpse of boob. I'm already feeling proprietorial and shoot the tourists dirty looks.

And speaking of flesh, we pit stopped at the "Big Poppa's Love Acts" which held the promising advertisement of no cover and "live sex acts." In this sense I have to confess that New Orleans was a disappointment, since I wasn't aware that sex included two females grinding on each other and a poll with the majority of their clothes on.

The quite possible highlight of the entire trip, however, was the very famous Pat O's Piano Bar. A historic building in its own right, (it was around during prohibition when a password was required for entrance!) the place oozes good times. Home of the hurricane cocktail, guests are jam packed into an outside courtyard where dueling pianist accept requests from the crowd and everyone sings (screams) along to their favorites. Since an ideal night for me almost always includes drinking and singing, I don't think I belong anywhere else.

The rest of the night is a blur, but I'm pretty sure we went dancing and had some kind of drink that tasted remarkably like Dr. Pepper. Missed the piano bar already.

the day i find god in food

DAY TWO

After a night spent crunched on a too-small couch (an impressive fact considering that i'm barely over five feet...) I wake up cranky and feeling distinctly unrested. I'm hoping that New Orleans' famous café au lait and beignet combination will revive me. But first I have to find the renowned Café du Monde, THE place to sample these diabetic-inducing confections. With literally zero inclination about where anything is I set off in the vague direction of the french quarter. Thanks to the helpful signposts for drunk and lost tourists I quickly find myself on the edge of the quarter, and am immediately stunned by its charm. Elegant french wrought-iron balconies are offset by giddy colorful houses and very tropical palm trees. I love this place! I still have no real idea of where I am, but I'm happy to walk these streets forever.

Forty minutes later the charm is wearing thin. I've been wandering for some time in what is clearly a residential area, and I am hungry and not so interested in architecture anymore. The constant comments from every third guy I walk past are starting to grate. I don't know where to go, and frankly I'm worried about wandering into a neighborhood I shouldn't be in. But I still love this place. I think. To make matters worse it is clearly threatening to rain, and I'm pretty sure that as soon as my tissue thin white t-shirt gets wet it's going to make me way more friends than I'm entirely comfortable with.

I am luckily saved by the chance spotting of a voodoo museum in the distance. Voodoo means hokey tourist traps, and tourist traps mean delicious powdered-sugar covered doughnuts. And I'm right! As the wrought-iron avenues give way to the crowded Jackson Square, the New Orleans of myth emerges. Suddenly the rain-soaked air feels exotic as snatches of jazz bleed out from bars, and tiny shops of beads and masks stand next to lurid strip clubs. Even better, the famed Café du Monde is in the distance.

And what. an. experience. I step into what is essentially a glorified tent and pick a chair. Beignets come in an order of three, and thank god because I am going to eat these for the rest of my life here. Deep fried dough covered in a mountain of powdered sugar, one bite and my brain literally exploded with pleasure. The feeling only intensified with each sip of sweet strong café au lait-- half coffee half milk laced with a hint of chicory for a special New Orleans flavor. I'm not religious but the combination is nothing short of godly, and I'm willing to state that it is the best thing I have ever eaten.

To complete the experience, the rain which had been threatening all day broke the almost literal second I took my first bite. With a deafening crash of thunder the sky exploded as sheets of rain pounded the pavement. Despite the torrents a jazz band begins to play swinging old classics, and the scene is so perfect it is almost unreal. I can't stop grinning and probably the other customers think I'm crazy. I stay there for far longer than I intended.

Nighttime concludes with my first visit to Bourbon Street for the (in)famous "hand grenades." With five shots of (very very very hard) liquor in every drink, even seasoned drinkers are guaranteed to feel good. As a bonus, New Orleans open container laws allow the consumption of alcohol right on the streets. I pretty much love drinking and walking on muggy muggy nights, so I feel like New Orleans is for me.

in a city of sin, the tamest day

Since my computer decided to break the second I stepped into New Orleans, I decided to keep a journal old fashioned way. Because I had an amazing amazing time, and because I definitely want to keep the memories and impressions of this trip immortalized somewhere other than my head, I'll be slowly transcribing my notes here. Without further ado:

DAY ONE

I started to grin almost as soon as I hit the gate to New Orleans. The passengers were the perfect mix of southern charm and cowboy rough. Bouffant hairdos meets snake skin boots, and are pulled together by the most adorable drawls I think I have ever heard in my whole life. I spent the majority of my life (erroneously) equating southern drawls with all sorts of negative things (i.e. bible belt conservative rednecks...sorry) and have fallen so in love with the south now that I can't imagine what was wrong with me.

The first day was low-key. Stepping out of the airport the heat slams you like a ton of bricks, and you can literally feel the weight of the air pressing into your lungs. After an awesome reunion with an old friend we drove immediately to the ninth ward--the neighborhood of New Orleans made infamous in Katrina's wake. While it was clear that reconstruction efforts had been underway for some time there was still a breathtaking amount of remaining damage. Weirdly modern homes--the product of Brad Pitt's "Make It Right" charity project-- stood brand new in some lots. They gleamed with paint, but looked unnatural next to the empty concrete slabs that were the only indication of where homes once stood. A few houses remained only in part. Half of a brick wall, or the eerie stairs that ended in nothingness. We spied a few tenants staring back out at us, isolated in out locked car. I wondered if I was being a voyeur. New Orleans is a weird and wonderful place, and its easy to get caught in the tourist trap of partying and to forget the poverty and danger that affects the majority of residents here. I though it might be sobering and important to see all faces of the city. But is that selfish? My desire to understand led me to place the people of the ninth into a fishbowl. I might personally gain from this, but how about them?

Other highlights of the day include sampling the first of many New Orleans specialties--the po'boy. A sandwich served on crusty french bread, these can be found all over the city, typically dressed with anything at all fried. Tried the local brew, Abita, in both regular and raspberry. Delicious. Came home and crashed, hope to do more serious exploring tomorrow.