tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42596616644446226212023-11-16T03:14:51.383-08:00Small Time ExplorerThe Small Time Explorer is a big-time searcher of the bite-sized epic. She loves the thrill of finding something new--especially if its old--and is convinced that a small time adventure lurks around even the most seemingly mundane corner. From Argentina to the Philippines, hiking in the hills with her sidekick terrier Milo, to eating at an unknown hole in the wall, this running series of travel essays is less about the extraordinary and more about documenting the good memories-to-be.Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-29797937940652979912016-08-15T15:10:00.000-07:002016-08-15T15:20:54.912-07:00No Man Is An Island<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"> My decision to visit Greece was totally and completely motivated by the fact that for twenty-one days in the British Isles I endured that passive-aggressive, constant and persistent drizzle that resembles a sneeze in substance; and because of it, I have acquired a cough that not even the warmth and hospitality of all the kind Scottish and English hosts I have been staying with can clear away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So I decide to leave one island for another--a warm one, with a beach you can swim in without fear of hypothermia. That, and the cost of airfare are the only criteria for my decision to spend five days in Kos, a small island of Greece. In my cold-infused haze I have no recall having seen Kos in the newspapers not even a year earlier--I have not yet put two and two together as to why tickets are so inexpensive. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> In fact, it isn't until I already am in Kos, perched precariously on the edge of my budget hotel bed facing the patio door, catching the snail's pace internet based in the pool area. In my web search for a tourist's itinerary of Kos I pull up a tragic and familiar image from a news article. The photo is of a three-year-old boy washed up dead on Kos' shores, a casualty of the massive exodus of refugees resulting from the so-called Islamic State that has rocked the Middle East with a reign of terror in the name of Islamic fundamentalism. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> By the time I have booked my ticket, approximately 300,000 refugees have washed up on Greece’s shores in the preceding year, mainly on the islands closest to Turkey such as Kos. Many took to the high seas on cheap, plastic, inflatable rafts taking only the items they could carry on their persons. The UN High Committee on Refugees estimates that approximately half of the registered refugees have been children. Upon arrival refugees in Kos posted tents right on the shoreline they washed up upon, within arm's reach of middle-class, European vacationers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> At the start of the refugee surge in the summer of 2015, Greece was still reeling from its economic near-collapse, having undergone a heated negotiations to receive approximately 320 billion Euros in financial assistance from the European Union it needed to maintain some semblance of socio-economic and political stability. Even still, Greece wades through troubled waters pre-dating and completely unrelated to the Syrian crisis. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> And yet, here it is, this troubled nation on the forefront of an unprecedented immigration crisis exceeding that of even World War II. With not much to spare, in 2015 the Greek government struggled to coordinate resources and services provided by international non-governmental organizations. For the better part of the summer of 2015, when they first began to arrive in Kos, without food, clothing, shelter, or any intake infrastructure, refugees who couldn't afford to stay in hotels often took sanctuary around historic ruins providing bits of shade from the unrelenting Grecian sun. Some refugees were loosely organized around the Captain Elias hotel, an empty and abandoned resort with a crumbling interior and no electricity or running water.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> And, while no attacks by refugees or harassment of vacationers have been reported, the Greek tourism industry reeled, their resources and moral turpitude being tested by an unwitting situation. In my internet research I come across one news story quoting a local, “Please write [that] we are not against these people, our heart reaches out to them, but our only industry is tourism and tourists aren’t happy,” he sighs, impatiently waving a hand. “They want peace, peace of mind. How can they have that with all of these tragic figures lying around everywhere?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Not much further down the queue of articles is a story about a protest mounted by locals against the construction of refugee intake center in the mountainous area of the island. A group of 2,000 of the island's 30,000 locals marched around the construction site, concerned that their once idyllic island and place of business will be branded internationally as a refugee destination. The center is designed to UN-standards level to provide necessities for 24-48 hours before the refugees are accepted into neighboring European countries. The situation turned ugly as the protestors began rushing towards police barricades resulting in tear gas and hand grenades. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Suddenly my escape to Fantasy Island became political. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Having no intention to return to the UK before clearing my cold, I take up a recommendation from the Lonely Planet to contact particular aid organizations they've screened as being legitimate. As a New Orleanian, I am familiar with the concept of vacationers who travel to volunteer in effort to be part of a recovery, all the while enjoying local tourist amenities. It is both an awkward and delicate procedure and I try to avoid the condescension inherent in such an act, so I look to be discrete. I find a facebook page asking where I can donate and receive a response within minutes with a P.O. Box. I respond that I am physically present on the island and would be happy to donate the suggested provisions in person. No response.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I look up the other organizations recommended by Lonely Planet and other media sources and find either old or expired websites. One article suggests talking to a local to find a legitimate agency, but given the recent protest activity, I am not about to ask the hotel owner or waiters--the only Greeks I've encountered thus far. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Feeling somewhat befuddled I inhale the hot, salty air filling my small, immaculate hotel room. I descend and walk two minutes to an ocean, along streets lined with at least half a dozen empty and abandoned hotels, whose blight clearly predates the refugee crisis. Coming from a city where abandoned buildings are increasingly re-purposed as apartments, office buildings and low-income housing, I am curious as to why none of these buildings have benefited from the funds dedicated to constructing new buildings for refugee intake. By now over $1 billion Euros have been allocated to the countries at the forefront of the refugee influx but here there is no obvious economic surge from any non-governmental organizations who have might have moved to the island to process the world's largest refugee crisis since World War II. Perhaps the funds have only begun to trickle in. Or perhaps the locals would rather take a pass.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> In the island suburb of Kardamena where I am staying, it is cheaper than the rest, and my budget hotel, like most of the island's shops and restaurants, are laden with British university students bemoaning about the food but praising the exchange rate and the cheap alcohol, sauntering in and out of the restaurants and banks wearing minuscule bikinis and no shoes, amidst disapproving locals shaking their heads. These fair-skinned phenomena are easy to avoid, however, and I do so by easily by walking straight past the line-up of hotel pools and directly into the beautiful, turquoise blue, Agean sea, where I let the sparkling, gentle waves pass over my head and envelop me in calm. After a while, I sit at a restaurant and let my eyes rest on the view of the waters from which I just emerged.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I decide to rent a bike from a middle-age man named George, the third George I've met that day. He is used to tourists and his English is good. He owns a fleet of scooters, ATV's and a few cars, and is not, however, used to tourists renting bikes. An avid cyclist himself, he asks me if I am comfortable riding around in traffic. I tell him that I am, coming from New Orleans where I bike more than I drive, and ask him if there are any areas I should avoid. He does a double take and laughs, "No, you are safe here. Perhaps there are things you can teach me about riding in a city." We digress into biking experiences and other outdoor tall tales, as you do when you have a love affair of outdoor gear. We bond instantly and make fun of the callow English tourists who ask to rent vehicles in their swimwear, carrying a beer bottle as accessory. We talk about his beautiful island and map out a few cyclist journeys. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Only after we bond over outdoor gear do I dare to ask, "George, if I wanted to make a donation to help the refugee situation, where would I go?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Like a medieval gate at the castle walls, I feel a wall of distrust descend.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "What refugees? Look around. Have you seen any? I don't see refugees. Don't believe what you read in the newspapers. There's no refugees for you to take pictures of."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I am a bit dumbfounded and hurriedly look for a tactful out. Silence. He continues,</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "There were refugees for the past couple years, but now, none. Now all you have left are economic immigrants, they aren't refugees, they just want to make money somewhere else. You can tell when you see them. You can tell how they walk. The refugees, they walk with their children close by their side. The economic immigrants let their children wander, they litter. Look, if you want to help the refugees and the people of this island, go to restaurants, go drink some beers. Enjoy the island with your hard-earned money and help local business. This is better than charity." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Though I have many family members who were refugees from Vietnam, I myself am a daughter of two immigrants who came to the US to obtain university and post-doctorate level education. I also live in a country that admits approximately one million immigrants a year for a variety of reasons, from refugee status to reasons purely related to diversifying our population; I cannot relate to his moral distinction between political and economic immigrants. But his body language tells me that I have struck a nerve--he's not interested in discussing the nuances of diaspora and the modern world, and I am a guest in his country. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So in a conciliatory manner I offer, "Well perhaps I misheard about recent events. My family is from Vietnam and there are many immigrants and refugees that came to the States, so I wanted to see if there was some way I could do what others have done for people in my family since I am here anyhow."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> He accepts my offering. "I admire that. You know, there are many Vietnamese immigrants in Athens. Very good business people. You know when Greeks marry the English, always a divorce. When Greeks marry Vietnamese, they are good marriages. Vietnamese are hardworking, like the Greeks. But these economic immigrants, they lie around the beach wearing their outfits, they do not try to work, and it's bad for the island." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> George does not seem to espouse the "people in glass houses" principle. Twice in the past six years Greece was on the brink of bankruptcy, relying on a bailout from the European Union in the order of magnitude of over 300 billion Euros. Greece's national unemployment is at 25%, with an inflated government, and corruption resulting in tax evasion, with some estimates as large as 80 billion untaxed Euros kept in Swiss banks. With national policies adopting a statutory retirement age ranging by profession from 45 to 61, the national pension fund comprises about one-third of the Greek budget, one of the largest per capita in Europe, causing much discord among the EU countries paying into the 300 and some billion Euros in assistance. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Greece suffers from no stereotype of being hardworking. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> In George's presence, I am silent on the matter, as it is a complex one, and I am a guest in his country. But my silence allows George to act as his own devil's advocate. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "Well, who can blame these people, wanting to leave their country that is being blown up by terrorists where they can't even think freely. You know I've seen some working at a car wash and thought, they are like the Greek."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Another brief silence and then he doubles back.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "It's just that they wear their clothing, they are fully covered and they are at the beach. It is as if I was in another country wearing these shoes everywhere (pointing at his flip flops) where it is not normal. And they all wear purple and yellow. It's just...awkward. We are not used to having so many of these Muslim people here."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> George is a kind man, but he is wrong. Greece, even the small island of Kos, has known Muslims on its shores for centuries. This is first revealed to me in my sight-seeing, after walking up a hill, on a curvy, cobble-stone street lined with bouganvillea flowers. At the top of the hill is clearly a structure indicative of a previous, Islamic presence. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVga2rfxIci2JlVlE6bvKo0kh8J7bUJPU_hOJd8hzmMzN46LT8FSNBV2bFLEyBh5uToiJu-CFhMAGV8H3LYui7sqQwncZ-ThKFVrlzU7nsv9Sgwuu3REQ0K5Uz2_bZOr7ABRMYmS0FSvzi/s1600/FullSizeRender+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVga2rfxIci2JlVlE6bvKo0kh8J7bUJPU_hOJd8hzmMzN46LT8FSNBV2bFLEyBh5uToiJu-CFhMAGV8H3LYui7sqQwncZ-ThKFVrlzU7nsv9Sgwuu3REQ0K5Uz2_bZOr7ABRMYmS0FSvzi/s640/FullSizeRender+8.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> It is the Eski Mosque constructed in the 16th century and at one time it graced a densely populated Muslim quarter. The community in which the Eski Mosque once thrived was comprised of subjects of the Ottoman Empire, a time during which Greek Orthodox churches were given legal powers and privileges and maintained their congregations, as evidenced by the fact Greek Orthodox churches of the same era also inhabit the island. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> At the turn of the twentieth century, the population of Muslims in the Dodecanese Islands (of which Kos and Rhodes are the largest) was as high as 11,000. (The island's current, and presumably largest population is approximately 30,000). The population of Muslims decreased in Greece with the 1923 Population Exchange Agreement with Turkey, but the communities in Kos were unaffected given that the Dodecanese Islands were still subject to Italian Rule. Not until 1947-1974 did the Muslim communities start to see a decrease, due to the islands' conflicts with Greece leading to the eventual incorporation under the Greek state. The 1960's leading up to the point of unchallenged Greek rule (1974) was marked with frequent acts of discrimination. Anecdotes record theft of produce and slaughtering of cattle on farms, and destruction of storefronts in the towns. Schools became discriminatory and continuation into university became more and more difficult for Muslims. Thus, the vast majority of the Muslim community left, their Greek property and citizenship revoked. However, some Turkish Muslims remained even after 1974, and approximately 1500 descendants of this community remain on Kos. Many who stayed abandoned the Turkish language and Islam.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So in fact, the Syrian newcomers to the island who don their hijabs are not the first to do so.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Kos is a beautiful island and it is easy to understand why multiple generations of people from a different country and different religion would want to settle here. When I'm not cooling down in the translucent turquoise waters I wander through the island's ancient alleys and garden-lined streets. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtDY5nBEwNdPiQviIycfNXZoHCqV1g-ji8KoRVHgb-YXXKl8RAGdXrOSCv2GKcuoocI5SipORCbxvz1Ur4LpCsyYKa6ZwqxlptahMNFZPJFy2V13uYfsoichCT7yOmp8Nqmo491Ii3tphc/s1600/FullSizeRender+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtDY5nBEwNdPiQviIycfNXZoHCqV1g-ji8KoRVHgb-YXXKl8RAGdXrOSCv2GKcuoocI5SipORCbxvz1Ur4LpCsyYKa6ZwqxlptahMNFZPJFy2V13uYfsoichCT7yOmp8Nqmo491Ii3tphc/s400/FullSizeRender+5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I walk into the main square and see remnants of other cultures and their time here on this tiny island. The castle fortress of the Knights of St. John left by the Italians, a re-purposed mosque now serving as a cafe restaurant in the town square, and the remnants of ancient Greek temples and towns, all sit within a stone's throw of one another. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Ck5oQGK8I0MS5lBOlvwjzQWqsKIhShkGAIndqqR0E4tzUa2WRjFeBw4htw0vTSVuY3NC4yfcEwfungjuus3KmvsWYw94sy2PVtHxWmMnirdqss4A8U9VTEvsntEPKqnVez24MXobu7Nf/s1600/FullSizeRender+2.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Ck5oQGK8I0MS5lBOlvwjzQWqsKIhShkGAIndqqR0E4tzUa2WRjFeBw4htw0vTSVuY3NC4yfcEwfungjuus3KmvsWYw94sy2PVtHxWmMnirdqss4A8U9VTEvsntEPKqnVez24MXobu7Nf/s640/FullSizeRender+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEDsoqbViSrd1INDOOEi5cGiXG-etxzcFvA8EEPVjxiZOlEyCXAqdhnu1huZHzlpghkjXw3ZZ_meZZoA1StryoRrg9ykCMhWjkVDxWGYY7egHhoMyRPGMEByrErle2xen7iIhtKLMUTmm/s1600/FullSizeRender+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a> Despite its prominence in all the online and print guidebooks, I encounter not a single other tourist at the ruins of the Western Excavation. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEDsoqbViSrd1INDOOEi5cGiXG-etxzcFvA8EEPVjxiZOlEyCXAqdhnu1huZHzlpghkjXw3ZZ_meZZoA1StryoRrg9ykCMhWjkVDxWGYY7egHhoMyRPGMEByrErle2xen7iIhtKLMUTmm/s1600/FullSizeRender+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEDsoqbViSrd1INDOOEi5cGiXG-etxzcFvA8EEPVjxiZOlEyCXAqdhnu1huZHzlpghkjXw3ZZ_meZZoA1StryoRrg9ykCMhWjkVDxWGYY7egHhoMyRPGMEByrErle2xen7iIhtKLMUTmm/s640/FullSizeRender+4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> And, as I meander among ancient columns, I literally stumble upon in-tact mosaics.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO1alGis1lZOtmo1z1UNCHUuakoWvW_ELhtPPkErYxnYSpiohhBcz-ojaya_kaNCQSsFXprwZBlbU0PKOpxUu-A4S0UnnRCU-r7mdiXZzlMpnIia4fVllviVbTOuMVbgWOo56byDFoWCll/s1600/FullSizeRender+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO1alGis1lZOtmo1z1UNCHUuakoWvW_ELhtPPkErYxnYSpiohhBcz-ojaya_kaNCQSsFXprwZBlbU0PKOpxUu-A4S0UnnRCU-r7mdiXZzlMpnIia4fVllviVbTOuMVbgWOo56byDFoWCll/s400/FullSizeRender+9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhraPmVxgYvrHWQLFcR7jir6hfNT7uzogjJ_kgg8_eMai-A1OF_sAVHsFVAgbntm3X07-RPHO0O6-4Wz5VlPDwyWSXsSqkSAombpGUTWXQ08Eddjc83doNxmx8vpbbBSo6hEklOam-q98ze/s1600/FullSizeRender+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-size: large;">But the grandeur is not without signs of decay. There is trash at one corner of the excavation site, and evidence of a homeless residence in one of the ancient quarters. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The weeds are overgrown and through much of it I am walking waist-high through grasses growing over this ancient town center. </span><span style="font-size: large;">The signage is faded by the sun, and there are coke cans and water bottles strewn about.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> There is graffiti and litter in the square of the plane tree under which Hippocrates, the father
of modern medicine, purportedly taught his students. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> With two bankruptcies in the past six years, maintenance of these national treasures have fallen by the wayside. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> After my conversation with George I abandon my efforts to make donations to the refugee NGO's in person. It is something better executed through a deliberate effort after research and contacts, rather than as a result of an unwitting awareness and effort to mitigate my holiday guilt. In my five day wanderings I encounter no sign of any refugees or economic immigrants donning hijabs, in purple or otherwise. It is clear that by the time of my visit, the refugee intake infrastructure has been relocated from the island's idyllic shores to further inland near the mountains, tucked away from the eyesight of tourists.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> As I wander through the checkerboard of oceanfront views, beautifully stark, ancient ruins, and tourist cafes and restaurants bedecked with thematic Greek decor, so too does my mind. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjY95f4n5oS-8rhBUUl5r702M3eYTVL6DwmBEogqYpPRw8gl8jNbFnzKLXcbdymX7zzq9rqa3QjWqX_t-AfOK6dUA4JjIpRWEtivJ1mA-cWhBBfdj-FlBLasgd3Cyv-JOsrBeOtnnV6gn/s1600/FullSizeRender+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjY95f4n5oS-8rhBUUl5r702M3eYTVL6DwmBEogqYpPRw8gl8jNbFnzKLXcbdymX7zzq9rqa3QjWqX_t-AfOK6dUA4JjIpRWEtivJ1mA-cWhBBfdj-FlBLasgd3Cyv-JOsrBeOtnnV6gn/s640/FullSizeRender+5.jpg" width="534" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> If--after centuries of Islamic people from Turkey living on these shores--we issued a genetic test to the servers, the tour guides, and the policemen all in my eyesight, what ethnicities would these results reveal in one person? And the 2,000 protesters? And George? And would those results make any difference to the state and community response of the incoming refugees?</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">No man is an island,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Entire of itself,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Every man is a piece of the continent,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">A part of the main.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">If a clod be washed away by the sea,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Europe is the less.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">As well as if a promontory were.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">As well as if a manor of thy friend's</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Or of thine own were:</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Any man's death diminishes me,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Because I am involved in mankind,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">It tolls for thee.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">- John Donne (1624)</span><br />
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Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-63438563318422213982014-10-15T21:39:00.000-07:002014-10-18T20:45:05.100-07:00Colonialism<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>San Miguel De Allende: Mirage in a Desert</i></span></td></tr>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"What makes the desert beautiful,' said the little prince, 'is that somewhere it hides a well...'"</span></i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Antoine De Saint-Exupery, <i>The Little Prince</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I eventually learned to love Mexico City but I'd be lying if I didn't confess having suffered a near coronary upon stepping off the plane into the <i>Districto Federal</i>. Maybe it was the fact for my first meal, I inadvertently ordered a soup that had a flaming shot of mescal poured into it. Or maybe it was trying to sleep in a hostel that resembled what I imagine purgatory to be like. Or the conversation I tried to have with some Mexican travelers from Monterrey who insisted on conversing with me in Spanish about Buddhism. And though I had every intention of soaking it all in, I just wasn't ready for it quite so suddenly.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> So it made perfect sense when the conversation about Buddhism evolved into a conversation about a small town a four hour drive further into the desert called San Miguel de Allende. In the guidebook I have borrowed there is no mention. So what if this was a conversational suggestion made at 2am after a couple of tequilas?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Barely half a dozen hours later I am curled up in a contorted fetal position on a bus, trying to catch up on the sleep I didn't get during the hostel snore-a-thon. I am groggy when we drive past a couple of industrial towns in the middle of nowhere. Other than that, the vista is a bit bleak... hundreds of miles of cacti, brush, chaparral-covered volcanic hills. Dry, dusty and desolate, even in December someone could die of dehydration out here without a soul to notice. Eventually the bus driver pulls over to the side of the highway without uttering a word other than the name of my destination, leaving only a cloud of dust for me to swallow.</span><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> My God. What have I done.</span></i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoUoq1BYqrFLBzysz6XPejyy7vuoimtjPLFVePGJs3STlAf5asJ6wI3qLcmD-TulO8jg6O8f5rBB81D57egEh1-9x6wektI-xWncbai-TjdMsvY-nb3BdboCH21WB_Jh6CPb_22RJYyn0a/s1600/IMG_1412.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoUoq1BYqrFLBzysz6XPejyy7vuoimtjPLFVePGJs3STlAf5asJ6wI3qLcmD-TulO8jg6O8f5rBB81D57egEh1-9x6wektI-xWncbai-TjdMsvY-nb3BdboCH21WB_Jh6CPb_22RJYyn0a/s1600/IMG_1412.jpg" height="212" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dry desert on the way to San Miguel De Allende</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I'm picturing my parents having to fly down to claim my body in an unmarked shack serving as the local morgue. After fifteen of the longest minutes of my life, a taxi appears, and with my backpack bouncing on my tailbone, I desperately chase him down on the other side of the highway.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> "El Centro por favor," not knowing what exactly the center town entails, gambling heavily on a church, a plaza, possibly an ice cream push-cart.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> A mere seconds pass when we enter cobblestone streets carving through piles of brightly-colored Spanish stucco buildings, illuminated bell towers, and a panoramic vista overlooking a hillside town dotted with lights. In the center, as suspected, is a Spanish cathedral, gracefully illuminated. Snacking on fresh churros in one hand, hot chocolate in the other, I wander around a stunning town square, and my biggest concern is to not spill the hot chocolate as I cross the cobblestone streets. For a while I see no Westerners and hear no English. My plaza companions are well-dressed Mexicans.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNoU0j81MdhzF9d8isffJRtntrhekPcwyfLY6jqLi1QBi5LSuUuGyvO-VPe-QpibJ5DsrF9IhXrnaWsG5mUL9xRW5Yv0vk4Y91tL7zCnfZ4opFS7DaE5zmJUcgNGNWFEYCGDbmF32ZyNV5/s1600/IMG_1381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNoU0j81MdhzF9d8isffJRtntrhekPcwyfLY6jqLi1QBi5LSuUuGyvO-VPe-QpibJ5DsrF9IhXrnaWsG5mUL9xRW5Yv0vk4Y91tL7zCnfZ4opFS7DaE5zmJUcgNGNWFEYCGDbmF32ZyNV5/s1600/IMG_1381.JPG" height="478" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> In a cafe I eventually encounter something of a curiosity: an elderly gringo, possibly in his eighties, skin light as day. To his companion he mumbles something in American English, but then just as easily orders his drink in perfect Spanish.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Later that evening, I am seated a bit awkwardly on the corner of my bed, in attempt to invoke the wisdom of wikipedia on my smartphone in my charming but budget hotel with concrete and stucco walls. (Turns out that colonial-style walls are not so wi fi-friendly.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> The town was originally named after a man of the cloth named San Miguel who, with the help of dogs, discovered a spring and founded the town under Spanish colonial rule. Ironically, the town also bears the name of Ignacio Allende, the Spanish nobleman turned insurgent who fought for Mexican independence from Spanish colonial rule. The town was his birthplace and the first to declare independence from Spain.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> The town of San Miguel de Allende won its political independence from Spain, but cultural independence it did not. To this day its architecture is pure Spanish colonial and was such when it was discovered by Stirling Dickinson, a wealthy American Princeton graduate, trained at the Art Institute of Chicago, fresh off a stint in World War II. At the time of his arrival the city had been long suffering from an economic decline with the collapse of the mining industry and general post-war blues. So enamored was he with the town that he first became the director of the newly created art school, the Escuela Universitaria de Bellas Artes, and effectively lured a number of his fellow veterans armed with education stipends from the GI bill and eager to continue their international experience. He then started his own institute after accusations of Communist sympathies led to his dismissal. Quiet and unassuming, Dickinson lived modestly despite his inherited wealth, and by his own admission was a mediocre artist at best. In his days as an art teacher, he instituted a curriculum based on Mexican culture and tradition and was fluent in Spanish.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Eventually the economy had been fully transformed from agricultural to one based on tourism. Today, visitors from all over Mexico are driven to its abundance of galleries and theaters, all featuring local artists and musicians that since flourished beginning with the influx of expat investment in the 1940's. Inconvenient enough from the capital city and devoid of beaches or resorts, the foreigners it attracts tend to prefer aesthetics and culture. English is seldom heard on the streets and the art schools place heavy emphasis on Mexican-rooted culture. Diego and Frida are the icons of choice and no one mentions MTV.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Despite my best intentions in my five days here, I've failed to make it inside a single gallery or museum. Instead I've managed to while my time away wandering up and down the cobblestone streets, through the artisan outdoor markets, the produce markets, the public squares. I have sat inside the towns' cathedrals staring at life-sized sculptures of the Passion, I have stalked my favorite fresh churro vendors, and I end every single night listening to live music be it Latin jazz or Mexican folk.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvw_uOpM5aMp4wCNlN2j0oKOfqZtJJ6ExPaHeBsbiGQIcoTc5wrsS7qS3-6nXZ0cO_ld49oOcIXNZfcwcnMiUsBSVb8ajwvAi23wbaPhQoDQU_V2f-eYqWl_iV4Ah4uyT4UgjrY5RjhY7/s1600/IMG_1389.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvw_uOpM5aMp4wCNlN2j0oKOfqZtJJ6ExPaHeBsbiGQIcoTc5wrsS7qS3-6nXZ0cO_ld49oOcIXNZfcwcnMiUsBSVb8ajwvAi23wbaPhQoDQU_V2f-eYqWl_iV4Ah4uyT4UgjrY5RjhY7/s1600/IMG_1389.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> With the restoration of colonial structures funded by American expat investment, San Miguel de Allende has been likened to Disneyland. I am the first to be embarrassed by loud American tourists. It is a city that once existed as a Spanish colonial city before the Americans got here, and the "Disneyland" was eventually resurrected by a group who chose to serve in a war against Fascism and racism, and returned home with a new appreciation for culture and a desire to create art, and learned to speak the language. Not the most terrible set of Americans I've run into; certainly less distasteful than the twenty-something set in Mexico City I overheard from the other side of a cafe clarifying to a Mexican that they hailed from "Brooklyn, not New York."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> And of course, the story of Dickinson in itself is intriguing. A mediocre artist himself, he seemed to be more blessed with vision than artistic talent; not only did he move to a foreign country, facilitating the creation of a fine arts school, but he also effectively convinced his brethren to leave their homeland to do the same. To have lived part of his life in war to support his political beliefs, then to turn his energies to an equally daunting task of creating and facilitating art and beauty--it is an ideal easy to admire.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> As an American traveler, I belong to one of the most elite demographics on the globe. As in the case of Sterling Dickinson, the effect of American money has an impact of exclusion every place it touches, despite even the best efforts to avoid this. But if only we can at least funnel the effect of our wealth to in some way facilitate the flourishing of art and music. I aspire to one day be as much of a contribution to the art and music of a traditional culture as at least one American has done before me. Sterling's impact was undeniably a form of colonialism, as is my sheer existence as an American in Latin America. But it is one I can stomach--alongside those freshly made churros.</span><br />
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Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-43116858008712041952014-03-08T21:21:00.000-08:002014-10-18T20:45:45.487-07:00Punch Drunk<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"There was an old ring proverb that "Youth will be served," but the annals of the ring offer a great number of exceptions."</span></i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Croxley Master"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> At the not-so-tender age of 36, I decided to enter the ring and box a 21 year old, former college athlete, in her 1st year of law school. It was a long-time coming, three years in fact, that I first walked into a boxing gym and started training. After about a year, I finally felt ready for a fight, but it took two more years before USA boxing changed their amateur rules: no longer was I prohibited from fighting anyone under the age of 34. The pool now enabled me to fight anyone between 19 and 40 years of age.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> From the very beginning, I declared boxing a mere hobby. Yet that seemed irrelevant once Mike, the owner of the boxing gym and promoter of New Orleans' renowned Friday Night Fights, found me an opponent a month and a half before the fight.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Frank the Trainer</span></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Next step was to find a trainer. The deal with boxing trainers is a whole story in itself for another day. In short I have gone through more trainers than underwear--with varying levels of articulateness, reliability, sleaziness, and criminal records. The most previous trainer was a woman, and my favorite thus far. But Anika was also a burlesque dancer and recent law graduate with extremely little time to spare a month and a half before my first ever fight.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Then I found Frank. Forty-six years old, former boxer himself turned private eye. He and his twenty-three year old son have been gym rats for as long as I've been coming to the gym plus decades more. As soon as my fight is set, I corner him and successfully implore him to train me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> "You've decided to inflict bodily injury on another human being, Kim. Now you have to live with this decision." Those words were his first to me at the end of our first training session. They were an indication of the intensity of the days to come. But they did not indicate the level of pain I would be inflicting on myself.</span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Training Days</span></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Jumping jacks with a barbell in my hands, being spun around in the ring 20 times 'til I was dizzy, then taking a knee right before launching into punches running into the center of the ring, then 100 sit-ups to cool down. For sparring, my partner was another of Frank's stallions, except 21-years-old, fit as an ox, and with Olympic aspirations. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I am reasonably fit for my age but the regimen was exhausting and at no point did I enjoy an evening free of aches and pains.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> But in sparring I surprised Frank. I surprised them all including the ever-cynical Mike, when I punched a contact lens right out of Scottie's head after she gave me a bruiser under my left eye.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> My reputation amongst the gym rats began to improve noticeably: after a couple of gnarly sparring sessions, fist bumps were at an all time high, a seal of approval within this population.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> "I'll be honest Kim, I didn't think you'd be able to handle her, but now I think it's even. You got heart kid, you got heart," says Mike. From a man who owned an overweight pit bull and typically only spoke for the purpose of telling dirty jokes, this was high praise.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Translation: I can take a punch. By all accounts, including my own, my advantage was internal--and lay deep underneath that belly fat I was striving to reduce. In our qualifying spar, my opponent had superior arm strength and fitness; but truth be told, her face contorted to near tears after each punch I landed.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> The fact that she was sweet and hard-working was all irrelevant. I wanted this fight. I thought I didn't care about winning but the more I trained, the more I craved victory.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I was not a particularly nice person over these six weeks. Jamie was my opponent, and she weighed 10 pounds less than me a month out from the fight, despite being at least 1-2 dress sizes larger. And it was likely that she was losing weight as she trained. As a USA-Boxing Association-sanctioned event, I could not weigh more than 5 pounds than her. To get there I had to stop drinking alcohol, a martyr-like act in a town like New Orleans, especially for a music manager. I cut out most forms of fat including my beloved butter. And it brought out my worst: I picked fights with my band, I became ornery around loved ones. By fight day, I was 10 pounds lighter.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> "Why" was the question asked most frequently of me in those weeks before and even after. Truth be told, I'm not entirely sure why. Clearly, I relish the difficulty in the task and the feeling of physical strength after training. Adrenaline is a drug I enjoy. And Frank, in all his verbal awkwardness, brought up another reason. "Things have been tough for me out there there. I lost a lot when my mom died a couple years ago and I am still rebuilding my practice. But this place and this body, this training is the one thing I feel I can control." Like Frank, I believe that for me too boxing is about gaining a sense of control.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> However, ultimately I believe my desire to box is because I am a born weirdo; my family will attest. Despite all my privilege and education, I left the legal profession and have been selecting steadily less lucrative jobs. My personal life is on a comparable trajectory as I select partners with increasingly unlikely odds of success. And as for amassing wealth and stability, for my first house I chose a formerly blighted one in a historically dangerous neighborhood in New Orleans. It would seem that my motto in life has been, "Why do things the easy way?" </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> But it truly has not been a conscious effort to be difficult. After one of my less spectacular sparring sessions of getting the brains knocked out of me, I would not give up. Frank ended that session with the following observation: "I bet you were a real pain in the ass to your parents as a kid." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> He was right. I was a difficult child, and I still am difficult. Maybe that's why I like boxing.</span><br />
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<b>Fight Day</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> On the morning of fight day, it is raining cats and dogs, threatening to shut down the fight which is scheduled to be held in a parking lot of a bar and a Burger King. I am dejected, hungry and cranky. For consolation, I call my closest, gentlest friend, Taylor, a vegetarian jazz musician who has spent significant time in Vermont. In consolation, he offers, "Well, maybe you can take up another activity that's not so concentrated on just one event, ya know?" He is struggling for words, completely unable to understand my draw to boxing. I try my best to gently end the phone call before he can suggest I take up yoga.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Eventually the skies clear up and I check in for the fight. I'm barely within 5 pounds of my opponent despite having lost 10. I'm cranky as hell and have already snapped at the gym owner who has annoyed me to no end. I sit down for my check-up and the doctor introduces himself as "Rocky." I laugh uncontrollably. "I mean, just for tonight? Is that really your name? Do you box?" He explains that he doesn't and that's it's a family nick name. Dr. Rocky checks my blood pressure, purses his lips and says, "That's ok, you're fine." Frank glances over and looks at the numbers. I'm confused given that I've always had an extremely low blood presser. Frank also purses his lips, "That's normal for tonight, right doc?" He confirms, "Yeah they all get amped up right before and she'll be back to normal after." I don't bother asking for the numbers.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTw_3su7IB6ixERr7o2hCJRmp8iowTDgD6nGGlcMzmKpoj342GIF0MAl3XDkp2MN2AfVTwXk-R3QixxMCm_ihxqP-LFFW2_CsT5nMu5KdyogG-IR0WTYIqzsftFqzHqjlOOFXkvEo4s6S/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTw_3su7IB6ixERr7o2hCJRmp8iowTDgD6nGGlcMzmKpoj342GIF0MAl3XDkp2MN2AfVTwXk-R3QixxMCm_ihxqP-LFFW2_CsT5nMu5KdyogG-IR0WTYIqzsftFqzHqjlOOFXkvEo4s6S/s1600/photo.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></span></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> About 30 friends and acquaintances have come on my behalf to cheer me on. I appreciate their support and nervous of not disappointing them with a loss. Co-workers have made a "Vicious Vu" sign to rally me on. I have problems remembering names. I have no intentions of ever doing this professionally, but I am nervous. I am the the favorite, bets in the gym are placed on me, but I am clearly the underdog physically. Three rounds, a minute and a half each. Objectively very doable but subjectively inducing fear in my heart.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Inside the ring the lights are bright. I can't hear a thing except Frank. "You've got to take this first round, you can't let the judges question your strength." The bell rings and I explode into a fit of energy. She is fighting completely differently from how she sparred, moving backwards almost constantly. Despite her superior strength and fitness, she is on the ropes twice. Bell rings.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> As I plant my butt on the stool, Frank says, "Keep going. You need to get as many punches in as you can because she's strong, and you're not gonna knock her out."</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4e2FpymByz6hqf8wyZ6bTo0Nf2aTsTDbVBLEwnXC-Oc7HGF-jAuG-LoT3uNHnwJm7izfvHD-kbceh1luHEebX6tAibZY7kfl4QbWN4w0FxhmZpqZH9U0zZXw6Yrbo4Pi_mci5mQbDY78/s1600/1472882_10153553213115118_1160967863_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4e2FpymByz6hqf8wyZ6bTo0Nf2aTsTDbVBLEwnXC-Oc7HGF-jAuG-LoT3uNHnwJm7izfvHD-kbceh1luHEebX6tAibZY7kfl4QbWN4w0FxhmZpqZH9U0zZXw6Yrbo4Pi_mci5mQbDY78/s1600/1472882_10153553213115118_1160967863_n.jpg" height="640" width="574" /></span></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Round two starts and I'm still at it. But her strength finally rears its ugly head and she lands a left straight in my head. I am as unstoppable as her left straights which she is able to land even as I return her to the ropes. Suddenly, just as the bell rings my nose feels hot.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> The crowd goes wild as the ring card girls strut their stuff and I use the melee to urge Frank to stop the nosebleed. He shoves the q-tips as far as he can but unlike in training, he stops short of using the spray and blocking the flow with petroleum jelly. I'm confused...what gives? "Make it stop Frank!" I am determined to keep fighting and I'll be damned if the judges stop the fight for a little nosebleed.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> In round three I am tired but I don't stop moving forward for fear that if I do I'll fall. All the training tips, the techniques of stick and move, moving out of the southpaw's way, I've thrown it all away. It is because I've looked into my opponent's face, and only I can see the abject fear in its contortions. She is so much stronger than me, but her mind is not. She looks dangerously close to tears, despite landing more right hooks in my face. My nose won't stop bleeding and the ref calls for the doctor. I implore Dr. Rocky and he lets me go back in.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Round three ends and we are both exhausted.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Back in the corner Frank attends to my still-bleeding nose as I dangle my lifeless arms. For the first time that night I see my friends have taken up the entire front side of the ring. Nose still gushing, I raise my lifeless paw in the air and with a big, dumb smile on my face they erupt in cheers.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Back in the middle of the ring we wait for decision. She clearly possessed more strength and physical control but I landed plenty of punches and consistently held the offensive; she was on the ropes at least three times. In my mind I am Manny Pacquiao but in my body I am a lump of jelly. Not until the ref raised my opponent's arm in victory was I able to discern who won.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I stumble back to my corner more dejected than I previously imagined. Frank gives me kudos and assures me that I didn't disappoint. From the corner of my eye I catch Mike across the ring. He gives me a nod and a wink.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> On the way to the fighter's section, Dr. Rocky rattles off a series of questions to check for concussion. "What's your name, what day is it, where are we?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> "I'm Kim Vu-Dinh, we're in New Orleans, and I just lost."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> He pats me on the back. "You fought well Kim.""</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Immediately after my wraps are removed, two of my professor friends steadily make their way towards me with a beer and a flask of whiskey, and after a sip, I am immediately in good spirits--evidence that they are in fact my smartest friends. I am congratulated by a series of friends and co-workers. My vegetarian friend hugs me and is on the verge of tears. I am high on adrenaline of boxing and losing. Throughout the night I'm approached by at least half a dozen strangers of all races, genders, and sizes. Clearly some were boxing-followers, some were fellow fighters, some I'd never met. "Good fight, kid," and "Hey lady, I thought you had that one." It was decent consolation after a physically painful loss. A couple of the gym rats straight-up bear-hugged me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> It was not until the end of the night, in the privacy of a porta-potty did I feel tears roll down my face. I tried so damn hard and I lost. That and my nose hurt.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Surprisingly the day after was the hardest. I had been training hard for a month and a half, two hours a day 4-6 days a week, yet those six minutes left my body in abject pain I'd never before felt. The day after was a cold and cloudy one, and the vegetarian drew me a bath and iced my nose, took me to a movie and picked up take-out. The bruising around my eyes set in and my nose hurt to no end. Despite even sparring half a dozen times with a fighter better than my opponent, I felt a touch of shock--both body and mind--which took me by surprise. Chatting on my phone with a friend, he pointed out, "Well sure, it was just four and a half minutes, but it was like a four and a half minute car accident." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I've been reasonably successful in my life, but I have failed before and I know what disappointment is. But this was definitely the first time for me that failure was accompanied by physical pain.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> A couple days later my face is bruise-free and looks more or less back to normal but for weeks I'm left with a tender nose to remind me of my defeat. Friends ask if I'll do it again. "Maybe," I answer. "Really? Why?" </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> And though I can't explain it, I know I probably will. In its own way, it was a journey unlike any other...I remember the few minutes in the ring, and get a little punch drunk. </span><br />
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Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-1224905588575609032013-07-02T22:31:00.000-07:002013-07-02T22:31:40.625-07:00At Home In Central City<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFHUi7kdoSUehJS7D0kpCaaoq-1WOOc-UEk402PVp8djQZcCqPvNZeNBZV4GwSD1Gr3GWNRW0MoVmwtdMp9b6HdWtu4D2OBw7pYwVYQOyMRxA40jpHutQ5srg3BGMJT-EqYt99w8_y1Zi/s1600/P1011876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="505" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFHUi7kdoSUehJS7D0kpCaaoq-1WOOc-UEk402PVp8djQZcCqPvNZeNBZV4GwSD1Gr3GWNRW0MoVmwtdMp9b6HdWtu4D2OBw7pYwVYQOyMRxA40jpHutQ5srg3BGMJT-EqYt99w8_y1Zi/s640/P1011876.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mardi Gras Indians on Washington Ave on St. Joseph's night in the Central City Neighborhood of New Orleans</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Five years ago when I was living in a cabin in Alaska with a tree growing on the rooftop, I would have been incredulous had you told me that I would end up buying and living in a house in a historically high-crime neighborhood in the middle of New Orleans. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And yet somehow here I am, walking my dog through a mixed income housing development where just two years before stood arguably the single most dangerous public housing project in the country, former stomping grounds to New Orleans gangster rappers Li'l Wayne and Juvenile. But my decision was not made brashly; only after having worked in the neighborhood for two years did I decide to make the single largest investment in my life in the Central City neighborhood. The cultural prevalence of second line parades, brass band culture and Mardi Gras Indians made the decision to buy a rehabbed historic house attractive to me, almost as much as the affordability factor. After working in low-income housing development for a non-profit which developed houses in an area about a quarter mile radius around my current house, upon signing my closing documents I already knew which blocks were family friendly, and which blocks were criminal, where the neighborhood organizers lived, as well as the dealers and the druglords. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And so it came as no surprise when I got a text from my friend and neighbor, while I was out drinking cocktails at the Columns Hotel in the posh Garden District neighborhood just half a mile away, enjoying a perfect evening listening to live music being played by the band I manage on the side. "Someone got shot on LaSalle, get ride home from one of the boys." Or another text a week later, "Were those gunshots?" I confirmed that they were when I rode my bike past an ambulance and a score of police cars. This event was proceeded by a stabbing two days prior.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">A day later I walk two blocks from my house to the historic and dilapidated graveyard on Washington Avenue. There are scores of mausoleums lined up over three or four city blocks, and it is picturesque as the sun sets behind them. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjg3KV5wR94koMfqFHfo6f9uGgLLH9OfzejsfBFW5EyjIXfWSmZJuqit-Wg-t-j9lupqJWGKI0m7AflFlqlZ7sPUQiLlcgZkKC8uHkD6R-ULFsWR1moXoWMj5stw8LGGEeMKpC6_U3kKVy/s1600/P1011888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjg3KV5wR94koMfqFHfo6f9uGgLLH9OfzejsfBFW5EyjIXfWSmZJuqit-Wg-t-j9lupqJWGKI0m7AflFlqlZ7sPUQiLlcgZkKC8uHkD6R-ULFsWR1moXoWMj5stw8LGGEeMKpC6_U3kKVy/s320/P1011888.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Graveyard on Washington Ave on St. Josephs Night</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">This night belongs to the Mardi Gras Indians, a secret society of African-American New Orleanians who spend tens of thousands of dollars and months of their year sewing elaborate costumes comprised of beads and feathers arranged to resemble the regalia of Native Americans. The tradition supposedly originated as a commemoration of the Native Americans who gave asylum to escaped slaves. Today it means much more. Tribe members are typically low-income people or once were, and generally claim stake in neighborhoods flanking public housing projects. And though many of the City's projects have been demolished and redeveloped, the tradition remains.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Tonight it is St. Joseph's night, a celebration in which scores of tribes of Mardi Gras Indians greet the sunset in full regalia, mock-fighting with one another. The selection of St. Joseph's Day is rumored to pre-date World War I, when Italian Americans celebrated this religious holiday throughout the city, enabling the contraband celebrations of the Indians to occur reasonably undetected. St. Joseph's marks the last episode of the Mardi Gras Indian season, the final battle, whereas the previous appearances (Mardi Gras Day and Super Sunday) are more community demonstration events. And unlike the first two events, there is hardly a caucasian spectator or telephoto lens to be found.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">It is my second time going to St. Joseph's but the first time I am able to walk from my house. I meet up with some friends and we wander the streets, just blocks away from the shooting that occurred a week before, or the stabbing days prior. Despite being a little behind with work at my day job, I discipline myself to go out; it is all I can do to remind myself why I decided to choose a home right in front of all of this violence which, from this proximity, has left my mind a little fogged. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">In the dark I can smell the half dozen barbecue vendors selling their wares, and can hear the rhythms emanating from Indian drums. I see a shock a feathers spinning almost uncontrollably, illuminated by a lone street light. I am surrounded almost exclusively by African-Americans. I have just enough alcohol in me for a little buzz, the best state in which I can absorb chaos immediately before me. It is a New Orleans that is just five miles from the tourist-laden French Quarter, and it is the New Orleans I know and love. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Central City has been described by more than one friend of mine as the Caribbean section of New Orleans -- replete with celebrations, music, Afro-influences, street food, brightly colored houses, and also poverty, working people, potholes and crime. It has remained fairly untouched by the forces of gentrification, a little pocket of three public housing projects flanked by workforce housing. Since the redevelopment of the housing projects the buildings have changed, but many attitudes of outsiders have not, and those who do not know and love Central City fear it like an impending plague. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Living here it is hard to understand certain things. Who gets murdered, and why, and why not me. And why my drug dealing neighbors down the street whose life decisions I loathe are kind to me, and pick up their dogs feces in front of my house. How there can be murder at the same time that there is kindness is a phenomenon all over the world that I never been able to understand. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Particularly when I've traveled, there have been times in my life where I have found myself in peculiar situations, not understanding precisely what led me there but knowing that it is the right place for me at the time. A little faith, and a whole lot of love for the intangible thing I'm in search of that I know is there. Being homebound in Central City is one such moment. I hope and pray that the violence goes away soon. And I know that the good things are real, and that these traditions will stay in these very blocks I walk my dog in, as they have for a hundred years now. It is strange but good to call Central City my home.</span><br />
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Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-90949487479379152012012-09-09T22:05:00.000-07:002012-09-13T20:31:13.660-07:00Stormy Weather<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">They say bad things occur in sets of three, and after hearing my story, even the least superstitious of you might agree. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At the beginning of this summer, I was on the brink of a major transition. For the first time in my life, I finally found a place so culturally rich, so entertaining, and so professionally stimulating that I decided to buy a house. It is not something I pictured happening at the ripe age of 35, single, and without children, but there I was, preparing to move out of my apartment in the elite dollhouse Riverbend neighborhood of New Orleans, into the distressed, predominantly African-American neighborhood of Central City. It was a move I took time to make after moving here--a year to be exact--and it has taken another year for the blighted house I identified as my future home to finally complete construction, under the direction of the non-profit housing developer for which I work. I was scheduled to close the first week in August. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I can say without exaggeration that after living in nine different cities in the past 17 years, it is the first real commitment I have made in a very long time. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This decision was not without tests, three of them to be exact, all of which occurred in the month of August. But now it is September and I can look back knowing that I have learned invaluable lessons about commitment, friendship, and this place called New Orleans.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A Collapsing House and a Demolition</span></span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A New Orleans summer is not without its challenges, and this past one was no exception. June and July brought monsoon-like showers that beat down on the city and its aged housing stock, many of which were left blighted and abandoned after Hurricane Katrina in 2005. One such house loomed eerily next to my targeted new home and I only signed a purchase agreement because I knew that the monstrosity was on the City's demolition list. It was rumored to be a once a historic home, characteristic of the Caribbean architecture imported here by freed slaves originating from the West Indies. But by June of 2012 it was a decrepit mess with a caved-in roof, serving as a squatting location for homeless junkies looking for a dark corner in which to shoot up. Its owners were wealthy residents living in one of the most elite neighborhoods of New Orleans, who claimed for years that they were saving to fix it up. Twenty thousand dollars later in back taxes the property made its way onto the City's obligatory demolition list, but not in time to keep it from collapsing under the pressure June rains, causing it to crawl closer and closer towards my would-be home just days away from completing construction. On July 27th, after a thunderstorm, it looked like this:</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It made its way on the fast-track to demolition. I was slated to close within days, and after an analysis of my Asian lunar calendar fortune, I was instructed by my mother to avoid, at all costs, closing or moving into the house on August 3rd, 4th, or 5th. Despite the convenience of asking friends to help with the move on Saturday August 5th, I heeded my mother's advice. The move was scheduled for August 6th, two days before I was scheduled to leave the state for a friend's wedding.</span></span><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On August 5th, the City conducted the demolition of the neighboring structure. I stopped by to find a pile of rubble, disturbingly close to my would-be home.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtHqoxHFLBBtunOFMTSfW7zsNXp7svx_fooLTIVuOTtKIewnV5iA97-ju_CyjwB3Tl1tc8r6RfvGZ5IjymT9icKKUfN0fHUTFCCH9E89qW2fSan4jPEI5zlCYcjxQodl6PnbfXJmEPaTDk/s1600/IMG_0336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtHqoxHFLBBtunOFMTSfW7zsNXp7svx_fooLTIVuOTtKIewnV5iA97-ju_CyjwB3Tl1tc8r6RfvGZ5IjymT9icKKUfN0fHUTFCCH9E89qW2fSan4jPEI5zlCYcjxQodl6PnbfXJmEPaTDk/s320/IMG_0336.JPG" width="320" /></span></span></a></div>
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And on further inspection, I saw my the bedroom of my little house was not spared.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl604tQ8TbRsqPNjtzquQZkD-_3IrvQKNANyTJ-atkFCTUwNjm3Rhhyphenhyphent3sGdJhnzkJPC9mZgV4Vdi1p4ucpY3EJa78B50tqKhQ-WHIgQDCExnFdzOqW_7AWi3yLzAnx4sg39x_Hh2rcxAG/s1600/IMG_0334.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl604tQ8TbRsqPNjtzquQZkD-_3IrvQKNANyTJ-atkFCTUwNjm3Rhhyphenhyphent3sGdJhnzkJPC9mZgV4Vdi1p4ucpY3EJa78B50tqKhQ-WHIgQDCExnFdzOqW_7AWi3yLzAnx4sg39x_Hh2rcxAG/s640/IMG_0334.jpg" width="478" /></span></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Repair work started two days later by the general contractor who had been hired by my work. I stayed in town to make sure all was in order with the repairs to begin and missed the wedding of my long-time friend in California but still had time left in my planned vacation. In my absence my pets stayed in my apartment with a friend who agreed to house-sit. I hoped to get away from the commotion for at least a little bit and relax in California for two weeks with my nieces and nephews.</span></span><br />
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</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A Fire</span></span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I was not in California for more than four days when I learned that the apartment building where my stuff remained, with my pets and my house sitter, caught on fire. The handyman and plumber, fond of my dog Milo, came into my apartment even before the firefighters arrived. They called me while I was in California to tell me that they saved my dog. </span></span><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But they forgot about my cats. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After a flurry of phone calls, the cats were eventually saved by firefighters on a second trip into my apartment, this time escorted by the housesitter. The fire made the evening news. </span></span><a href="http://photos.nola.com/tpphotos/2012/08/nofd_saved_pets_from_burning_a_1.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">http://photos.nola.com/tpphotos/2012/08/nofd_saved_pets_from_burning_a_1.html</span></span></a><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Though the fire-starting culprit lived in the apartment above mine across the hall, the entire building filled with smoke, and after all was said and done, the entire structure resembled a war zone.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My apartment was covered in soot, some of it drenched in stale water from the fire hoses.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I came back the next day, and after sending a few texts, several friends offered housing, petsitting, help in packing and moving. My boss offered a place in her own home for me, and also offered that I move into the new house before the closing date; the general contractor sped up repairs, working his crew overtime on the weekend. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My friends moved me into the home which was not yet mine, pets and all.</span></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A Hurricane</span></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And, after two weeks of putting the finishing touches on the house that would be my home, with closing prolonged by my lender for a few more days, Hurricane Isaac decided to pay New Orleans a visit. With my pets just barely starting to eat and poop normally again, I was in no mood to relocate them. So-called expert predictions on Isaac's scope varied from a category 1 to a category 3 back down to a mere tropical storm. Mayor Landrieu declared a state of emergency but did not require evacuation. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A self-selected group of friends with strong stomachs decided to stay in town, and Hurricane pods were formed as designated by neighborhood and friendship proximity. The decision amongst five of us was to hunker down at my house, located geographically on the incline of the flood plain, which did not see too much water during Hurricane Katrina. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Three of us were Hurricane newbies, unused to the howling sounds of winds, rain, thunder, of crackling houses busting up, of transformers throughout the neighborhood blowing once every few hours. While I distracted myself with the tasks of hosting, others would crack jokes, suggest games to play, or help prepare the next meal. We had all cooked up our perishables for that night, in contemplation of power outages and failing refrigerators. We ate like kings, and frequently so, in order to pass the time. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"It's not the Hurricane that sucks so much, it's the boredom without electricity," said Ryan, a veteran of Hurricane Gustav. I spent my energy prioritizing items to be cooked next, and frozen yogurt to be made, based on a hierarchy of perishables. I focused on cleaning and making sure my guests were comfortable. I focused on hosting my first dinner party which happened to be in honor of a hurricane. I focused on whatever I could to distract me from wondering if this newly rehabbed 100-year old house would keep us all safe and dry.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It did. While others had rows of downed trees, missing siding, yards of shingles stripped from their roofs, collapsed fences, I counted on one hand the number of missing shingles. Massive oak trees and medium sized banana trees took out fences, windows, and power lines. We were lucky, I was lucky. And for the second time in two days, I burned incense in gratitude to and in memory of my grandmother as tears quietly trickled down my cheeks. The worst part was over. Well, almost.</span></span></div>
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">For two more days, we hurricane buddies gave eachother space but also stuck together, some of us going to work, others whiling the daytime hours with busy work in our houses, all of us staring down the dark, hot, muggy night, in the blackness of a place that once was and still is a swamp. With no air-conditioning, no fans in our own homes and neighborhoods, we all gravitated to the French Quarter, the one neighborhood in town with electricity, spared from the blackout by the sole subterranean power grid in the city kept perfectly in tact. We ate and drank like newly released prisoners, though we had been eating and drinking for the past two days just to stay sane. </span></span><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The company helped us all get through the hot, sticky nights, as did the battery-powered karaoke machine, and our determination not only to stick it out, but help one another do the same. And maybe the alcohol helped too. The heat was a relentless, unforgivingly moist heat. My heart wished in vain that Isaac had enough mercy to at least leave a little breeze. </span></span><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By day four of no electricity, my determination waned and I second-guessed my decision to stay. I did not contemplate that riding out the storm also meant enduring the merciless dank heat without power, and I accumulated less than 10 hours of sleep over the span of four days. I took brief naps at houses that had their power restored earlier than mine, and for one night I even camped on a friend's couch with my dog while her cats took refuge in her bedroom. </span></span><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In the daytime, I rode around the city, taking in a scenery of downed oak trees tangled in electrical wires in the wealthiest neighborhoods. I saw tanks parked in front of French cafes, and the National Guard scurrying about in various spots. </span></span><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I saw electrical lines drooping from tilted poles, and portions of fences completely missing, wind-borne elsewhere.</span></span><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The storm hit on Tuesday and not until Saturday evening was I able to enjoy the privilege of hearing the whirr of the motor on my central air-conditioning kick back on, of feeling the breeze from my ceiling fans, or of enjoying the sound of music from my computer. Some of my hurricane friends had left town as planned for the long Labour Day weekend, others had their flights cancelled, and those of us remaining in town continued to check in on one another, for safety and for moral support, to stay sane after a hurricane which was more of a mind-bender than a natural disaster.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At some point my co-worker Charles called, a life-long New Orleanian who lost everything in his Lower Ninth Ward home in Hurricane Katrina, and said, "You're not a virgin anymore, baby girl! Congratulations! Wooo hooo!" Isaac to him was a blink of the eye, his family safe and sound, well-fed by his hurricane-ready barbecue grill. Charles and his family weathered Isaac and its merciless heat like professionals.</span></span><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In the process writing this blog entry, part of me is surprised that I didn't pack my pets and bags and hit the road for good. My first real attempt at commitment seem to be jinxed, and a different me in a different city might not have stuck through it, overwhelmed by negativity. But instead, thoughts of this past August and all its disasters give me comfort. I think of my new neighbors who stood by my side when a chunk of the house in between us flew through my would-be bedroom during a demolition; the new romance sparked between two close friends--never having met one another before--who came to my rescue to move my remaining possessions out of a charred apartment building; the hurricane-inspired slumber party-bender and the company of friends working hard to distract one another from the stress of impending natural disaster; my own brief hurricane romance involving a third generation barber whose swimming pool I enjoyed in my third day without electricity; and most certainly, the beautiful house in which I now sit, hurried to construction completion by general contractors who felt empathy for me and my odd housing luck--a house which kept me, my pets, and my friends safe and dry in a nasty little storm. </span></span><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">New Orleans is a test of loyalty with its hurricanes, heat, and dysfunctional infrastructure, all of which work against those of us who live here, even in post-disaster times. But the past month, with all its misfortune, served to galvanize existing friendships and spark new ones. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The way I see it now, bad things happen everywhere, so if they are going to, there's no place I'd rather be than here, and I am proud to call New Orleans home. </span><br />
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Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-2151569755605085382012-03-20T09:50:00.003-07:002012-03-20T20:00:48.400-07:00California Dreaming<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAwLcV2dTvJjcL8Lji4DW16OV_99qgowr1t85HBoaNXbK3Dmb6D_-V66iSLZiWKkmAt60IAc9AgkCfDJbLTZLtkesLztDIxXnLVRPr3znmKiUQv_sUuTkx1bJSkVL_PCaHf3mAxReSF8bO/s1600/IMAG0386.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAwLcV2dTvJjcL8Lji4DW16OV_99qgowr1t85HBoaNXbK3Dmb6D_-V66iSLZiWKkmAt60IAc9AgkCfDJbLTZLtkesLztDIxXnLVRPr3znmKiUQv_sUuTkx1bJSkVL_PCaHf3mAxReSF8bO/s400/IMAG0386.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719136176299161474" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was raised in Orange County, California. In the 1980's, it was still a place where a child could run through acres of orange groves, throw rocks into large quarries from the edge of a neighbor's backyard, and at night, hear the not-so-distant howl of coyotes in the brush-covered hills. In the 1980's I was young and so was Orange County--sparsely dotted hills with large houses comprising neighborhoods where children in a mile radius played with one another.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Beyond those couple blocks were miles and miles to be driven. And by the time I reached my teenage years, normal destinations such as school, movie theaters, and malls, required transport by car, in my case, an old hand-me-down that my conservative immigrant parents did not allow me to drive until I was 18 years old. Though less than 50 miles northbound, Los Angeles seemed a world away, and even on occasional big-girl visits to the city with friends for punk rock shows or shopping trips, the massive expanse seemed so unapproachable, so wealthy, and so lonely. And, by the time I left the area to go to college a universe away, less than 400 miles northward to Berkeley, the orange groves and brushy hills I grew up with were dotted with thousands of over-priced tract homes in various shades of pale earth tones, surrounded by secured gates. The skies of all of Southern California were cursed with low-hanging clouds of brown brought on by industrial productivity and wealth-induced car culture. Southern California was chock full of either wealthy families, or middle class folk aspiring to break the seal, exchanging good credit records for shiny cars and overpriced clothes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And, though I was fortunate enough to be from a family of two professionals with at least one luxury car in the garage, by 18 I had already smelled something afoul in Orange County-land. Maybe it was the sinister rash of sex scandals throughout the areas' private Catholic high schools involving teachers and students. Maybe it was being called a "bleeding heart liberal" at the age of 17 in a classroom social studies group exercise. Or maybe it was the loneliness brought on by miles and miles of separation from one part of the city to the next. By the time I left, Southern California just seemed like a massive sprawl of land filled with small-minded people aspiring only for personal wealth. Big, dumb, shallow. And Los Angeles seemed just as much a part of that sprawl and isolation as Orange County.</span></div><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But Southern California was not always a place of stranded people. As early as 1872 the City of Los Angeles began exploring a municipal transit system involving horse drawn cars. Not too much later, while in the process of connecting all of California to itself and the rest of the country by train, members of the railway baron Huntington family explored the development of a municipal light rail system within Los Angeles. It eventually comprised of 316 miles of lines within the city, and 1164 miles throughout Central and Southern California. This newfound transportation became integral in the development of various communities throughout the southland, and at 1500 miles total at its peak, was the most extensive network in the country. By 1924 the system served 109 million passengers annually, and maintained in excess of 54 million even after the development of the automobile. Then beginning in 1940, the system was systematically bought out and dismantled by General Motors, Firestone Tires, and Standard Oil in a concerted effort to decimate the competition to the personal automobile. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(The three companies were later held liable in Federal Court for doing so in L.A. and numerous other cities; but the systems remained inoperative.) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">By the 1950's, the stage in Southern California was set for an era of cars and car culture. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This had not changed much when I left in the 1990's. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I wandered through many places after I left the Southland, eventually ending up even further south in New Orleans. In the Big Easy I found a lifestyle I have come to adore, characterized by strong cultural tradition, a living culture of live local music, neighborhoods filled with people proud to be neighbors, and a joie de vivre unlike any in the country. I also found an intriguing and fulfilling new profession in urban development, filled with both bountiful federal funds and new developments, but also entrenched systems of local government characterized by caste-like nepotism and backwards mentalities, with what often seems to be lip service to forward-thinking development and no real commitment on the financial level. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I was happy to accept the opportunity to travel back to Southern California recently for an urban development training conference, to see how others do it--to get a little break from the sometimes stuffy swamp life. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Though I have spent a handful of weeks each year returning to California for family visits, my exposure to the changes of the time were limited as I quarantined myself to the houses of my parents and sisters; I've had no interest in the place I grew up and committed what little time I spent there with my half-dozen nieces and nephews since I left in the mid-1990's. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I had not guessed what I would see. The conference was held in Downtown L.A., a formerly under-developed area which, when I was growing up, at night would tranform into a breeding ground for scores of homeless who slept in doorways of office buildings shut down for the evening. Since then, oversized buildings of defunct banks have been converted into sleek architecture offices, and the former Superior Oil Company high-rise is a major glam stop in its boutique hotel-bar formation. At night, the homeless have for the most part gone elsewhere, and the streets are now flanked with skinny rich girls with fluffy dogs going for a brief walk just outside their high-priced loft apartments.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQGZ-nFaP2T9pfKF8sFLCMnBXApqSouGz8qXXEH0hlxPAnDYMNiI64_2GJjc5SB8Q892vvAw0Y1ocyZqzF3Dyqu6lL7080F-Lj6eIGMfnFvdvFmpvy9NAqz78DXxm__9eUK7jqUue2WhR/s1600/IMAG0387.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But the changes haven't all been for the just the rich. In the '90's, not too long before I left the area, L.A. County and municipal governments began reinvesting into its once awesome transportation system. Line by line the system was expanded and today five different metro lines cover over 70 stops throughout the county, serving a ridership of approximately 35o,000 per weekday. From Rodeo Drive, to Crenshaw, from Long Beach to Chinatown, a limitless, all day pass costs $5.00. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Since my Southern California exodus, the trend of re-thinking urban development transferred to housing policy as well. Individual cities throughout L.A. County began designating certain areas as "inclusionary zones," regions where developers are forced by local government to dedicate between 10-30% of their development to benefit low- and medium-income households. Scores of mixed-income developments sprouted about the newly reinvigorated transportation system, resulting in pods of transportation-oriented multi-family developments for mixed income households. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On our various training field trips during the conference, my New Orleanian co-workers and I wander the streets of Pasadena, looking at the inclusionary development flanking the the metro station which has been rehabbed to its charmingly historic facade.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQGZ-nFaP2T9pfKF8sFLCMnBXApqSouGz8qXXEH0hlxPAnDYMNiI64_2GJjc5SB8Q892vvAw0Y1ocyZqzF3Dyqu6lL7080F-Lj6eIGMfnFvdvFmpvy9NAqz78DXxm__9eUK7jqUue2WhR/s1600/IMAG0387.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQGZ-nFaP2T9pfKF8sFLCMnBXApqSouGz8qXXEH0hlxPAnDYMNiI64_2GJjc5SB8Q892vvAw0Y1ocyZqzF3Dyqu6lL7080F-Lj6eIGMfnFvdvFmpvy9NAqz78DXxm__9eUK7jqUue2WhR/s400/IMAG0387.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719134247235661314" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 202px; height: 400px; " /></a></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We ride the metro through Downtown L.A., Chinatown, Pasadena, through the hills of California. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHgTVUl44VtrCUjIuvyKlcDUUxWQInIEJvB8_aNi_Qnpo5ndpwoI_XELmt8oubP8Yy3g8VFsvHNlIlKtjNm-3AsTKtP9krhLq7kmnaVso38k09rCjzQain-MZSP9x3bbwA2TgtiSzoa6s/s400/IMAG0400.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719134525707736530" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We walk through the recently-rehabilitated Union Station in all its historic glory, its tall ceilings and tiled floors, the former virtual gift from the City to the Southern Pacific, Union Pacific, and Santa Fe Railways, three robber baron railway companies that once held a stronghold on state industry and development. We walk around Downtown, around the gobbly-shaped, Gehry-designed Disney Music Hall. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilIgaQmzrt6mOZEHH_s8M9MrUB3xB3pvP2tC8ogKhy5LFUlBJv-idBftfwxWn38dmyliWYZYnZG-PYck-PWp7qF0cd-16eVL3742UAb2bRFYxP9AKIAygVXM5jhvawtn6V2oY_fEwo8YcN/s400/IMAG0395.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719134621580335746" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We see mixed-income housing that blows out of the water New Orleanian efforts to do the same. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDo3ox8McKNZYyJBgmEj7XtOANhluoSsG7uf4gXjSbJFZd_qEPMXB1pPM-U06kOMlw6fRFp_CWjG5BHNr2Ts0qG9hETMMe2f4-UVikuHUNxHkCF2hEIWdIPxVTj-nU4V6PLLGNA4lCxDn/s400/IMAG0385.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719134404355745138" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Throughout the week I am finding it ironic that it is here in the very placed I was raised--and eagerly fled from--do I find the cutting edge work being done in the field to which I have just recently devoted all my professional efforts. Even now, in a period of draconian budget cuts, L.A. outpaces New Orleans in urban development more than ten-fold.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The California trip has left me feeling a little bit like the protagonist in Paulo Coelho's </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Alchemist</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, who travels the world in search of an unknown treasure only to find it buried not so far from the village in which he grew up. I wonder if I would have ever left had I seen California for the potential it has rendered into a place I never could have even dreamed of during my upbringing in Orange County. I am confused; in a way I am liking L.A., and at the same time, its cutting-edge glamour, its largeness, its vastness, has made me feel strange; I feel a little left behind, a little amazed, and a little lonely.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At the end of the week I return home to New Orleans. I ride my bike to one of my favorite burger shops to meet up with friends, then later to a bar with my favorite local jazz band playing their standing gig. I am happy to be home to be comforted with the liveliness of the New Orleans neighborhoods, away from the confusion and loneliness of big old California. I get ready to return to work, for the frustrating tasks at hand involving dealing and working with various local government entities per norm. There are times when the oldness that makes this city so great can also frustrate me. It is a place that is entrenched in its own history, its own nepotism, its own tradition, even at the cost of its own development. But I love it. Geographically it is in fact a little big city, and already I know it fairly well. It is a sweet little place with both dark corners and big, happy celebrations, lovable despite its backwardness. But it is, in many ways against its own good, backwards.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And then I remember that it is possible for a place to change its most unlikable traits. California of today reminds me that those dreams can come true.</span></span></span></div><div> </div></div></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-30175297631686311652012-03-14T00:00:00.001-07:002012-03-14T14:55:48.934-07:00The Miracle of Mardi Gras<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Gr7Gfiy7xKJsYu8HB1k7IVfPtYw3kVY-hIIoOCCXm9lW6cb14Z00plaTzBakZrIrbPcmP70RxeT9Y45puRpsmkLrVr1GqX0g6qIT7llPutOpywt9OoXY1U3GJACM9JJgqa0CD_YORNom/s1600/P1011994.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTti-gAfOc3yu7U3DS3bfnrgPMdcHhHoAmPn5279jo2bZ2KNiyGfkIPMPx2_Uq6qakIVzi0l6JnCg9hiDvD-XuWmc5KP403VeGXErALsbhlXs-Z4LqqPIhmseOLpvGmhhVO7DPKR5T4_8U/s1600/P1012003.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTti-gAfOc3yu7U3DS3bfnrgPMdcHhHoAmPn5279jo2bZ2KNiyGfkIPMPx2_Uq6qakIVzi0l6JnCg9hiDvD-XuWmc5KP403VeGXErALsbhlXs-Z4LqqPIhmseOLpvGmhhVO7DPKR5T4_8U/s400/P1012003.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719599392671783666" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">It was reasonable of me to assume that my second Mardi Gras was not going to live up to the first. A holiday lasting a course of about two weeks in New Orleans, it is a celebration comprised of scores of daily parades with stunning floats which have been constructed over the course of the year, from which elite krewe members throw shiny junk at the parade-watchers. It is a time when friends and strangers on city streets share gallons of alcohol and piles of fatty foods. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><a href="http://smalltimeexplorer.blogspot.com/2011/03/mardi-gras.html">My first New Orleans Mardi Gras</a> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">was magical and amazing and I will never forget it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">So how, afterall, can you outdo one's first exposure to scores of oversized floats, hoards of people at their happiest, glitter, romance--in other words, true razzmatazz worthy of a Broadway musical? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNeOHk5WDD4Z-WpAKKJUwW6oxMnhbHfTygJG5dt7_9kYApLRpQlFkK3VsESihpZb_qN12eDHDPnDvcil3cQIqpZ8UBnBLP_TE-tHHaRUSUvSRtU1_hOG8574uQDm75USRbAGsMX6ZgWoi/s400/P3071847.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719609119829208658" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 293px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">How can one outdo the first sighting of a rainbow, or one's first kiss in a field of flowers? Cannot be done. Nope.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Together with beginning of the year work-related stress, and two failed romantic interludes in the previous months, my 2012 Mardi Gras was not looking so good. This year I was, at first, what you could refer to as a Mardi Gras Grinch. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:large;">And at almost two years of residency, my honeymoon with this town is over, and as of late I have been introduced to its unlikeable sides.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Take for instance my parade watching in front of a friend's boyfriend's family home, a mansion smack dab in the wealthiest section of St. Charles Avenue. I didn't appreciate the comment I heard from my acquaintance's white neighbor when one of the most elite marching bands of an all-black high school passes by: "Pretty good band, eh? Our welfare dollars at work." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Nor did I enjoy running into some parade-watching acquaintances, wasted beyond oblivion at 1 in the afternoon, still drinking in public New Orleans style. That's when one of them gives me a stunningly inappropriate, somewhat violative, "hug".</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I could have done without any of it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">It is, afterall, a bit of a strange holiday, Catholic to hilt: get ready for 40 days of good behavior before celebrating the rising of Christ from the dead, by indulging of 14 days of very, very, very bad behavior. Does any other religion do this? I am not aware of Muslims running around in glitter costumes and drinking like demons before Ramadan. Mardi Gras is a little weird.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">But then, then it happened. Like all good romances, the magic hits you in the face when you just about done give up on the thing. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">It started on a Wednesday after work, when I accidentally came upon the newest parade of second only female troop, the Krewe of Nyx. I forgot about Mardi Gras until I stepped out of the bar after happy hour, to come upon the rain and the Nyx girls standing on their floats passing out magical junk: silk and lace eye masks, purses wrapped in satin and feathers, pink beer koozies. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Of course the other parades later in the week were larger than life as usual, bright lights and all; but for me the magic really started when I decided that I needed something completely--unexotic. Dear reader, the great thing about Mardi Gras is that this town shuts down. Gone fishing, back after lunch--offices all over the city shut down and it's time to just, just catch up with your people, and maybe just watch a parade or two. Nothing so crazy, but really, quite possibly, exotic in this country where the Protestant work ethic rules.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">After attending enough parades to collect enough beads to line a balcony (contrary to popular belief, breast-flashing is in no way a part of that process for people who actually live here), after five days already of spectacular parades with amazing floats, we are all jaded, and I really, really just want to have friends over for brunch. With some bloody Mary's. On a Monday.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtaj42qOfOEzowjXzjRx6qLQL8gXpHrf9BcSNdVPYb1qmSld8x5gT3revvizMhyexrzapQxGj87wUByTiBU83psmrzXST9qw6zo2nK3ziFZzea4cNHrXCHk5pi4N84b72a_OD6wAVfYMau/s400/P1011867.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719598675374047954" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 253px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">And I was really, really relieved when a work acquaintance, a visiting consultant from Washington D.C., and virgin Mardi Gras-goer, after attending 7 parades himself, suggested that all of us, just, just, go to Audubon park with my dog.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH4n-eCcjtcSKaFfZXf9tqdOs8vBu8F_OxdesI4ehT8b1ogGP7GvFZIPD2J_stpzc4JEJDxxDCvVjk8cHhC9V7FEb_SZO2eLYh7IoXxCrcKY_O48rxTEVM_Xdn8e-8owQcnE0FEhFeqs1m/s400/at+the+park.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719597913355676562" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 216px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Whereas my first Mardi Gras last year was an amazing, glittery, bender involving a music video-worthy romance, this year's Mardi Gras was as exotic as playing with the dog, lounging around with old friends for a couple days, and making new friends, interspersed with just a few of the oversized float parades, eating, drinking, then repeat...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Five days of this was just enough rest for the most amazing parade of all on Mardi Gras Day: the small-time St. Ann's parade through the Marigny neighborhood, where these old little streets host a procession of un-motorized floats, and truly amazing, creative, sexy, strange, and glittery costumes made by and for locals. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhTrFpQ7961ln1ixmvyKmgS70rPVCio5jcXGz2S8ua6_hH0TkL5GwCXeYSkPaDN0dr6uj-R5Cxk4NURErazGU3ggwZ_gklcTe6766IatRAws2TtopmQ_H0EVRQCeb66-cL0E53q54UShp/s400/P1011954.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719597788739399218" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 250px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Did I mention the glitter?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjurPmmaJV_AbtmPq6VbRSgd6xWbHDwIO6arzZX9HsDUZOKs4DnlgkYxohCOI8ufgYaP1cZpHWQvF8ztzM0lVN0iab5bETgVJhoOCvkMHHmqPPXg6MrGw0zROSlxV5caKZB4PsrZfPYwoKI/s400/P1011994.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719597633639236386" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 315px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The one pattern I noticed in Mardi Gras of both years, aside from the glitter of course, was the time, and the ability, that Mardi Gras gives me as a recent New Orleanian to galvanize recent acquaintances into friends, and to remind me how lucky I am to have met those friends here I have already made. In the end, perhaps this phenomemon is in fact the true miracle of Mardi Gras.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2germDWUElF-1YsaiCeJscO6PwkvWoEdET4yrY4LnR697HTZfvV-7R23MO0nWsMimVNxDFTAvkkSuBdrWlCyYDYUf2Tbl9GO1xrEZdaUNvztKsRvklLoa1k8qUomQ1kizgjT8PPrwthL/s400/P1011971.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719598500441755570" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 255px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Who knew it took costumes, a little booze and a lot of fatty foods to induce this magic?</span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ95DwGhV0HyKLU5oqVh6Yx6utowcoMN-avs-deM-_tojnqMOryDsqUSdcQI7w7oAG0iFO0nBC4nyeu-DKDuCq4GUYuTvD0uyniYondC_riVL-N98uVY-6c9W4sl-hj_3RwQM5WDjEowKa/s400/P1011910.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719601646609293698" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 277px; " /></span></span></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-5140990063125632012012-01-16T13:29:00.000-08:002012-01-19T23:33:06.155-08:00Indian Giving<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2CAflwh0e6PLePblD4T14RtJFJq72PvlI_D1HQTvdJMi9Lew4ajN9B4MsAzOom_9tvtE5frDFTil7220W1Z1wYlhAuYO7mI2a17rW0zisOoIHocuVakw2Pz4LNUC7KMnGEphW9JB0s20D/s1600/P1011851.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 344px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2CAflwh0e6PLePblD4T14RtJFJq72PvlI_D1HQTvdJMi9Lew4ajN9B4MsAzOom_9tvtE5frDFTil7220W1Z1wYlhAuYO7mI2a17rW0zisOoIHocuVakw2Pz4LNUC7KMnGEphW9JB0s20D/s400/P1011851.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699594121421783474" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It is late afternoon on a Sunday when I meet up with a coworker for a drink. It has been a bad weekend for me, having just fought with a friend a few days ago and then falling ill soon after. Will, the coworker in question is something of a younger brother I've always wanted whose sunny disposition always cheers me up, so I am eager to meet up with him as a respite from my foul mood.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The bar he selects is located deep in the heart of the predominantly black neighborhood we work in. It is on a major artery through a crime-ridden section of New Orleans. Will is a young, white transplant </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;">with a heart of gold who </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;">recently graduated from an ivy league school. Will is a true small time explorer, always good for pushing his boundaries and exploring the unknown.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So unknown, in fact, that one could pass right by this spot without an inkling of its existence, as I must have done so already at least dozens of times. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This watering hole resembles a defunct corner store more than an operational bar. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;">Barely a few hundred square feet, its windowless facade is obscured by a large </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;">for sale</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;"> sign. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;">It is across the street from a sprawling public housing project and the only other commercial competition on the block is a coroner's office.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> "I haven't gone here before and thought we could check it out. Daniel from the neighborhood says it's a good spot," says Will nonchalantly. I reluctantly agree.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Other than the bartender, the only occupants are three heavy-set middle-aged women perched on barstools listening to Aretha Franklin on the jukebox at about 1000 decibels. We grab a couple beers and sit outside on the street divider greenbelt, which in New Orleans, frequently serves as a place of convening for parades, street festivals, chess games, or any reason at all. Though drinking in public is legal, glass bottles outside a bar is not. But in this part of town, I am not worried that the police will cite my young white companion and me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Will and I chat about his academic plans, his personal life, work, our respective personal futures, all the things I would talk about with a younger brother. The sun is setting and I savor the moment, recognizing that one day Will will return to the East Coast to continue his studies so that he can become something great. Though I am appreciative of his potential, my sad mood has turned just a bit sadder.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As night comes and the temperature drops, we return to the bar and chat with the proprietor and barkeep. I am famished and he is eager for me to try his yakamein, a favorite in soul Chinese food, a cuisine that I have only encountered in New Orleans. He is in his sixties, a retired school teacher, naval veteran, and husband of a nurse. He states with pride that his recipe is influenced by his travels to Japan, Korea, and the Philippines. I slurp it up in seconds and can tell by his expression that he is pleased; what better approval than from an Asian...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The barkeep then casually mentions that the bar will be busy in an hours' time, when the Mardi Gras Indians come in for their practice. I find this hard to believe as the bar is dead empty at this point save for Will and me. I am also skeptical that such information would be disclosed to a couple of strays wandering through his bar--it hardly seems likely that my Asian appreciation of his yakamein is suffice to witness a performance as secretive as Mardi Gras Indian practice.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">***</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Mardi Gras Indian tradition of New Orleans dates back at least a century. L</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">egend has it that the ritual commemorates the relationship between Native Americans who gave asylum to African slaves fleeing their owners. In honor of that phenomenon, a group of African-American men created a tradition of masquerading as Mardi Gras Indians, spending tens of thousands of dollars and years constructing hand-made tribal regalia, complete with ornate beadwork and ostentatious feathers of every color imaginable. The costumes weigh hundreds of pounds and while wearing them the Indians engage in a theatrical play-act involving choreographed skipping and dancing, all to the rhythm of chanting, drum beats, and tambourines. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Traditional Mardi Gras Indians are black men and membership is extremely exclusive. And, d</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">espite the extensive labor required to construct the costume and rehearse the dance rituals, Indians publicly perform on just a handful of occasions a year, one of which is Mardi Gras day. Although rogue members will occasionally pose for tourists in the French Quarter in exchange for tips, by all accounts, true Mardi Gras Indians are for the most part extremely secretive.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">***</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I am awestruck when instantly at 7pm, the bar is flooded with scores of men, tambourines and drums in hand. They have left their costumes at home and instead are wearing local civilian clothes--large leather jackets, baggy pants, ball caps, some with do-rags. Mostly men, ages range from 7 to 75. Will and I are introduced to a man I recognize as a Mardi Gras Indian living legend, who has collaborated on albums with the likes of Dr. John, Tab Benoit, and one of the Neville brothers. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Stunned that Will and I have not been herded out of the bar, I am sipping my second Long Island ice tea when it begins. The congregation assembles into an elongated oval on the pink and grey checkered linoleum floors. Drumbeats sound out from the corner of the room and the entire space booms with singing and chanting in unison, unrecognizable words in a call and response pattern, that gradually crescendo into a wave of not quite music, not quite chanting, but something strange and amazing. A dance begins with two Indians at a time, skipping and hopping on one foot in a rocking motion back and forth towards eachother. Space is traded and hoots and hollers exchanged. But for the dancing, the tableau could easily pass as a snapshot from a bar scene in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Boyz in the Hood</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">New Jack City</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, or some other American inner city epic. But the audio resembles something from a National Geographic episode on Native American traditions, with a rhythm and blues score playing underneath it all. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Will eventually leaves, but like a fly on the wall I sit through the entire two hour practice, perched on my barstool, completely unbothered, mesmerized by the ritual taking place before me. I am one of four obvious outsiders in the place which is now filled to the brim, and one of four non-blacks in the room. I dare not activate the camera or recorder on my phone, being held captive by this phenomenon that few outsiders have ever witnessed, and it is this captivity that finally releases me from the heartache and disappointment of the weekend.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">***</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In my short time living in this town I have learned that behind the charm and splendor of the French Quarter and Mardi Gras kitsch of New Orleans, there are many dark corners, some frighteningly criminal, and some just plain beautiful in an unfathomable way. In my life I have always enjoyed traveling, finding it to be a relief from the strain of normal life; there's nothing like learning about a strange new place to remind me how wonderful it is to be alive. What is nice for me in New Orleans is that I need only to stray as far as a corner bar in an unpopular neighborhood to see something strange and wonderful and totally beyond my imagination. It is because of this--moreso than because of the historically preserved buildings or the scores of restaurants--that I am convinced that New Orleans is one of the most amazing places on this earth.</span></div></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-56796768686648054332011-12-01T10:54:00.000-08:002011-12-12T20:02:37.891-08:00Friday is a Good Night for a Fight<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUphXD3wOiCtTnIVhl-PMiij6FoPS8T3AHYToPhBxw0fiXAb3bKIaoOQN7kkQCzEPobE08XOoTVC4qCxQYSlzd9NYaj13UKEpe-9F6ua_fjNLO0ajEVziFoDLZ-wrYYydFrTV1YQ4iyUI/s1600/IMAG0250.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2qsSKoYTx6Zy_pe7c6skHFIn_fRf9wrvOkCr0HUTXP_-mvosSB8_0kZwbhv1VXwes6ZPEN2ZYKRjepPWbJTh_w1brKJ33dTSsFJm3hf-OBrC1hQUGwdFYLa37OxkgYylhoPVljyBonnHh/s1600/IMAG0268.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2qsSKoYTx6Zy_pe7c6skHFIn_fRf9wrvOkCr0HUTXP_-mvosSB8_0kZwbhv1VXwes6ZPEN2ZYKRjepPWbJTh_w1brKJ33dTSsFJm3hf-OBrC1hQUGwdFYLa37OxkgYylhoPVljyBonnHh/s320/IMAG0268.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677339578073881938" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>A great hush fell over the huge assembly. Even the dogs stopped yapping; one might have thought that the monstrous room was empty. The two men had stood up, the small white gloves over their hands. They advanced from their corners and shook hands...Then they fell into position. The crowd gave a long sigh--the intake of a thousand excited breaths</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">."</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">--Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Croxley Master"</span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Tonight, I ride my bike through the streets of New Orleans, through the recovering neighborhood of Broadmoor, down a pot-holed filled Freret Street, which is strangely just blocks away from the beautiful and stately St. Charles Avenue. On Freret I pass abandoned buildings and vacant storefronts alternating between new cafes and restaurants, some with barely a layer of paint slap-dashed over a recently unused facade. On my right I pass Freret Boxing Gym with its concrete floors and water-stained walls. It is catty-corner to my destination, a parking lot cordoned off with cheap blue tarps. Within the tarps are throngs of people hunched around an elevated boxing ring, food and beer vendors operating out of carts, and a crudely loud p.a. system blasting fuzzy-sounding rap music. It is a brisk 50 degree evening for New Orleans, "cold" by local standards. It is Friday night and everyone is ready for a fight.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I pay my $15 and enter the portal to New Orleans amateur boxing. Hosted once a month by Freret Boxing Gym, typically on the first Friday, it has become a local favorite for would-be and has-been boxers alike, in addition to hipsters, yuppies, professor types of various ages, and all others with a morbid curiosity in the art of pugilism. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">With its termite infested interiors, leaking ceiling, quasi-toxic restroom, and primitive changing room, the Freret Boxing Gym looks like a set from a boxing movie from the seventies (and has in fact served as the backdrop to movies and TV shows). Of the dozen or so boxing gyms in the city, Freret is one of the few reflecting a diversity of race and socio-economic background. It is also where I have been training for the past year.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Fight Night is a BYOB alcohol situation, and upon entering the chain link fenced-off parking lot I take a few sips from my bottle of Crown Royal Canadian whiskey to keep warm. I shout a hello to Mike from New York, the gym's owner, a friendly and surly man in his early 40's. I check in with a few of the trainers, all of whom are busy with preparations working the corner of one of the evening's fighters, and all of whom find it virtually impossible to keep training appointments. In the past year of training at Freret, I have learned a decent left jab and right straight punch; I've also learned that the sport does not attract the most reliable of men for trainers. But, despite my inability to secure a consistent trainer, I am drawn back to that nasty little place to jump rope, punch bags, and dodge make-believe punches on my lonesome, like most of the men there. I am drawn back by that same unspeakable something that brings me to watch tonights bouts on this very night.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have come alone to the fights. The dozen or so friends I lobbied heavily to join me instead opted to attend a theatre festival. I spit on the ground in disgust at the mere thought of it. Just as well. With my hood on my head, wolfing down a hotdog and guzzling some more whiskey, I recognize that my draw to boxing is perhaps a manifestation of one of my more unsightly qualities.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Having seen the fighters sparring and training for this day all week in the gym, I expect the evening's bouts to be worthwhile. My eyes dart around for the tall, young black male, tatooes on his arms, who showed a certain steeliness against his nervy, slightly more bulkier, white opponent. I look for the young Latino who clearly has been training all week with the clear intention that this fight will not be his last. I see my current trainer, barely 30 years old and just out of prison after a 15 year stint, working the corner of the only female fight this evening. He recently won a prestigious amateur fight sponsored by Ringside and is slated to go first to the Olympics.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Despite the brisk temperatures, the crowd is quite thick, mostly male, but with a decent showing of women, and a surprising count of hipsters. </span>In my solitude I am recognized by a three men and a women. The man is the husband of a new friend of mine. He and his three companions are all professors at Loyola, in English, chemistry, philosophy, and Chinese Islam. Not exactly the typical peanut gallery for a fight night but I am happy to have their company.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The lights get brighter and the crowd gets quiet as the boxers take the ring. My heart races. The first pair of fighters are surprisingly agile, but leave some to be desired in form. Unguarded faces leave plenty of time for jabs never thrown. But they are young and fit and moving, which is good enough for tonight. Bets are made, beers are chugged and whiskey is slugged. I shrug as the professors decline my offer of Crown, nursing their cold light beers.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I call the winner two out of three fights, should have been three times but alas the fix was in. The ref is inattentive, almost complacent. In one of the matches, a fighter surrenders in lieu of a drawn out beating. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span>By the fourth fight, the crowd has thinned out, but has grown louder. It is now almost completely devoid of women and hipsters, and the air is thick with heckling and yelling. The professors and I make our way to the edge of the ring where we join our comrades in hooded sweatshirts, guzzling beer and taking sides. Loudly. </div><div><br /></div><div>The fights get progressively harder and meaner, and the fighters heavier. Bad calls are made and boos are echoed. From our vantage point, an arm's reach away from the boxers' feet, I can hear them breathing, see them thinking about how to move, when to dip, when to throw. A whiskey-induced buzz finally sets in and I am seeing them move in slow motion, chills running down my spine not from the temperature but from the mood in the air between them. Here before me are two adversaries who challenge one another in simple form, three minutes of each round lasting a lifetime.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUphXD3wOiCtTnIVhl-PMiij6FoPS8T3AHYToPhBxw0fiXAb3bKIaoOQN7kkQCzEPobE08XOoTVC4qCxQYSlzd9NYaj13UKEpe-9F6ua_fjNLO0ajEVziFoDLZ-wrYYydFrTV1YQ4iyUI/s320/IMAG0250.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677339962384873026" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Finally comes the bout between two women, one of whom I share a trainer. Their form supercedes all previous fighters thus far, as does their agility. Both are skilled but one is a killer. She bloodies her opponent's mouth. The complacent ref does nothing. The killer looks at the ref as she delivers blow after blow to the face, as if imploring him to call a TKO. Nothing. Mercifully the bell rings. My trainer rushes to his trainee who has lost, as does James, the other trainer. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">James is older, in his sixties, teddy-bear like in stature and demeanor, and clearly beyond his days as a fighter. And this is the third female winner I know of who calls him coach. I've seen him in the gym before, when I first started training, and when he used to get along with Mike the gym owner. He now trains his stallions at the Crescent City gym, deep in the heart of Central City, lodged between two notoriously dangerous public housing projects, in one of the more crime-ridden corners in town.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div>I look at the winner, standing next to James, and I look at the loser, mouth bloodied and face swollen, standing next the man who has flaked on my last two training sessions. I do not, repeat, do not, want to be standing next to a trainer--Olympic bound or not--with my mouth bloodied and face swollen.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">***</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Despite its brutish nature, the sport has historically drawn a variety of fans. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, medical doctor and author of the Sherlock Holmes stories was a known supporter, and even wrote a short story about boxing called "The Croxley Master." Doyle himself was an amateur fighter in his med school days. One can't help but think that the story's main character was drawn from his own experience; a med school student training for an amateur boxing match against an older, more brutish and more experienced competitor. I enjoy Doyle's description of the sport and the popular love of it:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Sometimes brutal, sometimes grotesque, the love the sport is still one of the great agencies which make for the happiness of our people. It lies very deeply in the springs of our nature, and when it has been educated out, a higher more refined nature may be left, but it will not be of that robust British type which as left its mark so deeply on the world. Every one of these ruddled workers, slouching with his dog at his heels to see something of the fight, was a true unit of his race</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Myself, I have my own reasons for boxing, overlapping in part with Doyle's theory. I've already acknowledged my former trial-lawyer-esque crave for adversity and public performance. It is an annoying and possibly unhealthy urge, and being clever can get old; all of these reasons are in large part why I left the legal profession to work for a non-profit affordable housing developer. But I acknowledge that remnants of the thirst for achievement remain in this adrenaline-seeking corpus of mine. I was raised and trained to be a competitive person, and I get a buzz from challenge; so why not get that buzz in a structured and controlled environment? With boxing I am reassured by the fact that at least in this adrenaline-laden arena I gamble with my physical health, and not the liberty of another. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To become a professional fighter is not my desire. But I look forward to the day when I feel fit and prepared enough to step in the ring under the bright lights in the cold night, as I encounter a worthy adversary who has agreed to challenge my training and skills in one of the world's most unadulterated forms of conflict resolution. There is something to it--to abandoning the cleverness of words and argument and cajoling, and instead, speaking through the art of swings, throws, thrusts, dodges. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As I walk to the porta-potty in between bouts, I see James' entourage--a half dozen of fit, toughly scowling women who used to train at Freret and have since moved to Crescent. "James," I call out, waving at him. He gives me a big paternal smile and makes his way through the crowd to me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Before I can say a thing, he says with a knowing look in his eyes, "So you ready to become a fighter?"</span></div></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-28784903388376966332011-11-25T14:21:00.000-08:002011-11-25T16:52:40.564-08:00Feeling Racy<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></u></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cWwp-QvuZ59S78frGDXDw8UQnyGauYekLQCtIDz8AEkVTur0VGwQkwQ7mdfQrqRgkbVgbCldq9OuEHTIrJCnqd3rQg1wQv7WRYDCHhyphenhyphen5-8vpNqqsogv_I0MEL4NmYXeW_DWD63fkYQUz/s1600/P1011841.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cWwp-QvuZ59S78frGDXDw8UQnyGauYekLQCtIDz8AEkVTur0VGwQkwQ7mdfQrqRgkbVgbCldq9OuEHTIrJCnqd3rQg1wQv7WRYDCHhyphenhyphen5-8vpNqqsogv_I0MEL4NmYXeW_DWD63fkYQUz/s400/P1011841.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679075591147615282" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; font-family:'Lucida Grande', Arial, sans-serif;font-size:12px;"><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A good holiday is one spent among people whose notion of time is vaguer than yours.</span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">--J.B. Priestly</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Thirty-four years of life on this planet has given me but one single pearl of wisdom: Do not, if at all possible, spend Thanksgiving weekend flying across the country to spend it with your biological family. If you choose to do so, your flight(s) will in fact be delayed. You will lose luggage. You will be yelled at by at least two strangers. And, before you know it, you will do the same thing all over again on the way back a few days later. In end, you will have spent just as much time in airports, waiting rooms, and taxi lines as you have with your family.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My preferred alternative, I promise you, is not as lonely as it sounds: if in New Orleans, head to the racetrack. Erase from your mind images of lonely down-and-outers, single men in cheap jackets and caps, huddled over a bottle in a paper bag, clutching their gambling tickets in their hands as if waiting for the second coming.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Thanksgiving in New Orleans is opening day for the live horse racing season at the Fairgrounds Races and Slots, a tradition dating back to 1898. The Fairgrounds is the third oldest racetrack in the country and celebrates its 140th season this year. Admission for ground level viewing is free, and despite beer and liquor vendors present, BYOB is an acceptable practice. So, for those of us with no predilection to spend a penny on a pony, it's an afternoon of visual stimulation free of charge. It is less about gambling and more about, well, hats.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I call on the usual suspects of local friends, and donning our best retro-hats, we ride our bikes to the Fairgrounds. We aren't the only ones with a time machine image of horse racing in mind; scanning the crowd, one could easily mistake this to be a movie set for Seabiscuit. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In many cases, the hats are vintage, scoured from second-hand stores and stashed away in closets, waiting for this very occasion. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaev5S10qugf66h0cGiXIN6hZPC_aRCvAYgnYt4nr0AnF6_05S58Ti6cs7NSYTy9wAf7ItfoYoTWEguXHImeOLQkFYi7edwNcQYk3DN9iMxY8oxIMrkbNJRY_gpX9XBv7ERuO3vq4Xhjuu/s400/P1011837.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679075888937943474" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In other cases, one can glimpse a flavor of multi-generational wealth with an old South flair.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3v1ch56fnlljiEgoMOJIAEkBjiIsJpPFpBuJwmWKXlrQmkTNX-xt-WTH_aE7YjXgKRrEH6T_sjOL6CW73SOQUC7NlDSeJpLY-QB8vjk1WwsWdt6ZBvTcMw5dJKYfIJOrdgBa6IwCpNokS/s400/P1011832.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679075798508256402" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 400px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We pass the day running into friends and acquaintances, all of us admiring outfits and costumes, or staring at little men on large horses. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnnmNYvH03pmMvpHAhKJNycZ97jP59PO5uqD18pDi3_gLlzG4uf8PKIL1MmBePWxYpfthwbFzIqV16wPeyIl0lt3v6e6j3xIKuJ4ojDTT6PxQWj2TvQr_0aiV-xVmqaUhUfc1sLIuvwMF/s400/P1011859.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679076036904760914" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 298px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">With the fine nuances of gambling and horse-racing culture lost one me, I opt out on actually gambling, but a companion has won $11.00. Myself, I am perfectly content to stay bug-eyed watching people, animals, and things pass me by for the next three hours.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Eventually, we are back at the ranch, deep frying a turkey, heating up merliton and crawfish stuffing, and blending the last stick of butter into the giant pot of mashed potatoes. There are about nine of us Thanksgiving orphans, most of us single and unencumbered with obligatory in-law visits, most of in our thirties, and all of us smart enough to know better than to be stuck in an airport. Together we have spent the day doing the most basic of life's activities; eating, drinking, spending time with friends, roaming amongst strangers and watching odd, pretty things in our sight. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Later in the day I return a phone call from my mother who has finished a 10k Turkey walk with my sister and nieces in California. I am glad to hear her voice and to know that my family is well. I check in with longtime friends in Alaska who went skiing earlier in the day but now are staying indoors from a snowstorm. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I am thankful that my family is safe and sound out west where I grew up, and that my friends in Arctic north are warm and toasty. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I am also thankful to have lovely friends old and new in New Orleans where I now live, and with whom I have whiled the hours away on a beautiful sunny Thanksgiving Day at a racetrack and now at a friend's house. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I guess home is where you wear your best horse races hat...with friends, and lots and lots of food; and I am thankful to be home be home for the holidays.</span></span></div></span>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-64490134592606548082011-11-02T20:53:00.000-07:002011-11-02T22:38:09.114-07:00A Black Pot<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5h9Zmj-Nqq6Ov5zKNDiPFhOVKDcPh-23JQasQ0PDVslx9DkQwPHVgnkGqfMsMaXv1AzGaNZRlzQx74L6nY_ODOMFG5ttnxlMYMtg729h0PBD_cX7T3roQp2CrBN2FdR9GhTdT17GzfluY/s1600/3f21c4f4033711e180c9123138016265_7.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5h9Zmj-Nqq6Ov5zKNDiPFhOVKDcPh-23JQasQ0PDVslx9DkQwPHVgnkGqfMsMaXv1AzGaNZRlzQx74L6nY_ODOMFG5ttnxlMYMtg729h0PBD_cX7T3roQp2CrBN2FdR9GhTdT17GzfluY/s400/3f21c4f4033711e180c9123138016265_7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670612877209982402" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">If it is possible to fall in love with a place, I have already done so. Physically, Lafayette is not a beautiful city, but I mean it when I say that it is the personality that counts. The capital of Cajun country in Louisiana, it is where you can find traditional Cajun food and music on a regular basis, as if time has not passed since the arrival of French Acadians in the 18th century. It is a place where people still cook with a black pot.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So it only makes sense that there would be a Blackpot Festival, every year, at Acadian Village, a folk life museum situated on 10 acres of farmland just at the edge of Lafayette proper. Created and organized in large part by the Red Stick Ramblers band six years ago, of the half dozen or so Cajun festivals in the area I've attended, I consider Blackpot Festival the premiere. With an outdoor dance pavilion and a small church serving as simultaneous music venues, one can see not only Cajun legends old and new, but also blues, bluegrass, country, and Appalachian music; and that isn't counting the scores of musicians who jam around campfires after hours. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But here Cajun prevails. In this part of the country where conversation in French was banned in schools just a few decades ago in order to induce the assimilation of Acadians into Anglo-American life, on this weekend I watch and listen to twenty-something-year-old Cajuns croon in ancient French, equipped with accordions and fiddles, while dancers take the field. It is as if Britney Spears never happened.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir5mqZ5z_t_qBz68uaiZSBLNVPhzVNq4m_N-F6BRYzv1MuQB_zGRRFbOfw0rPylC5s-vhGnnoYONjqsXGnrMJaLIuPqmaWc2IW92bzYH4QIxlGb3vEgzr2GCxxXy1QE98mmfofzYXI8OE1/s320/0ad05b2a033711e180c9123138016265_7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670630903203523506" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 277px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The weekend, however, truly culminates around the cooking contest, where local contestants cook their wares on-site in their own cast iron black pots. Only a handful will earn titles, but it is really the spectators who win during the free tastings. Gumbo, rabbit stew, jambalaya, soups involving frogs...the Cajuns really figured it out when they first threw the nearest swamp animal in a black pot for dinner. It doesn't take much suspension of disbelief to buy that the morsels being served up at the contest are true to the spirit of Cajun swamp life in the early days.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To me Blackpot Festival is the perfect marriage between food and music. And, in this environment, it is impossible not to enjoy the company of friends, some I brought with me from New Orleans, some I reconnected with from my old home of Alaska, and some I've met only a handful of times previously in Lafayette who treat me as they've known me forever. Food, music, and possibly a little booze, the kindness of strangers and friends...it sounds simple enough but why is it that you can't find that combination just anywhere? Maybe it takes culture, or in Lafayette's case, a couple hundred years of culture.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There is a Cajun saying, "Lache pas la patate," which means, literally, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">don't drop the potato</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. In modern times, the slogan has become an Acadian call to arms to hold on to a culture from a time far past--D</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">on't let go</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, so to speak, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">of those things that make one Cajun</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. In the same way I love New Orleans for its continual blending of cultures throughout its existence and still so today, I fawn over Lafayette for precisely the opposite reason; because the Acadians are and have been determined to preserve and celebrate a culture created long ago in a distinct moment in history, and one that could have become extinct without such stubbornness. Born in the countryside of France, driven through the snows of North America, finally to flourish in the swamps of Louisiana, Cajun culture is at once French in its roots but also truly American in its resourcefulness which shaped it into something utterly unique. In their own way, Cajuns are evidence that America truly is a melting pot, in this case, a black cast iron one with a gumbo in it.</span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM1thvlI46edu7EWszkJaInpdbvWaEDKUc9rdHm8ej_UInIM60MVmtYbGNJaiprJQZ6Yn7Bb_bz6teyXDjVUT8Uh0xvMKVU50RavwWdlKzzqxs1uBHmwYKwzCLvDYbi6as3rt66uVKnP2K/s320/app_full_proxy.php.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670630507975819874" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 90px; height: 90px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><i>Photos by William Clancy used with permission.</i></span></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-12778438812433969302011-08-31T13:14:00.000-07:002011-09-01T10:29:40.356-07:00The Vermillionaires<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdGArc8huymfdQpxxhxulJpEHcQhmwccHn-TS8PslRm1E_Ht6XPaaavD5hyphenhyphenOHkAMTo8oAllPvRMsvl281wG-Etoymu-l4Abt0CD5C_fYrXwanhJF5kwwMGzzOheaWI6ixVaasO52fqPfne/s1600/P8291825.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtOcvdgkD5uKJIPp3wOX84tjbWN8-HLVpi_DD6SKMIR72kKLv3UquyhiXRYh-1uy5afuu21DFCMvEeeOQKYKRBR5Wo41BAZomQttDUGjQtWjVMDWebzssfs2P3JxZtQI6jWddmYQi3jHB/s1600/P8291812.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtOcvdgkD5uKJIPp3wOX84tjbWN8-HLVpi_DD6SKMIR72kKLv3UquyhiXRYh-1uy5afuu21DFCMvEeeOQKYKRBR5Wo41BAZomQttDUGjQtWjVMDWebzssfs2P3JxZtQI6jWddmYQi3jHB/s400/P8291812.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647150776159820434" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It's a mere 98 degrees late in the afternoon when I'm driving westward in my air-conditionless '87 Toyota pick-up truck with the Milo-dog. All the windows are down yet I am sweating like a pig and he's panting like any reasonable dog would. Traffic is a horror with construction adding another hour. As we crawl through the massive expanse of empty fields occasionally dotted with only unsightly strip malls, I ask myself why I am doing this to myself.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Eventually I find the Henderson Levee Road and circle back and forth because, as so frequently happens in Acadiana, street signs are few and far between, and googlemaps is understandably inaccurate in this sparsely populated part of Louisiana with long and winding roads. And, in true Louisiana form, the signage of my destination, "Lavelle's" makes no indication that it is commonly and officially called Whiskey River Landing. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At 5 in the evening, the only shade I can find for my dog is to park my tiny old truck next to one of the dozen brand new Ford F350's. I suck down a cold coke, give the boy some water, feed him, and leave all the windows down. He has stopped panting and at this point in the day, he hasn't the energy for much activity and falls asleep. Frankly, I haven't much energy either and am almost loathe to go in. I second guess my decision to schlepp out this way to Cajun country, about two hours west of New Orleans, deeper and deeper into swamp country and further into the sweltering dampness of the Louisiana summer.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But I am here to see a friend off, Leah, who has decided leave Baton Rouge to move back to her home state of Kentucky to get ready for law school. A tall attractive brunette, lively personality, sharp wit, and a thick Southern twang, she reminds me of an extremely beautiful version of the cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn, and is one of my favorite new friends I've made through the Americorps volunteer program. For her farewell venue she has chosen Whiskey River Landing, a Cajun dance venue held only on Sunday afternoons to early evenings for locals in the surrounding area including Lafayette, about 20 minutes away and the unofficial capital of Cajun country.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Walking towards the venue I see a gorgeous view of the Atchafalaya Basin. I see a large houseboat, and the venue itself is nothing more than a conglomeration of mobile home structures haphazardly pasted together, dangling dangerously over the banks of the Atchafalaya Basin. The doors of the entrance are covered with Cajun and French pride stickers, most in the French language. The stage itself is barely elevated and prominently perched on it are five black men clad in Western wear and cowboy hats. They are Geno Delafose and French Rockin' Boogie, playing Cajun and zydeco tunes. The dance floor is packed, ages 8 to 80, and the crowd is half black half white, the majority of the patrons wearing a 10 gallon hat and cowboy boots, without a hint of irony. It is hands down the most racially integrated crowd I have seen since moving to Louisiana, or possibly ever. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I am having a hell of a time finding Leah but it doesn't take long for her to find me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Hey Girl!" she bellows, in her thick Southern twang. "I saw you the second you stepped in, told my friends to look for an Asian and it didn't take long!" We both chuckle, looking around at the beautiful black and white scenery.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I'm lovin' this Creole cowboy scene. Music's great," I utter. A couple in their '80's, black male white female in cowboy hats and boots rhythmically and effortlessly sidle past us onto the dance floor.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Oh yeah. I once had a dream that I'd leave my man for a Creole cowboy, ya know?" she says, matter-of-factly. </span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We make our way to the dance floor, clearly a handful of eyes on me. But as is frequently the case in this part of the world, it is a curious stare, not intimidating. There is no shortage of dance partners and I two-step a few tunes with a local shrimper, the spitting image of Ernest Hemingway. I sip a few drinks with Leah, listening to the mesmerizing rhythm driving the band to play, and the dancers to dance. It is impossible not to stare just beyond the band, into the beautiful bayou tableau showing through the dirty windows of the venue.</span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdGArc8huymfdQpxxhxulJpEHcQhmwccHn-TS8PslRm1E_Ht6XPaaavD5hyphenhyphenOHkAMTo8oAllPvRMsvl281wG-Etoymu-l4Abt0CD5C_fYrXwanhJF5kwwMGzzOheaWI6ixVaasO52fqPfne/s400/P8291825.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647150930218922978" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After a couple of hours I bid Leah farewell. We exchange hugs and already, I am sad to see her go, and even sadder to see such a lively spirit throw her life away to go to law school. Milo and I walk around for a bit to enjoy the scenery before I continue on to Lafayette. It is hard to walk away from such a vivid tableau.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IHsSf8I0Y0KZD2nNqwDmI_f7avapp3ZsCDErpcCPmVlyMWu7bEYW05ZgwISkrA5sZFoNrz2ObDnWbYIisyV4mssQ7DZy-PfM13y_K-KgAYjZ97BHyMuSgSqq-7POe9ENCYFDHcZHa8rl/s400/P8291814.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647156586284453490" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And it is even harder to remember that it is this fertile land and swamp life that drove people to modern-day, strip mall-laden Lafayette, which even today is still flanked by this scenery. In Lafayette I meet up with my friend Jefferson, where we enjoy a nice meal in the River Ranch shopping center, and sip a few cocktails.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The next day, we stop for the perfect Cajun meal for the perfect Cajun afternoon; a link of boudin and a small baggie of cracklins, and wash it down with 32 ounces of daiquiri from one of the drive-through shops. He takes me to some property owned by his family. I contemplate a large farmhouse, maybe an acre.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Instead, the three of us stroll for half a mile or so, past an old decrepit structure with a ping pong table, perched over the Vermillion River. Dozens of oak trees with Spanish moss dot the property with barely a neighbor in site. Crawfish fields flank the other side of the property. We walk along the river itself, and Milo goes for a dip. Surprisingly and thankfully the water is not odiferous. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9OPSpReBW8dfHd1YPCfJ6xhE3V9R9KBIlnnBX1cxVOiOYbcqtxTbnqgKKOc6FlDmuQKVoLZ139lyy3VlZKVL34OYKvP5bFTq2X_r5TjBfMbWNxoEFbrwljX48s9bnPA0TD33ywtH9FHr/s400/P8301836.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647151382775288530" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 288px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It is easy to imagine why Jefferson's ancestors from France and other French mostly from Canada chose to settle along the banks of the Vermillion for the last 200 years, over the distance of 72 miles, forming towns and farms from the fertile river and bayou. So named for its waters which were once brightly colored with the red mud, the river became the site of Vermillionville, which eventually changed its name to Lafayette. With its proximity to water, Lafayette's economy was mostly agricultural, until the discovery of oil and gas in the 1940's. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The home of a major Louisiana university, University of Louisiana at Lafayette, it manages to retain much of its youth population, and there is a noticeable revival of French Acadian music by local musicians in their 20's, mentored in the arts by their elders. This is only enhanced by the vernacular cuisine which is distinct in spices and and flavor, and ubiquitous in the area.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To the naked eye driving through, Lafayette and its Cajun surroundings look like dozens of normal American towns across the country. Strip malls, highways, large tracts of land with box stores. There is no reason to know, unless you do, that there is a saloon and a couple of dance halls where great Cajun music is played weekly on traditional instruments, in this place where people care about the language their ancestors spoke and the food they grew and ate.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And there is also no reason to know that 15 minutes from downtown you can find a stretch of the Vermillion River, privately owned but uninhabited, except by a broke down truck, and a shack with a ping pong table, and dozens of oak trees and Spanish moss. It is 2011 and I am a stone's throw away from a nice restaurant and some cocktails, yet right at this moment there is nothing in my view to indicate that it isn't 1850 rural America on the bayou. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPXjpO-bQVv_tywXFYNt2q1c7EozfVaq6j_eAjUNypokJ2fQYEcD2ZEB1n3H-JRDN8KtTQuuYIjqJ0xwht3HDC5Xz0OT0VK_OCLyKBmtWNXDo_L-1y4BZz4J_EfpBENtKdXcK9Wf5iBpQ/s400/P8301832.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647154343552072866" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 288px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We walk around for a little while longer as I think about my recent visits to Los Angeles, New York City, and Miami. At the same time, I inhale the air, fragranced with foliage, and continue to absorb the scenery. I feel lucky to be able to live in New Orleans, and only drive a few hours to capture this as well. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I like living in the South," I tell Jefferson, who also has seen the world, lived in other places, and decided to return to his homeland.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Yeah, it's classy," he utters, chomping on a cracklin.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I laugh in response, not because I disagree, but because I think of all the people I've known and met in the Northeast and West Coast who would use different words to describe the South. But in fact, I agree with Jefferson. Of course I and the entire world know of the South's historic faults, its tension with its own history with slavery, racism, and entrenched wealth. But since moving here I've observed a certain level of integrity in Southern-based identity that I never encountered before living down here. The easy pride of being Cajun, the music, the cowboy hats, the food and drink and dancing, the hospitality. And of course, the beauty; the willingness to let acres of land stay wild, to let the river run and the bayou be, or at most, grow some rice or crawfish. There is some elegance to that. It is classy. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Walk along a river and a bayou, eat good food, drink good alcohol, dance with friends, and be merry, be it in a saloon in downtown Lafayette or a couple of double-wides on the Atchafalaya Basin with air conditioning conduit tacked to the ceiling. Deep down inside, really, we all want to be Vermillionaires.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidlfgtAIlZ8hPHONBg2L-xvsp6RD2E0_s_ROD7VG7ChLvIiyHffUkhOIqiKmylScp-1Mcjc3Z4X0eYy0aPwpOc_qtHjzRLA-6xR62YWo3dqNAQS2_nH1whviG5sXpfswLco4ZeYB9XR4yy/s400/P8301838.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647151189627179378" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">***</span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Do try this at home...</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The place I went to: </span></b><a href="http://whiskeyriverlanding.net/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Whiskey River Landing</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Do give them a call for directions if you decide to go; googlemaps just can't do it for you.</span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The music I saw:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><a href="http://www.myspace.com/genodelafosefrb"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Geno Delafose and French Rockin' Boogie</span></a></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Theme track to my visit: </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><a href="http://new.music.yahoo.com/lost-bayou-ramblers/tracks/valse-dautomne--216049590"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Valse D'Automne by the Lost Bayou Ramblers</span></a></div><div>
<br /></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-78249444064756319242011-08-26T10:44:00.000-07:002011-08-27T14:39:00.562-07:00Ride of My Life<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcSFC7FLsVmee-tYajEkZVeuM62eqZfM7UuQ1tPflyQQGDpf9x26FwKLtqbBnKdyxWHqGlSoH_IwR5aMfKBaDHGjhcxaM3qaXKS4tWxjk1IPVV25PpM2tCkrvbh9oGjr4kE6Q_yOi71UEB/s1600/P8171816.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCZTtKfe50xcf7z_BEkkcJc_be-x87PELK84KkR-htq1N8WeL_Rtc1PuHumBHhKYS0OBWCEQs96sKPamntzAkbqBY4JCYaeeBgbe1Nx2RBBiDTk1yYmPkydgA4tm5JktTlrdVW3GVb2FZ/s1600/P8171814.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 322px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCZTtKfe50xcf7z_BEkkcJc_be-x87PELK84KkR-htq1N8WeL_Rtc1PuHumBHhKYS0OBWCEQs96sKPamntzAkbqBY4JCYaeeBgbe1Nx2RBBiDTk1yYmPkydgA4tm5JktTlrdVW3GVb2FZ/s400/P8171814.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645222676453827858" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It has been said that there is a fine line between genius and insanity. Since I am not a genius, I could only be considered insane, particularly when I made my decision to ride from Miami to the Florida Keys and back again. But it's not so much insanity that led me to do this as it was a combination of curiosity, fear of boredom, willing ignorance, and overall questionable judgment.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I had planned a week long stay in Miami as part of my ongoing quest to see more of the South and also to visit Rachel, an estranged friend from high school, who lives in a very fashionable section of the South Beach neighborhood. Not being a city slicker and having just come from visiting New York City, I had a small concern that I would exhaust my days in Miami with endless urbanism if I spent the entire week there. So I decided it would be a great opportunity to explore the Florida Keys, which for some odd reason, conjured up absurd, adolescent-like imagery of quasi-deserted islands and pirate ships. Driving there sounded boring without my dog, so naturally, I decided that if the stars aligned, I would cycle there.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My preparation for this task was shamefully inadequate. An avid bike rider, I typically ride ten miles to work and back 5 days a week, and at most 30 miles on the weekend. Due to the summer flash floods in New Orleans for the past two months, I had little opportunity to go on any sort of substantial training rides. And, while I had stuffed a couple of 30 mile rides during a visit in California, these seemed to have little effect when I eventually made it to Miami.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Miami. Oh you beautiful, white-sand beaches dotted with perfectly-tanned, bulbously body-conscious creatures clad in bikinis and speedos, very few of whom break a sweat in your all-white outfits! You pastel-colored thing, you! You shiny-car-filled streets you! You 95 degree F and 71% humidity thing you! You hot, sticky mess! </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There are many, oh so many reasons why I see little more than cruiser bikes roaming amongst sparkling Mini Coopers and Mercedes on these Miami streets.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But dear reader, that is not the impression I was lead to believe in my 2 hour internet research. I read of a "bike-friendly" Florida, of an off-street Overseas Heritage Pedestrian/Cycle Trail spanning the length of the Keys, of a Overseas Highway 1 upon which cyclists were permitted and even "common," of a very flat land hosting hundreds of cyclists interested in serious distance riding. And a serious bike shop in South Beach, with serious Canondale road bikes for rent to born-again, neophyte distance cyclists such as myself. I swear to you this was the case. And unlike 90% of my little nature sojourns in my former home-state of Alaska, the entire route the bike trails in Florida run parallel to street traffic; there is no risk of being stranded in the middle of nowhere with no one to help you; For crying out loud, there are ATM's and running water everywhere.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So how bad could it be? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It didn't take long after launching from Rachel's apartment in South Beach for me to start second-guessing myself. I had lost the path laid out for me by the guy at the bike shop, and added at least an hour or two turning around, taking the long way, etc. Because of my meandering, my speed varied from 17 mph to 8 mph. Nothing about the journey could have been considered steady.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I cannot recall precisely when doubt first crept in. Perhaps it was when the bike lock and small travel sack I poorly bungied to my bike rack, fell off, only for the bungie chord to tangle itself around the bike gears, a mere 15 miles from my departure point in South Beach. Or was it the big-rig trucks careening by me at speeds of 50 miles an hour in Coconut Grove on Highway 1, long after I had lost the trail of smaller, safer bike paths. Or maybe it was the 92 degrees, my sweat sticking to me like gel in the Florida humidity. Or maybe just the fact that I've never ridden a serious road bike before, with its fancy bi-directional gear shifters, its super sensitive brakes, its paper thin tires which make sure I feel every crevice of the road with a vibration or jerk to the saddle area. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It was a mere hour into my ride when I found myself adjusting my bike for the third time on the side of the road, stuck in my first Floridian flash flood screaming to myself, "What a dumbass I am!!!!! What is wrong with me?!!!" And silently, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Maybe my family is right, maybe I just need to find a nice guy and settle the f*&k down.</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But it was too late for that. What was I going to do? Return to Miami and go clubbing every night? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The obvious answer was instead to ride 55 more miles that day, and possibly the next and 70 miles home again the day after. Having lost the route set out for me my by trusty bike guys at the shop, I eventually get back on track and ride for over 20 miles on peaceful Old Cutler Road, which meanders through one of the countless wealthy suburbs of Miami. I am gratefully on a designated bike path at this point, parallel to but separated from the road by a narrow greenbelt. I am not a religious person but then and there, finally on a path separated from big rigs and luxury vehicles whizzing by me at frightful speeds, I thanked the good Lord above. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The scenery itself on Old Cutler Road quickly exhausted itself. Miles after miles of gigantic mansions, I begin to question if local house painters even bother to carry anything other than pale earth tones or pastels. It is a curious uniformity amongst an economic class clearly able financially to distinguish their houses from one another. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Alas, I was wrong to be so ungrateful; from Old Cutler Road my choices were to get back on Highway 1, or find the Florida Turnpike, which the bike guy marked on the map as bike-friendly. "Actually, there is a large shoulder on the Florida Turnpike, and for a long part there is no shoulder on Highway 1." The results of my internet research were consistent with his opinion regarding both the Turnpike and Highway 1. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But I did not initially find Turnpike so Highway 1 it was, with all of its truckers big and small, zooming right by me. I follow the separate bus route for some time, get on and off sidewalks, and feel frustration at the stress level created by traffic typical on an 8 lane highway. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Finally I find the Turnpike, and roll on it for a bit, possibly 45 minutes when it ends, forcing me to re-enter dreaded Highway 1. Then I see an exit for Card Sound Road, another alternative to Highway 1, but an extra 7 miles longer of a route. Screw it. One mile of Highway 1 feels like seven miles on a normal road anyhow, the difference more than breaks even.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Through a large expanse of swamp the two-lane road was surrounded on either side by expanses of tall, swampy greens, slow-moving water, and short trees. I am unprotected from the unwavering Florida sun and stop almost every 15 minutes for an hour to swig down some more Gatorade. The temperature increases upwards from 92 degrees and it feels like I am standing next to a car engine the entire 11 mile ride. It feels like what I imagine the Greeks were describing when they created the concept of Hades. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At 5'6", 145 lbs and size six, I am reasonably fit (most of my weight in my bulging bicepts of course). A former ice climber, current aspiring boxer, bike commuter, I am no stranger to physical activity. But on that leg of the Card Sound Road, after stopping repeatedly to fill the tank with more Gatorade, my body felt so pathetic, so powerless. I can't remember which stop it was when I questioned myself honestly and seriously whether I was really going to make this happen, or whether I was gonna perch next to the canondale and stick my thumb in the air, leaving fate to the kindness of passersby.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Eleven miles later on the Card Sound Road, and by the time I make it to Alabama Jacks, the last bar before entering the final 8 mile stretch to the Keys, I have consumed two liters of Gatorade, yet am still parched. My face must have spoken a thousand words. Either that or the sweat pouring from each pore in my body.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Can I get you anything miss?" Says the server setting up bar stools and chairs peering at me curiously.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Um, yeah." I say looking at the two liters of water still attached to my bike. I have the urge for more sugar and I am out of Gatorade. "I'd like a large Coke." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Sure, I can do that. You wanna sit down? Where'd you ride from?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"South Beach."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"What?! Did you say South Beach?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I nod while simultaneously guzzling the first Coke, then another. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Hey guys, this lady rode from South Beach!!!" A universal turning of lethargic heads ensued.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">That seemed like my cue to keep riding.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'd be lying if I didn't admit that my knees were shaking at the sight of Card Sound Bridge into the Keys. Elevating 65 feet over a distance probably less than a quarter mile, it looked like a road to nowhere. But, as one of the two entry points into the Keys, the other being via the dreaded 1, Card Sound Bridge was the unavoidable next leg of my journey.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcSFC7FLsVmee-tYajEkZVeuM62eqZfM7UuQ1tPflyQQGDpf9x26FwKLtqbBnKdyxWHqGlSoH_IwR5aMfKBaDHGjhcxaM3qaXKS4tWxjk1IPVV25PpM2tCkrvbh9oGjr4kE6Q_yOi71UEB/s400/P8171816.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645383810640828642" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 253px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But riding Card Sound Bridge was also my reward for my journey of over 60 miles thus far. From 65 feet above water, the bridge, and I on my bike, then descend full-speed at 20 mph into the Crocodile Lake Wildlife Refuge. A breeze billows against my overheated mess of a body as I take in the lush greenery. After another 8 miles through foliage on either side of the road, with very little traffic, I am at ease, despite the heat, despite the humidity. It is lovely, and unlike other rides I've been on in my life, I have no fear that bears or moose will be popping out of the wilderness. Rather, I ride around fishermen staring at brackish water, and pullouts where tourists are searching for crocodiles. Stretches of road with nothing more than tall reeds and swampy greenery on either side of me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5f9d2SIXbScBwxlLpSnY9evBhs4eVXtnwLRGkEIXELrENkpPpYvrS9D0lLwkUKJ_8jH8vbUQfAarspfepCR_-ODqAmLvF1qSUCjnoTIsEXn_3napunAoRjolxmPpq5_N8QQ6I6A6HCrC_/s400/P8171813.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645423117421369762" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 214px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And then, after another 8 miles, I see, what appear to me at that moment to be the most beautiful words in the English language. "Welcome to Key Largo." I made it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Passing through a slew of chain hotels, I stop at the Amoray Dive Resort, which is more like a motel, sitting on the waterfront. I check in, and beeline for the shower. My chest is dotted with dead bugs as must ever car windshield that has driven from Miami. Bike grease from the chain stains my legs and traces remain even after vigorous scrubbing with a soapy towel. I wash my microfiber cycling shorts and tank top in the sink and the sink water immediately turns an opaque, murky greenish brown. I toss on my travel dress and walk to Captain Jack's, a nearby bar, for nourishment. I am not hungry, but as a duty to my body I order a plate of three enchiladas and a large side of rice.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Where you visiting from?" Asks the bartender. I tell him my story briefly in between huge gulps of Coke. I order a beer. And he is amazed that I have just ridden a bike the distance he drives on a daily basis to work, which takes him over an hour each way. Without prompting, he delivers an extra huge plate of rice, and apologizes that the restaurant has no bananas. He calls a friend to learn that avocados are the next best thing for potatassium, and sends me home with a bag full of avocados. The cooks come out of the kitchen to catch a glimpse of me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I'm sorry if I'm looking at you strangely, but you look a lot like my sister," he says. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I smile in response, cheeks full of food. I can tell he is young, half-Asian, and not terrible to look at. I pay him and on my five minute walk back to the hotel, I realize that he has not charged me for the beer, the huge plate of rice, the avocados, or the four tumblers of Coke. Right then I also realize how beautiful it is here in Key Largo on this evening.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWWctdrjoHnSwLh93oYhC0ev9LVrjQzyKMdsZ3AN0fqMJcmBQgWBdtgI_vP4q9RQ_HzQ7FQ1m4vW-gOooKgaZCKfsjKQ1QAd_iUL9Xs7YzPKU5e6gBxyjrap-ViBu2lkklYwSRIgYVQgkA/s400/P8171818.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645420839280775058" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 278px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In my room, the air-conditioning is blasting, I strip down to a tank top, turn on the cable tv, and lie on the bed airing my poor, abused saddle area. Somewhere outside my room, beyond the tropical-themed pink and green curtains, I can hear the faint sound of Jimmy Buffet playing from a car stereo, when I finally doze off to sleep.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The next day I have every intention of riding another 40-70 miles down the Keys. I finish breakfast only to find my body breaking out into sweats in the air-conditioned diner, and my stomach turning and churning like a hurricane. My head becomes light. The thought of mounting my trusty steed sends me into a panic, so I return to my bed for a nap. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Upon waking up hours later, I come to terms with exactly what I have done to myself, and my body. I opt instead to putz around Key Largo like a normal American tourist. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Originally named Rock Harbor, it was renamed Key Largo following the release of the Hollywood classic starring Humphrey Bogart. Except for some backdrop shots, no part of the movie was filmed on-site, but that doesn't obstruct the natives from marketing this relationship with Bogey. I wander into the Club Caribbean which (probably mis-leadingly) touts itself as a site for the movie on a large billboard facing the highway. There is a life-size statue of Bogey himself. At the Holiday Inn down the road I catch a glimpse of the original boat used in the Bogey movie African Queen, which has no relation to Key Largo except that its former owner had a vacation home on the island at some point in time.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRnTsUoum3weG6qElauOt-TVIqycD5NvYCqnssS7RNpyPXrZNsxcYOvd_XCUtycsq4C0dhd6rygsuIH7y5sfZxHV4VazcY7GxL9Z_pIbiqtx_uCGTI-Ls1WkYgQgo7YE2oNYDa2Z6iMllR/s400/IMAG0181.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645421829194731458" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To my surprise, there are no white-sand beaches. Rather, Key Largo, as a remnant of a reef, is rocky, and more nautical than beach-bum in style. The loci of numerous shipwrecks, it is a haven for scuba-divers. Key Largo, like many of the Keys, is dotted by untold numbers of vacation homes and villas, many of which own exclusive access to the waterfront, and I am riding and walking for miles before I can soak in a picture of the beach. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It is only when I grab one of the free kayaks at my hotel that I experience a bit of that famed Key Largo nautical serenity. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN703jNZy3L3Ta9L1qwuSQJu3MjS1wG_g115JwL_5tPTWefKrtQi-KOOnWq4M0e5Qs2Dh_zJuHzpFDbi8TZKiF7TXk7Q1uOv1nTh6TwBbBKxEnE6GRq64oYkNq605FsxGshBtxqdT5tc9w/s400/P8181826.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645422077015040898" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The next day I ride as far as the next two keys, to Islamorada, where I take frequent breaks to steal precious peeks of the ocean between luxury villas. I also visit to a Bird Rehabilitation Center where I am surrounded by both caged and uncaged local birds of all sorts in various stages of their recovery. I walk amongst pelicans who look at me with disinterest as they preen on the glassy water.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlWFrQZJdGR6YZbyiJSmCqGvA43FEGy7zrZCH18uWkw_uI72Erll5nErTNAcUf_kIFrEIiyQSfEpZdIFFFTErN-m792KR6-V5cNP_To6SxL-ekvvByJdPEI2CF_BzAJu6Wcbvof6dJBkTC/s400/P8181838.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645422389425125170" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 289px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">That night, when I am preparing to ride back to Miami the next day, a storm begins to howl and lightning strikes. I begin to panic. My smartphone tells me the forecast for the next day is no kinder. What shall I do? Shall I book a shuttle back to Miami for a hundred dollars? Do I search for the kind bartender and flirt a ride back to the mainland? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At this point I recall passages from my friend Jill Homer's book Ghost Trails, about her ride through wintery Alaska along a few hundred miles of the virtually deserted Iditatorod Trail. There are points during her ride, hundreds of miles away from humanity that she endures a blizzard, with serious risk of survival. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There I am, reclined on the hotel bed, cable tv on, staring at the pink parrots on the green curtains, experiencing what I imagine her fear was during that blizzard. I am going to be stuck, stranded in this strange faraway place? This purgatory of Jimmy Buffet, forever searching for that lost shaker of salt?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When I wake up the next morning the sun is shining brightly without a cloud in the sky. I haul butt and pack up. I swallow four bananas and two bowls of cereal for breakfast, washing it down with Gatorade.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I book through Card Sound Road, over the bridge of seeming treachery, through the rest of Card Sound Road. It is scorchingly hot and I am fantasizing about jumping into Rachel's pool back in South Beach. I hop onto Florida's Turnpike when it begins to cloud up and rain. On the other side of the turnpike are two fire trucks for no apparent reason, who chastise me on their bullhorn to get off the turnpike</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. (Upon my return I find out that (1) my original research appears to be accurate that bikes are allowed on the Florida Turnpike </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(Section 316.091(2) and (4), F.S.), and (2) from a gentleman firefighter friend I also learn that his kind are not in fact allowed to direct traffic. So there.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I hop back on the 1, and find the route I couldn't quite navigate on my way down, take Old Cutler Road back through the wealthy suburbs, Ingram and Main Highway and have a pleasant ride through the once historic shopping district of Coconut Grove, and it looks like I will be able to shave off 1.5 hours from my previous time. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And that of course, is when the rain really starts to pick up. I am riding a foot deep through water accumulating on the trail and sidewalks. By the time I am in downtown Miami, 5 miles from my friend's white marble floored apartment in South Beach, winds have picked up and palm trees are deeply bowing. I look to the left of me to watch the wind push road blocks to walk towards me like characters from a Star Wars movie. I maneuver quickly before they have a chance to knock me over, only to nearly miss being clipped by a BMW with the same fear. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At that I relent, pulling into the cover of a plaza with tables and chairs outside a sophisticated high-rise. I laugh hilariously, giving in to the bike gods who have toyed with my fate for the past four days. I wait there for over an hour, drenched to the bone and shivering, praying the rain will stop. I call a taxi with no realistic shot at seeing it before I start shivering. Where I once fantasized about a jump in Rachel's pool and a cold shower, I am now having stronger fantasies of a hot shower and a warm meal. On this day my body has been through every temperature and condition imaginable, from sweating to shivering, high energy to barely movable. I am worried about my ability to maneuver a bike in the rain, my muscles overworked, my body trembling, my spirits annoyed and desperate to be in dry clothes indoors.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But the wind and rain stop their teasing, and the taxi continues to stand me up. I remount my horse, and roll slowly through the rest of downtown, over the charming Venetian Causeway, through the half dozen or so man-made islands with charming luxury homes, back into South Beach. I am drenched and the security guards at Rachel's apartment give me a quick judgmental look over. I know what they are going to say and I nip it in the bud. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I'm sorry, but this is a very nice road bike, and I won't keep it outside with the others. I have just ridden back from Key Largo." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They usher me to the service elevator, and lean it against the wall in Rachel's apartment. I look down at the distance counter and read 188 miles roundtrip. Finally, finally I am able to stop, shower, and collapse.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There is an old Chinese proverb that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I have on frequent numerous occasion done irrational, possibly stupid physical endeavors expecting something different at the end of the road. But I would argue that each of these small time adventures has in fact taught me something new, has lead me to a different place. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For instance, on this little challenge, I learned that I believe in Gatorade. I used to mock would-be athletes who would gulp it down after an hour of exercise. For crying out loud, the thing was developed for an NFL football team based in Florida. But what I was doing was my version of being an NFL football player, and in Florida I was. I couldn't suck that stuff down </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">fast enough in the merciless heat after six-seven straight hours of exercise.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I learned that if one sweats enough, one can drink over 4 liters of fluid and pee only once in a seven hour span.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I learned how hard one can push the human body. Massively ill-prepared, but my general overall conditioning and level of health enabled me to extend my normal level of exercise by a matter of 6 or 7 hours. Other than some saddle soreness, with a concerted campaign of rehydration and food intake, I managed alright.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I also learned about real solitude. An avid fan of traveling alone, with a pack on your back and a hostel or low-budget hotel around every corner, I never really have in fact traveled "alone" per se, meeting all sorts of folk from all walks of life at any given moment during any one of my international sojourns. I was given the impression that this Florida Keys route would be chock full of cyclists such as myself, if not more techie. But in four days I saw only two cyclists with distance road bikes, both of whom gave me a fist of solidarity in passing. To ride a bike 188 miles alone is truly to experience exploration solo. Certainly I am grateful that there were numerous passersby who could help me if any real trouble had befallen me. At the same time, I appreciate the experience of having passed most of those four days seeing miles and miles of a world I had never been to, with only my thoughts and an ipod shuffle for company.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I would argue that these lessons</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, new to my small world, are reasons enough to distinguish me from the Chinese definition of insanity. Clearly, if I had to do it over, I would have done things a little differently. I would have trained more rigorously beforehand, and would have charted my course more carefully. I would have woken up earlier, eaten better. I would have found a way to Key Largo and then biked to Key West. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But I'll say it here and now, that I don't regret this little folly of mine. It was 188 miles of solitude, and it was the ride of my life. </span></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-61032580489660013052011-08-25T20:56:00.000-07:002011-08-26T10:44:43.062-07:00New York is a State of Mind<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgovvHY6twPMOKBikB851sFUkzFba2WNRDnjqgcgdYw0E4lZYtLmTh8ZfxIiP936gbwhkSrULBsNmLEdOnbq3wVkaFIQjL6thKu-BH2yIGKBqbMobDmz5TJ0mcOigOLSnW0nsXQRZkJ9za/s1600/IMAG0163.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7Yy3wfr8-ZrT5PhBGT5VCNfXVBZxPVddfSJsAmmJ14e-5DF1LgolgvcS6SpliskoADwWFYl-GuxT3oVp7LLtmhBNDz4ZsyjaMcwj6g3DKwUN3uqApZLCCG6RRDuBZBWFfzoGZnPjP-DA/s1600/IMAG0154.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7Yy3wfr8-ZrT5PhBGT5VCNfXVBZxPVddfSJsAmmJ14e-5DF1LgolgvcS6SpliskoADwWFYl-GuxT3oVp7LLtmhBNDz4ZsyjaMcwj6g3DKwUN3uqApZLCCG6RRDuBZBWFfzoGZnPjP-DA/s400/IMAG0154.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645027490691864786" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Welcome home." </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><i></i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Those were the words uttered when I reconnected with over a dozen friends in New York City on a long weekend visit. It was the first time I had returned since I left seven years ago after living there for four years. But for so many reasons, those words could not have been more inaccurate. I can’t place my finger exactly on the reason why it doesn’t feel like home, particularly since the largest concentration of truly good friends in my life reside in New York City.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Maybe it was because the first night, about 20 minutes after I arrived, when I decided to take a walk and grab a bite to eat, I came upon a young woman in her early twenties, most likely a Columbia University co-ed, crumpled into a small pile on the sidewalk, all by herself, traces of vomit plastered down the front of her tank top and slender leopard print skirt and heels. “My boyfriend is having a baby!” she utters in between vomiting. She had been abandoned by a cab driver, and then three police cars who slowed down just long enough to spot the vomit everywhere before driving on by, right in front of me. Eventually an ambulance took her to the hospital, only after a dismissive laugh and a roll of the eyes by the EMT.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But, just as for anyone who has spent any significant amount of time in the City, for me, this place is as easy to love as it is to hate. The next day I did as I used to seven years ago when I was a perennially broke student. Taking heed of the “suggested donation” in fine print below the Admissions sign, I gave my dollar donation to the ticket desk at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and wandered through massive halls filled with some the world’s greatest works of art humans have ever created. I visit my old mummy friends in the Egyptian wing, and their gold jewelry and treasuries of ancient times; I admire the curvaceous marbled busts of French sculptors, the gripping and sometimes horrific statues of the Greek, ornate furniture of the wealthy early Americans, and the roofs of ritual meeting halls of Micronesians. It is a lovely way to spend an afternoon.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PMFJ43R1Mp2TPgxbuEvl6vZovRaWF7SKUCgLslR2ha6tmgdHxXTg2wD8QogcKtSHuiSJt30Ci5ZwptvSo89FvuO8IRCwaKdC2LDeJPrPV2U2XU4cxK2LlPoyRfz7BA4TgTqIBSFpoR89/s400/IMAG0158.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645031647043414850" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px; " /></span></span></span></p><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span></span></span></span></div> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I then enjoyed another amazing New York phenomenon; I then I met a friend for lunch at a small, charming and unimposing restaurant in Harlem, where we each spent spent over $20.00 on a small bowl of meatless pasta and a bottled beer. My friend, a public school teacher, doesn’t bat an eye.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In the evening, I resorted to another favorite thrill; dancing at a gay men’s club, with Henry, one of my gay friends I’ve known since college. In the brief period of my life in which I enjoyed going to dance clubs, I always found it reassuring to be on the dance floor flanked with gay men, confident that in no way would my dancing to Cher or some other big-haired female vocalist be perceived as a sexual gesture or come-on. </span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But in the thick of evening, a strapping Brazilian beelines towards me and it becomes quickly apparent that he is not, in fact, gay. </span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“You’re straight, aren’t you.” I declare with suspicion. </span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">He answers in the affirmative.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“Oh yeah,” Henry explains when I tell him. “That’s the new thing now for straight guys. Go to a gay club and hit on the only girl there.”</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Is nothing sacred?</span></i></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Mercifully, the next night’s amusement is more straightforward. I meet up with friends who have just left the office at 10pm on a Friday. We drink at the Park, a multi-level parking garage converted into a bar in the post-industrial block on the West side</span></span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. Impressive hanging gardens, inventive lighting, hardwood floors, and an elegant bar graced each floor. It was as if Shangri-la took over a parking garage.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Later in the evening I meet up with a friend formerly living in New Orleans. He took me to the Freedom Party at LPR in the Village. Packed tightly with an impressive array of attractive thirty-somethings, mostly African-Americans, it is clear that most of the patrons were either artists, musicians or yuppies. A DJ is playing awesome soul and R&B, a handful of Asian guys are painting on a canvas on a stage, and footage from old favorites like Good Times is being projected on a movie-theatre-sized screen. Possibly one of the top ten coolest parties I’ve ever been to.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgovvHY6twPMOKBikB851sFUkzFba2WNRDnjqgcgdYw0E4lZYtLmTh8ZfxIiP936gbwhkSrULBsNmLEdOnbq3wVkaFIQjL6thKu-BH2yIGKBqbMobDmz5TJ0mcOigOLSnW0nsXQRZkJ9za/s400/IMAG0163.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645027625870281106" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 240px; " /></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But in New York, my safe haven is in the borough of Queens, </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">designated by the U.S. Census as one of the most ethnically diverse segmen</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ts of the country. In Flushing Chinatown, a friend and I watch a vendor hand-stretch freshly-made noodles and ladle out a white pepper broth into a bowl sprinkled with fresh cilantro and pieces of roasted lamb. If I could I would tell you the name of the place, or even the nondescript strip mall in which it is tucked, but I do not speak or read Chinese.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegB2geE6Y8AmFlo3HfT0J8ksPVEFJRw8a1j9jWd_SmfqfhGRhWZkQhBcJisokJnYpxNRjMCOBWwfKUyo97s9z_ZWFue1P8LgPCmln7b9Ndc-bjk7RiveHx93m6coHzPrnWj51ebfM3AsW/s400/IMAG0170.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645027849913160914" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 400px; " /></span></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span></span></span></div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We hop over to the Czech section of Astoria and grab a couple of pitchers of Staropronnen beer at the Czech beer garden, a facility which doubles as a community center for the local Slovakian and Czech community.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We also stop by the Egyptian section of Steinway Street, where we idle the time away at my favorite hookah cafe, playing go fish and backgammon, smoking mango-flavored hashish and sipping mint tea.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">New York is a place you can fall in love with. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And a place where life can disappoint just as hard.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I end the night by meeting up with more friends, and after hours of great conversation, an old friend decides to</span></span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> break my heart by relentlessly making passes at me while his girlfriend of over a decade sleeps peacefully in their shared apartment a few blocks away. I end the night by rushing out of the bar by myself and into cold, torrential rain, taxis being snatched from under me one after another by a few different groups of men. I eventually make it to my bed at 6:00am via subway, cold and shivering. </span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">There’s just not much chivalry in this town.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">On my last day, I am content to meet with more friends, two of whom I met on a glacier in Alaska, and one of whom I’ve known since I was a baby in California. We hunker down in a newly-opened, shoebox-sized, cavern-like wine bar at Vin sur Vingt in the Village, sipping French wines served by a French waiter who speaks no English and tucks his silk lavender tie into his shirt. My friends and I chat about everything from traveling, to professions, to my grandma and her incense.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">New York is a state of mind. I once called it home, but looking back, it never really was. At any given time in those four years I was either anxious, stimulated, or entertained, but never relaxed. And so still is this the case. My visit was like meeting up with an old boyfriend in the best-case scenario; glad to see you again, but no regrets that it didn’t work out. There were good, solid reasons it didn’t.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span>
<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">As I sit on the plane waiting to return down South, I am sad to leave so many friends from all walks of life, but I am content to know that New York is one of those special places in which I will always be able to see the most amazing and the most horrible things on this planet. Millions of people, yet it so easy to feel lonely, overworked, or confused in this town. </span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">
<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Best of all about New York, like many places, a visit here has reminded me how lucky I am to be able to go home elsewhere.</span></span></span></p>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-49693631201768373382011-08-07T21:20:00.000-07:002011-08-08T00:57:30.713-07:00A Different Kind of Southern California Commute<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqE6mc7-jVuxppGpnkfkDe1PsRlvCoHfkjjscgDRCGFsynz7QHmMD-adComhJHs0Rzlmn_MdrIMO7xCER96bfSkVf2nLY-XNg8rH9ZySd-dZQvyPOTfY4G4a7a6weJUhI2RwHD9-L43eII/s1600/IMAG0121.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqE6mc7-jVuxppGpnkfkDe1PsRlvCoHfkjjscgDRCGFsynz7QHmMD-adComhJHs0Rzlmn_MdrIMO7xCER96bfSkVf2nLY-XNg8rH9ZySd-dZQvyPOTfY4G4a7a6weJUhI2RwHD9-L43eII/s400/IMAG0121.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638337418096918066" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It often seems that the places I know the least are the ones in which I spent the most time. I grew up in Southern California, but spent most of the eighteen years I lived there planning and scheming how to escape. Its mild weather, shopping malls, plentiful produce and easy living were lost on someone who yearned for something more, somewhere different. I left the minute I could and have never regretted leaving; At the same time, I recently have started to enjoy learning more about the place where I grew up when I return annually for family visits.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I remember, vividly, the Southern Californian car culture. I remember growing up that one's wheels (four of them) were one's identity, and to ride a bike, for transportation or for pleasure was passe after the age of twelve. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I also remember smog alerts, periods of time during which the Department of Public Health mandated that all children, elderly, and pets stay inside because of poor air quality. On those days the skies were grey with a layer of brown suspended low above our upward-gazing heads. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But this was not always so; skies were not always brown and cars not always so ubiquitous. As early as the 1870's, Los Angeles had a mass transit rail system that thrived, so much so that it was strategically and systematically bought out and dismantled by General Motors, Firestone Tires, and Standard Oil in the early 1940's. (The three companies were later held liable in Federal Court for doing so in L.A. and numerous other cities; but the systems remained inoperative.) By the 1950's, the stage in Los Angeles was set for an era of cars and car culture.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">This phenomenon, combined with its position as one of the world's the largest shipping ports, and its geographic position downwind of a number of oil refineries, has left Long Beach polluted. Long Beach suffers from air quality two to three times worse than contiguous cities, and on windless days, this fact is visible.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In response, the City of Long Beach is spinning its wheels to reform itself as "The Most Bike Friendly City in America" (as touted on a recently-unveiled bike sculpture in front of its City Hall). Raising $17 million in federal funds to improve and expand its existing bike trail system, Long Beach boasts five bike paths separated from street traffic comprising 60 miles in length; already 20 of a contemplated 100 miles of streets will be resurfaced to include bike lanes and sharrow lanes. Plans include replacement of entire street lanes with separated bikeways. It is even considering the eradication of parallel parking in certain areas to make way for bikes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The timing of my annual family visit could not have been better. Just weeks before a planned ride through the Florida Keys, I am in need of serious training rides. Already familiar with the four-mile coastal trail, I was happy to see the bike improvements unveiled since my visit last year. I decided to hit both familiar and unfamiliar pavement.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My ride starts by riding from my parents' house to the pier in a stone's throw away and in perfect site of the historic Queen Mary cruise ship; then up to the lighthouse scenic point. It is a favorite ride and one I've completed with my parents, sisters, nieces and nephews dozens of times. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">At the end of the eight miles roudtrip, I meander through Los Alamitos harbor, gazing at expensive yachts, and hit another route, which leads me to the San Gabriel River Trail. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Like many rivers that historically served the area as a natural resource, the San Gabriel River meanders through a multitude of sectors of representing different facets of local life and economy. It is early afternoon and there are dozens of bike enthusiasts, many of whom are clad in techie microfiber gear as they perch on streamline frames with tiny tires. In their good company, I first take the trail to Seal Beach, where I stop to stand above the ocean waves, observing surfers and beach bums in their natural habitat. Turning in the other direction, I pass by stretches of nurseries, oil refineries active chimneys, homes, oil wells assiduously digging, and factories delivering their effluent into the river. I weave past groves, and underneath highway overpasses. Where the trail meets the LA River trail, I ride for only minutes when I pass by dozens of homeless encampments, before I turn back around.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Later in the evening, I hop back on the trail with my parents and we stop at the pier, gazing at the Queen Mary. There are dozens of families cruising the trail, and a local restaurant has erected a large, inflatable screen on the beach for a free viewing of a Harry Potter movie. The trail is busier than a shopping mall and far more amusing.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Much to my parents' chagrin, for a number of solid, legitimate reasons, I have no plans to return to California to live. But I have come to enjoy observing the evolution of the state over time, much as I enjoy watching my nieces and nephews age and mature through the years. I have seen this state's legislature enact laws that restricted water use for lawn watering in times of drought, that created a curbside recycling program, that required payment for paper grocery bags, and that prohibited the use of plastic ones. And while the river trails existed even in my teenage years before cycling was on my radar, never before has it been so easy to ride there from my parents' house. With a growing bike culture weaving its paths through California's automotive history, its smoggy skies, its, prolific industry, Long Beach is almost like a tableau of what our society does to stave off armageddon. It is a lesson of what happens and what can be done after extreme spurts of growth.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I now live in New Orleans. For better or worse, short of a miracle, Louisiana will never experience a California-esque increase in population or economic growth; Even the worse day of downtown traffic pales in comparison to a Los Angelino rush hour, and Louisiana skies are not yet brown enough to mandate smog alerts. But, like California of 20 years ago, there is no curbside recycling in Louisiana. And like California of 70 years ago, oil companies continue to adopt lawless practices for the sake of profit maximization (read--Deepwater Horizon oil spill). Even in this sleepy swamp state I now call home, I say there are lessons to be learned from California.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I say let's all go for a bike ride.</span></div><div> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgn0kmEf0vFSJEh1EHZdyrBiSoKHuTwHiEuTV2PvIhTFrutIV-32_fiNf3jHMl47FOsxtyvuo_DkOTJyzh8c3AamkAzGQaQyctL2Wf9woEVKjlM8wsmEu-KelqZj3yrOBSFcdkJUt_Kn-/s1600/IMAG0114.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgn0kmEf0vFSJEh1EHZdyrBiSoKHuTwHiEuTV2PvIhTFrutIV-32_fiNf3jHMl47FOsxtyvuo_DkOTJyzh8c3AamkAzGQaQyctL2Wf9woEVKjlM8wsmEu-KelqZj3yrOBSFcdkJUt_Kn-/s400/IMAG0114.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638337287829103378" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsD3bKqFcbEPRAso9lLVy8A5Nrykg_iExA3eHYCR6JCrttKTFyvPDooa1GsvLzRTe4pfe79-3EdE00i_CjYw5mVniDn2LWXny-E-XXVjYhkvg61jSW3Z-2b4MAdtjgcJmuiltB6VH9Ucm0/s1600/GetAttachment-4.aspx.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-91159925557956265982011-07-24T10:46:00.000-07:002011-08-04T16:31:03.887-07:00Trail Ride to the Fountain of Youth<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY0FSqE1Tq3My_Ho_zlu5QvvN9TqstDibIT0bkO-4hgbpokIi2kzu4SR23_A4zfeXF-yIdcNeujQYhtz8Fv4mzhKVZ_4q14A5qPkvSBuETztYtLJ0dabd7G9L995JQBV3sGe9mBfnhNdO4/s1600/P7171813.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4uXRBqbMJtNKEaIiJMCxo882ZBbiiclI8E-quMpiXOFlSJg_9GjmjgY8O0xs74hphRUHC2Z4XwQ2ITeENJg7O0DlbEhyeZeVhwznD62oRTY0RhbWzShKVhR4eBLJ_4d2BId1KZfhcPVjl/s1600/P7171803.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 330px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4uXRBqbMJtNKEaIiJMCxo882ZBbiiclI8E-quMpiXOFlSJg_9GjmjgY8O0xs74hphRUHC2Z4XwQ2ITeENJg7O0DlbEhyeZeVhwznD62oRTY0RhbWzShKVhR4eBLJ_4d2BId1KZfhcPVjl/s400/P7171803.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633023621811534066" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3t7bwC_fy6OjuJsSpkZzl2tn_pG8qimVs7We6zcC-6UkvqfHSylerhHnlhBQyd6v_eeKLVAKV1q0CKlJn1AyKBBj9rN_0w9LovJPumh2FmS_yjjT_AyO4dI7V7Yb_QzPnPNWS41FKG9Uw/s1600/P7171812.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Isn't it a lovely day for a bike ride?!" I exclaim cheerily on the phone at 10am on Saturday. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I am lobbying hard on this call as I am restless, not having been able to sit on my bike for days due to good old-fashioned Southern flash floods down here in New Orleans.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A mild 85 degrees Farenheit, only a dab of humidity, with the sun shining pleasantly--this is a rare phenomemon on a mid-summer's day here. I knew that the odds of talking my friend Clancy into driving 45 minutes away to Mandeville, cycling ten miles to Abita Springs Brewery, and then ten miles back with a belly full of beer, were a little higher on a stunning day like today. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The small time adventure for du jour was to begin in Mandeville, the 1830's development of real estate baron Bernard Xavier de Marigny de Mandeville who also owned a plantation in New Orleans located in the present-day neighborhood of Marigny, adjacent to the French Quarter. With its milder climate and proximity to Abita Springs, Mandeville began as a weekend getaway for the well-to-do of New Orleans who would take a steamboat across Lake Pontchartrain, listening to live music being played on board by jazz greats such as Kid Ory and Papa Celestin. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Without neither a steamboat nor New Orleans wealth, Mandeville is still an attractive destination to me on this sunny Saturday. The plan was to drive 24 miles over Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, on the longest over-water bridge in the world. Originally the brainchild of de Marigny, his vision was to create artificial islands in the Lake linking them with the Causeway like the Florida Keys. The islands were never created, but the bridge eventually was in 1948 by the state legislature. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">From there I proposed a ten mile bike ride along the Tammany Trace Trail. Formerly a railroad track, the once-abandoned trail system was purchased by St. Tammany Parish from the Illinois Central Railroad in the early 1990's and converted into a bike and pedestrian path using local and federal dollars. Thirty-one miles with thirty-one bridges from beginning to end, today it still connects the towns of Covington, Abita Springs, Mandeville, Lacombe, and Slidell, passing through natural springs, a state park, and suburban neighborhoods, over swamps and streets and former train trestles. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And, like all good adventures in this part of the world, the journey planned involves a good drink. Our trip was to take us to Abita Springs, home of Abita Brewery. Formerly a settlement of Choctaw Indians, the small town was inhabited by French settlers in the 1700's. By the early 1900's, like Mandeville, Abita Springs also became a weekend getaway for the New Orleans elite who took advantage of cooler climates and cleaner waters created by natural springs. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In the 1980's the waters took on an equally therapeutic purpose, becoming the home base for Abita Brewery, now one of the most popular and ubiquitous of a large handful of local breweries in the New Orleans area. Abita beer is a faithful old pal of mine at each and every bar I've met down here. So naturally, once at Abita Brewery, the agenda included a tour of the current brewery, lunch at the former brewery now serving as a pub, and then a cycle back to our car in Mandeville.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Sure," Clancy utters, with a bit of sleep, a mild hangover, and overall reluctance in his voice.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Not many are willing to schlepp out of New Orleans on the weekends, but as a recent </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">divorce</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, for the time being, Clancy is somewhat of a captive audience for my ideas of adventure.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">By noon we arrive in Mandeville. It is just over the lake and barely forty minutes away, yet it is as different as possible from the Big Easy as can be. Driving to the trailhead in old Mandeville, we cruise by large cookie-cutter houses sandwiched side-by-side to one another, large surburban mom-mobiles, dogs and picket fences. We arrive at the trailhead next to the old depot where there is a Saturday open-air market going on with middle-aged ladies selling pickled okra, pickled eggs, pickled pickles, quilts, elaborate dog ties involving glitter and gold lame, and other handicrafts native to the North American housewife. We could have easily been in the Mid-West, Upstate New York, or anywhere USA. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When Clancy and I finally begin our bike ride, I am delighted by the pristine, paved trail flanked on either side by tall pine trees and ground cover foliage. It reminds me of the Campbell Creek Trails in Anchorage, Alaska, near my old apartment, though I am certain I won't have to deal with charging moose here. On this trail we pass over and ride next to swamps, with pockets of cool air delivered from nearby springs. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Without the honking cars, cat-calling, crater-sized potholes, and on-going construction that I've become accustomed to on my daily commute to work in New Orleans, the ride on Tammany Trace seems to last forever. My vehicle of choice is my cheap but trusty old second-hand mountain bike with hybrid tires; Clancy's bike is even cheaper, a heavy steel frame with cruiser tires, resembling something from a Pippi Longstocking movie. But we are not in Alaska, and so there is nothing wrong with our low-rent gear on this beautifully paved trail on this Louisiana day.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Without the usual survival-mandated stimulation, we are footloose and fancy free, feeling 15 years younger. We carry a conversation, race eachother, capture some dramatic action shots with our phones, watch turtles pass underneath one of the trail bridges, and exchange brilliantly clever jokes involving a turtle hospital. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">By the time we arrive at Abita Springs, the sun starts to rear its cruel, unforgiving head and it begins to heat up, and we have sweat through our shirts. Abita Springs is a charmingly restored town, with a restored train depot and the Abita Opry music venue. There is a medium-sized outdoor pavilion designed by turn-of-the-century New Orleans architect Thomas Sully, and a park with a play area for children. I begin to feel as if I am on the set of one of my favorite tv shows from my childhood, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Little House</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> on the Prairie, and begin walking around when it starts to sprinkle, immediately creating dampness under the powerful Louisiana sun. Upon inquiring as to the whereabout of the brewery, we are directed about a mile or so further down the trail.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Clancy and I make haste as the sky quickly descends into an opaque grey. About a quarter of a mile down the trail, large barricades appear, and behind it, a half-naked trestle under construction for restoration. Determined to sip a free pint of beer (or two), we walk our bikes down what looks like a former ravine, now possibly a horse trail. After crossing a narrow footbridge over a spring, we quickly ascend another horse trail nearby and find ourselves on a stretch of wide road behind a large, industrial-looking building. At last.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Upon locking our bikes to a stop sign in front of the brewery--the only bikes in front of the brewery--we make our way inside and it begins to thunder. We are a pair of soggy, mangey mutts by the time we make it to the courtyard, waiting with about 75 others to enter the brewery and start the tour. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Where New Orleans is a hodgepodge of colorful characters, local and transplants of different races and sizes, just outside of town here, I am surrounded by what looks like an alumni party of LSU. There are large men in polo shirts, and women with full faces of makeup, ironed hair, and revealing tank tops. And there are lots of them. And then there is Clancy, barely 115 pounds, skinny little white legs protruding from damp jean shorts, thick-rimmed glasses perched on his Irish, freckled face; and then there's me, also soggy, but Asian, well-tanned, flip flops, an old exercise shirt and a pair of well-loved hiking shorts brought down from the mountains of Alaska. Unlike in New Orleans, no one is speaking to us and we stick out like sore thumbs, being tossed about in line by people noticeably larger and dryer than us, all of us thirsty for beer.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After sipping a free pint for 20 minutes, the tour still has not begun, and I'm not enthusiastic about watching yet another non-informative informational video with objectively bad synthesizer music blaring in the background, packed in line like sardines with sorority girls and large frat guys. With a break in the weather, Clancy and I decide to return to our bikes to make it back to old Abita Springs, so that we can eat lunch at the old brewery pub on the other side of the horse trail. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Only after we ride away does the thunder and lightning strike, rain coming down like water out of a spigot. I am nervous as is Clancy, on his old school bike made with enough steel that could probably conduct electricity better than a lightning rod. His tiny white freckled legs are spinning the fastest I've ever seen them, and by the time I catch up to him, he has hopped off his bike. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But, instead of making his way down the trail in the same artful manner he did before, I watch him hurl his bike down the ravine like a bag of potato chips. He runs down the trail, into the cover of the forest, chasing his bike seat which has flown off the bike en route into a couple trees. The panic and calamity reduces us both into peels of laughter, and on our way to the old brewery pub, I watch his seat pop off a couple more times. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I'm fine," he claims between chuckles. "With a little butt pressure, the seat will be fine." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Eventually we arrive at the pub. Once perched on bar stools inside, we are surrounded by a magical row of glowing taps. I select my third Abita light for the day and he picks an amber. We practically swallow our burgers whole, chase them down with fries, and sip more beer, hoping the weather will relent.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But even after more than an hour, it refuses to do so. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY0FSqE1Tq3My_Ho_zlu5QvvN9TqstDibIT0bkO-4hgbpokIi2kzu4SR23_A4zfeXF-yIdcNeujQYhtz8Fv4mzhKVZ_4q14A5qPkvSBuETztYtLJ0dabd7G9L995JQBV3sGe9mBfnhNdO4/s400/P7171813.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633023736422013058" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 311px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Deciding to tackle the unavoidable, we wheel our way home for ten miles. I'm having troubles seeing through the drops assaulting my face. Clancy's keys fly from his pocket at least twice. His seat leans to and fro, popping off now and again. I am now less appreciative of the cooler temperatures making this Louisiana rain an uncharacteristically cold one, creating a bit of a chill in me. Riding through the sheets of water coming down on us slows our pace. It's a ridiculous situation, stressful really, but at least the lightning has more or less stopped and we are kept warm by hilarious laughter with every mishap. It's the response of children who are without a care in the world. Or adults who are a little tipsy with a little beer and a little fear.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">An hour later we are at the car, sobered up by the ride and the rain. Our hands are shriveled from being submerged in water for so long, and our bellies are sore from laughing so hard. On our drive back to the city, water oozes from my clothing onto his car seat and pools up underneath on the floorboards. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Sometimes I have really stupid ideas. I have not lived here very long, but I know Louisiana well enough to understand the phenomenon of flash floods, even on the sunniest summer day. But the thought of a trail ride, the thought of funny little old towns just outside of big time New Orleans drove me to defy logic on a momentarily clear Saturday morning bookended by days of flash flooding. What is the source of my annoyingly persistent quest for a small time adventure? Maybe I do it to keep from getting bored of the place I live in. Maybe I do it to keep my mind stimulated. Maybe I do these things to keep me looking young; well into my thirties, I am often mistaken for being ten years younger. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Or maybe it was just the beer.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3t7bwC_fy6OjuJsSpkZzl2tn_pG8qimVs7We6zcC-6UkvqfHSylerhHnlhBQyd6v_eeKLVAKV1q0CKlJn1AyKBBj9rN_0w9LovJPumh2FmS_yjjT_AyO4dI7V7Yb_QzPnPNWS41FKG9Uw/s400/P7171812.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633023482689877234" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-16475852867941076142011-07-12T21:38:00.000-07:002011-07-12T23:56:43.547-07:00Come Dancing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgynbIBURJB5RDHdoUb6RbhHHuDsL56K4aMdlFFXRQvTGXVmLt7He8mTwg8BHQFGDLnzliL_bUnSGzU4T6gGvd0Fkq-2Qx7TdM-yFgdIwXFhOwumh7p9-mmiqZ1XH_EJdfU77tjouQd2t38/s1600/P6250696.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgynbIBURJB5RDHdoUb6RbhHHuDsL56K4aMdlFFXRQvTGXVmLt7He8mTwg8BHQFGDLnzliL_bUnSGzU4T6gGvd0Fkq-2Qx7TdM-yFgdIwXFhOwumh7p9-mmiqZ1XH_EJdfU77tjouQd2t38/s320/P6250696.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628692521430909074" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My sister should have come in at midnight,<br />And my mum would always sit up and wait.<br />It always ended up in a big row<br />When my sister used to get home late.<br /><br />Now I'm grown up and playing in a band,<br />And there's a car park where the Palais used to stand.<br />My sister's married and she lives on an estate.<br />Her daughters go out, now it's her turn to wait.<br />She lets them get away with things she never could,<br />But if I asked her I wonder if she would,</span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Come dancing!</span></i><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Come on sister, </span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Have yourself a ball.</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Don't be afraid to come dancing,</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It's only natural.</span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">- the Kinks</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It was Friday night when I stood there in BMC on Frenchman Street in New Orleans with two friends, gawking, all of us at once disgusted and intrigued at the site before me our eyes as if we were staring at a car accident. Two Australian tourists, young males in their early twenties, are wooing two young ladies by gyrating wildly to the music, incorporating moves reminiscent of the late '70's, involving wide-leg stances and shoulder popping movements. The young men were talking--no--screaming at the women in painfully thick Australian accents as they tanked up with more drink. My friends and I are forced to step outside, laughing so hard tears well up in our eyes.<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Though I was admittedly entertained in a macabre sort of way, I would have been disappointed if that had been a premonition of my weekend.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Luckily, Frenchman Street and surrounding blocks are stuffed to the gills with at least a dozen music clubs, playing a multitude of genres for the musically hungry. We amble down the street only to discover Frenchman's newest venue Mojitos, which has replaced a reggae-metal club I used to revile on a regular basis. Upon passing through the gates I step into another world, or at least another country. My friends and are are part of the handful of non-Latinos present, and not a hipster is to be found on the premises, on a street that is frequently choked with horn-rimmed glasses and plaid button-up shirts.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At Mojitos, the music is sung in Spanish with Cuban rhythms. Tonight there is a band with youngish members, about 10 of them; men on the horns, drums, guitars, and vocals, and a steamy bass player woman with mermaid like hair wearing leopard print. They are playing fast-moving salsa music, and the crowd has the moves. I dare not entangle myself in this new language, but rather enjoy a tecate beer with lime as my friends and I stand under the misters dangling above in the open-air courtyard which is doubling as a dance floor. This band and these dancers are </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">muy</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> cool.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On Saturday, a unanimous decision is made to go dancing at Mimi's in the Marigny. Not much of a clubber myself, I agree to go because it is old-school funk night, and because I've not yet been. This, and every night is hipster night, but the funk brings all sorts in, providing a refreshing range of race and scenes. Serious hip-hop dancers are abound, as are sorority girl types in addition to the status quo Marigny matrons of hip. The DJ is a woman in her forties, mixed-race donning an impressive set of dreadlocks. And, after sufficient social lubricant is imbibed at the reasonably-priced bar, my friends and I are dancing. Tonight is the first night in years I have danced to anything being played by a DJ.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Well-rested but still tired on Sunday, I have the urge to end my dancing days weekend Cajun style. Since having learned to play the old-time fiddle almost a decade ago, most of my dancing days are few and far between and involve a partner and American roots music derived from folkways. Cajun two-step dancing is my favorite because for a clutz like me, all one needs is simply to be able to count to two. That, and the fact that one is not alone; with a half-decent dance partner, two left feet can be transformed in Ginger Rogers. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A historic and world-famous music venue, Tipitina's hosts a Cajun dance every Sunday, the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">fais do-do</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. So named for the French phrase of endearment gently urging children to go to bed, it is said that such was the name for the Cajun dance parties that followed suite after the children were tucked away under the covers in Cajun days of old. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have been to Tipitina's fais do-do on prior occasion, and recall a dimly-lit dance floor with men and women of all ages, women in dresses and heels with flowers in their hair, aptly led to dance gracefully to the lilting accordion and fiddle music being played live on stage. It is old-fashioned, but a very musical and very charming way to end the weekend. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Arriving at Tipitina's door with my friend and favorite New Orleans Cajun dance partner Clancy, we are chagrined to learn that this is the one weekend it is canceled. Scratching our heads and our smartphones for an alternative, we make our way to Mulate's Cajun Restaurant.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Nestled next to the convention center and the tourist-laden Riverwalk, we find exactly what one finds next to a convention center and a tourist-laden Riverwalk; boatloads of overweight tourists sitting around tables eating overpriced food, listening to live Cajun music played at a remarkably slow tempo suitable for a tourist-dinner scene. We belly up to the bar and order what end up being possibly the most expensive drinks I have ever purchased in New Orleans. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Perched with our beverages, we watch the dance floor, which is surprisingly studded with a handful of knowledgeable dancers. We conjecture as to whether they came with the band from some small bayou town outside of the city. I recognize the fiddler, in his twenties, as a man I exchange old time fiddle tunes for Cajun ones on previous occasions here in town. Other than him, the remainder of the band are seasoned middle-aged men, who resemble the dance floor denizens.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"That cute couple reminds me so much of my parents," shares Clancy. I look over at the dance floor.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Yeah, except that your dad has both his arms," I state, observing that the sleeve of the man is tied in a knot.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After 20 minutes we finish sipping our overpriced cocktails. Clancy and I are spoiled, having been to Lafayette and Eunice to barns and outdoor patio saloons with dynamic, for-dancers-only rhythm. Musicians there play music that would leave these diners covered in sawdust.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Come on, Clancy," I plea. "I know this is really dinner music, but let's just have one dance for the road." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As neophytes to the Cajun-dancing cause, Clancy and I are having a difficult time matching the traditional two-step to the dinner-tempo and fumble a bit. At the break, he yells "Play faster!" in French. Clancy, a bi-lingual first-grade teacher learned his French living in Paris for a year, and it shows. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Clancy! Can you not sound like such a Parisian, man? Cajuns might not dig that!" I plea as he laughs. Immediately, one-arm beelines towards us with his partner. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Where are you from?" he asks.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I immediately prepare to apologize when he explains that his dance partner is a French native, teaching at another of the public bi-lingual grade schools in New Orleans. She and Clancy exchange questions and banter when another tune picks up. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We trade partners for a waltz. My partner is surprisingly graceful and leads me through a series of well-timed steps with his remaining arm. We must have been a strange pair; a thirty-something year old Asian-American in a dress and a heavy-set middle-aged white Louisianan native with one arm, wearing a blue denim button-up shirt with one sleeve tied, cowboy boots, and suspenders. We are sauntering in the traditional circular conformation around the dance floor when I notice that we are being recorded by a multitude of iphones.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Clancy and I continue on for half a dozen more songs. At the break I introduce him to the fiddler and meet the rest of the band hailing from the tiny little town of Bayou Lafourche in the heart of Cajun country a few hours westward. We talk about old-time music, and Cajun music, and Cajun dance. The bandleader is embarrassed to confess that he plays on Bourbon Street but invites us to watch their gigs in Cajun country proper some day. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Eventually Clancy and I leave. Though not the fais do-do I was expecting, I feel complete having made some funny Cajun connections and sneaking in a couple Cajun two-steps before putting the weekend to rest.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I once had a Vietnamese language teacher in Vietnam share with me her observation: "It's funny. Asians seem to love to sing karaoke. Westerners seem to love to dance." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">What is it that makes one feel the need to move in a rhythm? And why is it so ubiquitous in some places and not in others?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I think dancing is beautiful, even just to watch. When I had an oldtime band in Alaska, what I loved most was playing square and contradance gigs. I never really connected with the dance itself complicated with its multitude of moves; nor did I connect with most of the typical Alaskan attendees of middle-aged folks wearing socks and birkenstocks, both men and women donning long, pony-tailed hair. But I found magical the phenomenon of seeing a community of people moving in time to the notes and rhythms emanating from my instrument. They were so synchronized to the music, and we musicians were so synchronized to their dancing. When done gracefully, it always struck me as a beautiful way to engage with other people.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I love that a girl can go to a dance in this town on any given night of the week. Swing at the Spotted Cat, Maison, the WWII Museum. Zydeco and Cajun two-step at Tipitina's, Mulates, Rock N Bowl. Funk it out at Mimi's. You name it, you can dance it in New Orleans. I've never lived in a place where I had the option of making this part of my normal routine until I moved to Louisiana.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This weekend I will be training for a bike trip through the Florida Keys I will be taking in August. I will attempt to ride 20 miles this Saturday, and 44 miles on Sunday. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And then, I think I will reward myself Sunday evening with a fais do-do at Tipitina's.</span></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-29827074520885347882011-07-03T09:24:00.000-07:002011-07-03T17:23:50.641-07:00Change<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBR5a1kr2pqTqpD92H4ocwSb7-wDNQRGGQJDnNRhuJRmVDay5dIIC5csKBaEfw3CB1fmT7fsEwgiOxU5SJdRS5njijQ67TJHer6j84Zc6sLxCi0XhcgXRDs5jWbtGeVZmvttEyjXc5tMf/s1600/008.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBR5a1kr2pqTqpD92H4ocwSb7-wDNQRGGQJDnNRhuJRmVDay5dIIC5csKBaEfw3CB1fmT7fsEwgiOxU5SJdRS5njijQ67TJHer6j84Zc6sLxCi0XhcgXRDs5jWbtGeVZmvttEyjXc5tMf/s400/008.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625227581079889858" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9JVtv_Yn0VqVakpJkpAqCNUo4zOUI2Zv5dtoZDyQnq3vv35YjxG6BCWGrJT42YvCsVhBbbc91uBK5LztcrdLhT30JJGeXGHSKuCia5khXOsl5AcniSIISwQFh2aPkSruzvbp36VbJII9/s1600/La+Salle+Demo+%2526+Me.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></a></div><span class="body"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Only the wisest and the stupidest never change.</span></i></span></span><div><span class="body"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-- </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Confucius</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></b></span></i></span><div><span class="bodybold"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It is 93</span></span></span><span class="bodybold" style=" font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="bodybold"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">degrees Farenheit and my colleauges, boss, and I are standing on a grass street divider, directly under the blazing sun in the middle one of the major arteries in the Central City neighborhood of New Orleans. Before our eyes is a bulldozer, well in the process of demolishing a decrepit, two-story commercial building that stood in Central City for decades. It is the culmination of over six months of much legal, real estate development, and social work involving just about everyone in the office. And at this very moment, the shell of the building is being reduced to a collection of dried siding, crushed up like burnt out matchsticks.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="bodybold"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When it stood, at various points in time the building housed Woods' Barber Shop, a handful of small commercial businesses, and possibly a handful of apartment units. By the time it was purchased from a local church by my place of employ, a local nonprofit housing developer, it was for the most part a behemoth of a building, with barely a facade; the rear of the building had fallen out long ago. But Mr. Woods' barber shop, an institution through the decades, remained, as did a squatter in the unit over the barbershop. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9JVtv_Yn0VqVakpJkpAqCNUo4zOUI2Zv5dtoZDyQnq3vv35YjxG6BCWGrJT42YvCsVhBbbc91uBK5LztcrdLhT30JJGeXGHSKuCia5khXOsl5AcniSIISwQFh2aPkSruzvbp36VbJII9/s400/La+Salle+Demo+%2526+Me.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625215952149709794" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Months ago when its file landed on my desk after closing, the building caused a stir. In addition to the building, on the premise also stood a trailer the size of a small house from which a local business sort of operated, a non-operational pick-up truck, and a cargo container full of just about anything imaginable including medical equipment. The sole proprietor of the trailer had begun demolishing the structure himself and removed his items two weeks before closing but then suddenly abandoned his efforts without notice. By the time my workplace had closed on the building, he was nowhere to be found. The staff construction manager arranged the proper demolition of the half burnt-out trailer and removal of the truck. I reviewed the closing documents, finding no evidence of a lease, and referred the matter to legal counsel for consultation on the legally proper procedure for eviction of the squatter. Simultaneously, two to three other staff members assiduously made contact with the squatter to connect him with alternative housing and case management services. Arrangements were made for the elderly barber to move shop to the neighboring building which was in the process of redevelopment and slated for operation in another three months. But three months turned into four, five, six...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">An elderly man, Mr. Woods supported numerous children through university, with the same hands, now calloused and hardened, that continue to hold clippers and shears today. On any given work day, one can still spot at least three cars parked in front of his shop, middle-aged children escorting their elderly parents with walkers to get a haircut from the only acceptable barber in all of New Orleans. Little more than a couple of barber chairs behind a window with the words Woods Barber painted on them, for decades Mr. Woods and his patrons have withstood the test of time and maintained their places in the world. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Both Mr. Woods and the squatter above were loathe to relocate, despite the obvious hazards to their well-being posed by decay of the building itself. It was rumored that the squatter's dog fell through the floorboards prior to my work's acquisition of the place.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Eventually, both parted ways with the building, Mr. Woods relocating to his new location just next door. So too left the squatter, with sadness but without hostility. Within months before demolition, the squatter was spending little time in the building himself, but his personal possessions remained, in some strange sort of way staking his claim at a life which seemed to match the building in its phases of decay. Eventually he moved out his belongings, making as many separate trips back as possible, for papers, odds and ends, empty keg containers.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On this scorching afternoon, the demolition crew conduct the procedural check through the structure to find it empty. And I wander around it as well, relieved that this attractive nuisance and eyesore no longer has a chance to cause harm. In less than a year at this job, I have come to find solace in the demolitions of structures blighted beyond repair that scourge the city.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But I recognize that this sentiment towards demolition is not always shared. I wasn't with my parents in California ten years ago when the burned out remnants of their home of over twenty years was demolished after a fire. And I wasn't living in New Orleans yet when three of the crime-ridden public housing projects in Central City were demolished, the homes of thousands of families. Having partnered in the rebuilding efforts of one of those projects as mixed-income rental apartments, I am well aware that the efforts of my workplace are not unanimously greeted with open arms, regardless of subsequent drops in crime or any improved quality of life for low-income residents. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But when the building crashes down into rubble, my attention is immediately diverted to the mailman who is standing behind me on the sidewalk. He is clapping hands, a quiet smile on his face. Passing cars are honking and cheering. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As the din of the bulldozer continues, I look behind me at the Flint-Goodridge Building. Formerly an African-American hospital with the only African-American medical doctors in New Orleans, it currently houses senior citizens, at least a dozen of whom have pulled out chairs in the past twenty minutes and are now perched under the shade of an oak tree. Their expressions are inscrutable and I cannot tell if they are glad or mad at the spectacle before them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Driven by heat of the sun to join them in the shade, I stand amongst them, a fish out of water, saying nothing other than the initial exchange of polite greetings. Though it is pretty obvious, I volunteer no information as to my involvement in this change and quietly enjoy the cool of the oak tree's shadow.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For the next fifteen minutes, a running commentary ensues. Some of the men nod their heads, others project which pieces of the buildings will fall next. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Yeah, I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">knew</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> there was nothing holding that part up," says one man.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I won't have to keep my curtains shut no more," says another.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">From the corner of my eye I see Mr. Woods quickly peak his head in and out of his new shop.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This month marks my one year anniversary in New Orleans. I moved here for the music, but I decided to stay for so many other reasons. On this blistering hot day, it occurs to me that perhaps one of those reasons is because the city is constantly pulsing. Smalltime explorers like me are frequently cursed with short attention spans, and change has a constant allure. Admittedly I am a nester, quick to cull together a home in all the crazy caves I've lived in, and I am also a creature of habit, searching out similar haunts in all the cities I've at one time called my home. Yet there is nothing more frightening to me than seeing nothing change in the world around me. Movement is the oxygen in the little fishbowl worlds I create for myself wherever I live. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In the past year, already I've witnessed blight come and go in this town. I've seen new restaurants with new ideas take the city by storm; I've also seen some old ones revived and reliving. As much New Orleans history, society, and architecture has remained the same, just as much in public housing, public education, and public funding in this town has changed. Whether it is for the better or worse is a longer conversation. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Later in the day, the staff discusses the plans for redevelopment of a small commercial building on the same site. Possible vendors are proposed: a small coffee shop run by an existing neighborhood nonprofit, a police substation, a used bike shop, business incubators for local entrepreneurs. And then, amongst the excited discussions of new plans, I am reminded that nothing is so simple. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I got my haircut the other day," interjects one colleague. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Mr. Woods says he is looking forward to moving back in when the new building is ready." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5el-tXjFnWXmCwvjiVNl0PfbQ5OQ1cw9ECdyI4oLqwtm11h28a5ww0OK-y7LWrsD-EqubV6UTu9y-N3AERb2Yt_BdLOdKDHl-sjwizpib-nTF-fkuxWaklVnsxGPTOX53MhDQxHiovpYc/s400/022.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625224393596179826" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 278px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Photos taken by Ben Trussell and used with permission</span></i></span></div></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-28773889111028839262011-06-20T21:18:00.000-07:002011-07-09T13:14:38.214-07:00Trade Winds on the Beach<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnbRV8kuB1vN8xqWasXrpYMhhvYDVBvKZB-DX2xunC8QgQvxf77NNVEvAZk6PNfAp95JeEsW_FeW8a-q-6KLD6aZydEQYk2hZD1bRNF-T4tRdDbt6n9D7bQYQdcX7qfO1Ccn_GGTQEmvv9/s1600/P6171811.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnbRV8kuB1vN8xqWasXrpYMhhvYDVBvKZB-DX2xunC8QgQvxf77NNVEvAZk6PNfAp95JeEsW_FeW8a-q-6KLD6aZydEQYk2hZD1bRNF-T4tRdDbt6n9D7bQYQdcX7qfO1Ccn_GGTQEmvv9/s400/P6171811.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620529602733411234" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><h1 style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; color: rgb(0, 51, 153); font-family:Arial, sans-serif;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;color:#003399;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></h1></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I can't change the direction of the wind, but I can adjust my sails to always reach my destination."</span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">- Jimmy Dean</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />One step outside and it hits you like a right hook in the gut. Heat. Sweltering, damp, oppressive heat, the kind that smothers you like a waterlogged, wool blanket. It's 96 degrees F, 85% humidity, and yes, it will get worse. You can't breathe, you can't think, it's so humid you can barely sweat--Instead of sweating, you just stick, as if someone had just applied a coat of gel on every exposed part of your sad, lifeless body. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Born and raised a Californian, my instincts in muggy New Orleans have driven me to search for a beach. Somewhere, anywhere I can catch a breeze and immerse myself in water to cool off. It doesn't even have to be ocean water. Just somewhere from which I can leave feeling crisp and refreshed, better-equipped to face an intemperately hot and humid climate. New Orleans is a city on the water, so much so, it has been a port city for hundreds of years, through which the trade winds pass. Its water is one of the reasons I moved here. So by all means, I should find my beach. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My first attempt was the mighty Mississippi River, just two blocks from my apartment. Within my first week here, I walked my dog along the levee, the "unofficial dog park" of the uptown area. He swam and fetched and frolicked in the water with other dogs. He ran with his big, goofy mouth agape, a smile hanging from his bowling ball-sized head. The water was pond-scum green, and instead of a breeze there was an aroma of barge fuel and trash. There was a homeless man swimming close by with sores covering his naked, sunburned body. It wasn't an ideal scene but I was happy to see my dog for the first time since our arrival relieved from the unforgiving swamp heat.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Common sense should have awoken me from my reverie earlier. The Mississippi flows about 2300 miles from Minnesota to Louisiana, serving as something of a sewage system for everyone in between, with New Orleans as its very last port of call. So it should not have been a surprise when my dog broke out into rashes, raised bumps and flaking skin over most of his body, leaving him almost incapacitated. He was cured only after I gave him enough antibiotics and other drugs to put out an elephant. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I end the night staying with my dog, the two of us on our balcony, overlooking St. Charles Ave. He lies on his side to cool down as I consolingly pet him, sipping the daiquiri I have picked up at the shop around the corner. We stay there for a few hours, both of us hoping his discomfort will leave as quickly as the antique street cars pass us by. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I change up my quest by replacing Mississippi River for Mississippi state. Less than an hour out of New Orleans, some friends and I pull over just past Waveland, MI. After a lunch of raw oysters and fried catfish at a beachfront bar, we walk on the white sand and over a large, unavoidable swath of oyster shells beginning on the wet sand and continuing into the water. I finally make it into the water. But once in, I realize immediately that something is not quite right.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I look around. The water, this Gulf of Mexico ocean water, is opaque brown. There is no hint of salt. It is warm. There are no waves. "Hey guys, the water is not salty," I point out to my companions, New Orleans transplants originally hailing from places like Kansas City, Chicago, and Atlanta. They all shrug their shoulders. But what do these people know of beaches?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It might have been bad karma for my California beach snobbery, but it was only me who suffered from itchy skin and rashes almost immediately after entering the water, lingering on for a few more days afterwards.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Son of a beach. Note to self: if it's tepid and you cannot see the bottom, neither myself or my dog should swim in it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We return to my beloved New Orleans where I meet up with other friends that same evening for a glass of wine and live Gypsy jazz at Bacchanal, my favorite outdoor venue. It is a decent consolation prize.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As the temperature creeped into 100 degrees F last week, I decide to continue the quest and meet up with some friends at Lake Pontchartrain, along a little-used beach with sand. Forty miles wide and 20 miles long, with a depth of 14 feet on average, 65 feet in some spots, to the naked eye Lake Pontchartrain looks more like an ocean than a lake. And, as a brackish combination of both salt and freshwater with a small opening to the ocean, it is infinitely cleaner than the Mississippi River, as proven by fairly regular water tests. I know both Milo and I will be safe after a swim, and I decide to ignore the fact that bodies have died in this body of water without being recovered over the years. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Salt. Remember the salt cleans everything</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, I remind myself. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But it was a hard fact to remember as my friends and I plop our belongings on the shore, only for one of us to state shortly after, </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I thing there's something dead right there."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Right where?" I ask.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Right there," My friend Clancy says, pointing at a mess of fur. Our friend Will walks over to aid in the inspection.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Milo get away!!!" I shriek in undisguised disgust.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"It's either a dog or a nutria," they both decide.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Clancy and Will decide to push it on shore to bury it. In their quest to remove it by lifting it from the water with a big stick, the corpse splits in half mid-air, splashing back into the water. Eventually, the once vibrant creature is subterranean, marked with a cross made of driftwood. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Having lost my appetite for a swim, I wander onto a small peninsula comprised of broken up concrete and dirt, as dogs and friends frolic close by. The breeze is constant the entire evening, and I can almost smell salt. We dine on a picnic of grilled skewers and Japanese buckwheat noodles with fresh scallions, washing it all down with gin cocktails and light beer. The sun, so much less threatening now in the presence of a breeze, melts into the water, making pretty shadows through the concrete. Truth be told it is not a beautiful beach to look at but it all feels very pretty. The breeze changes everything.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have a theory that if there were a white sand beach in New Orleans, I would never have to leave. But in truth, I'm not quite sure that is really what I want. In my travels, I have found white sand beaches, beautiful in their nature, and beautiful in their laziness; lazy music, lazy living, even the food is so lazy because it is so fresh, it is delicious without trying. But for a home I have New Orleans. I doubt I will ever find a white sand beach full of people as devoted to making good music and good food part of daily life as the people of New Orleans. It is a flavor of determined creativity homegrown in a swamp town like New Orleans. No antique street cars, no corner daiquiri shops, no outdoor Gypsy jazz, no Creole and Cajun cuisine will I find on the white sands of California, Florida, or anywhere else for that matter.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I am a person of the coast. Grew up in California, lived four years in New York City, six years in Anchorage, now in New Orleans. It is the port cities I enjoy. They all are places where things and people and ideas pass through, and sometimes stay, making this place a home. It is the movement and growth more than the sunbathing that captures me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And, so, in the end, so long as I can catch a breeze on a lake, dead nutria and all, while I am perched on recycled concrete; and so long as I can continue my small time exploring every so often, I might end up doing fine as a swamp girl. A little bit of the trade winds may be all I really need from the beach.</span></div></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-8057458690370758962011-06-14T18:54:00.001-07:002011-06-15T17:20:18.077-07:00Salad Days<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYcV-BCTSp6jVTBi3F8BcVjpPVrUkLuHXQDqrNm26XubCwhby7YVkARn0H5J_8Oxbj1J3ajWaxONVORzBluZbo9Ubq8-Xu6ojJw_n9wJ1xHNbgGbSKOAMOwoA6405QgZ8XF0k9ox08NXtR/s1600/P6121797.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 367px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYcV-BCTSp6jVTBi3F8BcVjpPVrUkLuHXQDqrNm26XubCwhby7YVkARn0H5J_8Oxbj1J3ajWaxONVORzBluZbo9Ubq8-Xu6ojJw_n9wJ1xHNbgGbSKOAMOwoA6405QgZ8XF0k9ox08NXtR/s400/P6121797.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618598573202857826" /></a><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A couple years ago I was riding my bike with my mother on the boardwalk in Long Beach, California. There was a fair going on at the time with various booths including one for a fresh produce delivery co-op. Staffing the booth was an attractive, healthy, blond woman with a pixie haircut, wearing yoga apparel. Leaning against the wall behind her was a high-end Italian-make bike with a basket on it, holding a floral print water bottle. After speaking to my mother at length of the virtues of organic delivery produce, she next focused her attention on me. I was living in Alaska at the time and explained to her that I didn't subscribe to that type of service which was in fact available in Alaska, but was too expensive having been flown in all the way from Oregon. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Well, that seems useless anyhow. There's no point buying things not locally grown," she says, with an air of disgust.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I peered at her curiously, not bothering to point out that just about all produce and everything else in Alaska for 90% of the year is flown up due to the intemperate climate of the land. A lifestyle so unlike hers must have seemed unfathomable to her. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">$2.00 tomatoes, $3.00 sprigs of fresh herbs, and and a waft of political self-righteousness in the air, these are the things I remember about farmer's markets I've visited in New York City, San Francisco, and Berkeley. So I was pleasantly surprised when I paid a visit to a couple of farmer's markets in New Orleans. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Like many major American cities, New Orleans has its fair share of urban accoutrements, but is too Southern to bother being, well, like other major American cities. I have never met so many meat-eating Democrats as I have in New Orleans. So, with a tradition of food as deeply rooted as New Orleans, fresh food markets in this town can have a noticeably more utilitarian flavor of their own.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Having been founded precisely for its strategic position on the Mississippi River, New Orleans once had streets paved with produce. The city enjoys a long history of open-air public markets, dating as far back as the late 1700's, when the legendary French Market was opened in order to sell wares which arrived at the port just footsteps away. By World War I, there were approximately 30 fresh food markets in the radius of a few miles. This, combined with wandering vendors who would sell their wares from the back of a pushcart by filling their streets with song, enabled New Orleanians to enjoy the pleasures of fresh food as a given.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Nowadays, the French Market primarily serves as a behemoth souvenir shop, though a small section is devoted to dry goods and some produce, with small eateries also, including the world famous Cafe Du Monde beignet stand. In other spots in town, on rare occasion, one might see a lone itinerant vegetable vendor, selling okra and other produce from the back of a pickup truck.</span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Outside the French Quarter, there are at least a dozen locations selling fresh produce in an open air market on a weekly basis, and even more on a monthly basis. A handful of elementary schools have begun food gardening programs, and non-profit organizations focusing in the creation of urban gardens have been sprouting like mint as part of the post-Katrina recovery efforts. New Orleanians clearly want to have their greens and eat them too.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">On Saturday, I visit Sankofa Market, a weekly operation in the parking lot of an Episcopal church in the Holy Cross neighborhood. Once a vibrant, stable, middle class community with historic houses, Holy Cross was devastated by Katrina being so near to the Industrial Canal through which a barge passed through either causing, or following, a devastating breach in the levee. The neighborhood is slowly revitalizing and is at about 1/5 of its former population. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Sankofa is small but I see red potatoes, fresh herbs, heirloom tomatoes, squash, homemade jellies, corn, and pralines. I buy a pound of potatoes for $1.00, a small tub of okra for $2.00, a bag of fresh basil for $1.00, a few heirloom tomatoes, all of which is half of what I pay in a supermarket. I sip some freshly made raspberry tea and exchange hellos with the manager of the market, who I met just the day before at a fried chicken house party. And, like most of the Farmer's Markets in New Orleans, in the backdrop is a live music, a jazz trio with a standup bass, a saxophone, and a drum set. There is a truck selling pork and beef barbecue ribs and hamburgers. It is the taste of New Orleans.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">For a taste of another country, I head East, towards one of the home bases of the Vietnamese community. Mostly a population of immigrants with a strong agrarian past, the Vietnamese of New Orleans are known for their green thumbs even in the most challenging of times. After Katrina, those who took shelter in federally-provided FEMA trailers distinguished their small, dirt trailer lots with produce and fresh herbs shooting straight up through the gravel.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In the Versailles neighborhood of East New Orleans in the wee hours of Saturday morning, one can see a rogue market operating just under the nose of the law, out of the parking lot of an unkempt strip mall. At 5:00-8:00am, Vietnamese women in conical hats lay out tarps and blankets, selling vegetables, spices, ducks, and chickens. Vietnamese radio is playing in the background. It is as if they had transplanted a modern day market from the old country right here to the banks of the Mississippi. Fresh herbs grown from their backyards go for pennies, and yet a profit is made. A seeming win-win for both vendor and buyer, the market recently has been the target of crack-downs by local officials. Yet the seriousness to which the municipal government wishes to shut it down remains to be seen, as it remains operational still.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When I return home, I learn that there are three other open-air produce markets operational on three different weekdays, and a handful more of ones operating solely on Saturdays. At this realization I am enthused, and make a point of visiting the Thursday one on my bike ride home from work, something I've never been able to do in other cities I've lived. When I get home I make a gazpacho with my Sankofa finds, and am immediately surprised at the difference, the pop, in flavor. It is a brave new world for me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">With a variety of farmers coming in from West Louisiana to East New Orleans, the Big Easy proves just how easy it is to buy local, buy affordable, and buy your barbecue too, with a little live music or little taste of Vietnam in the mix.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">See for yourself:</span></span></i></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">For a list of farmer's markets in New Orleans with days and times of operation, visit </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.nolababy.com/index.php/News/Latest/Guide-to-area-farmers-markets"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">http://www.nolababy.com/index.php/News/Latest/Guide-to-area-farmers-markets.</span></a></span></div></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBAUFkWPp0OEnAglnM0-l04O42gV9sLO9D-xbD9EUucYkTRubOtY2BB5Ay004ulKptr18DGCzYY32Y1Yx5ZUXiM1A-_mzceL2cOK71G-TZPVLFKfJ_tWrHSumn35iQFGvUKZV4_t4Nxuqk/s1600/GetAttachment-1.aspx.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBAUFkWPp0OEnAglnM0-l04O42gV9sLO9D-xbD9EUucYkTRubOtY2BB5Ay004ulKptr18DGCzYY32Y1Yx5ZUXiM1A-_mzceL2cOK71G-TZPVLFKfJ_tWrHSumn35iQFGvUKZV4_t4Nxuqk/s400/GetAttachment-1.aspx.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618262146657030562" style="text-align: left; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 146px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-40161768611904587822011-06-01T21:08:00.000-07:002011-06-21T20:19:01.683-07:00A Snowball by Any Other Name is not from Hansen's<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXz3IMroOt7z_Syiu-_fBft-J7gFf-wOOeex00vnSXdcYWvie08GZFHSOgwPA3OULpBEQ7UTmmB2Yi5wWYtodW2vQ8M4f4ptPy4FReluPeRopN0E_38C7ucpeOcR_NQmTaZNrRpuV1wDw6/s1600/IMAG0074.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 295px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXz3IMroOt7z_Syiu-_fBft-J7gFf-wOOeex00vnSXdcYWvie08GZFHSOgwPA3OULpBEQ7UTmmB2Yi5wWYtodW2vQ8M4f4ptPy4FReluPeRopN0E_38C7ucpeOcR_NQmTaZNrRpuV1wDw6/s400/IMAG0074.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614887380901186002" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />It is often in our weakest, most vulnerable moments, when we least expect it, that we find what we love. Which is why it makes perfect sense that I discovered Hansens' after a grueling 2.5 hour meeting for work. As I walk out of the torturous conference room with my good friend and New Orleans-lifer, Charles, the construction manager on staff, he turns to me and says, knowingly, "Come on, let's go." One look and I understand that it's time for a mental health break from work. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In my golden olden days as a lawyer in Alaska, these words typically meant a bourbon on the rocks after a long trial or ugly dispute in court. For Charles, in my new world and new life, instead, the command meant a stop at Hansens. "We need a snowball," he says to me as we walk into the parking lot under a scorching 97 degree sun.</span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Snowball</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> is New Orleans-speak for snow cone, but without the cone. Usually served in a cup, and well over half of the year, in a swampy existence like New Orleans, it's the next best thing to mobile air-conditioning. And of course, in perfect New Orleans form, the snowball can be over the top, served with sweetened condensed milk, gummy bears, or a lump of ice cream in the middle. One can find a snowball stand in a small corner store, or in a mobile truck outside a bar at 3am. Like a magical gnome appearing when you least expect it, the snowball stand is a regular feat of magic.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I naturally but mistakenly presume we're heading for one of our usual stops, the Red Rooster, a corner shack in the disinvested Central City neighborhood we work in that sells lovely hot plates like gumbo and fried fish. Instead, we drive uptown, zigzagging through the giant mansions of the Garden District, in and around less grandiose but equally historic blocks of the Irish Channel, until we arrive at a tiny, unnoticeable hole in the wall, faded paint on old stucco, barely a sign to be found. I have passed it many times driving down Tcoupitoulas on my way to Rouse's grocery, yet never did I notice the painted words Hansens Sno-Bliz.</span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Huh? No Red Rooster?" Charles, in all seriousness, his dreadlocks blowing in the wind, turns to me and says, "No. Trust me. It's like a cloud."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We step through small, double swinging doors, with metal grates over both windows. Inside looks a set from a 1970's show, with wood-siding on the walls, every inch covered with photographs, bumper stickers, old t-shirts with funny sayings, newspaper articles, a large picture of a magistrate judge (the son of the original owners), and a hand-scrawled sign proclaiming, "There are STILL no short cuts to quality". The menu of flavors is extensive, posted on two plastic boards with changeable letters. Sizes are denoted with eight or nine different cups with prices underneath. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And the ice shaving machine is priceless. The only one of its kind, the original owners of the shop invented it and obtained a patent in the '30's. A combination of a sliding meat slicer and something kind of scary, it is operated diligently and carefully by a staff member holding a large piece of clear ice onto a sliding metal component which moves back and forth. Cups are jammed underneath and are filled in three stages, interspersed with generous helpings of homemade flavorings. The one in operation is only second generation from the original animal.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Around the same time he created the snow-shaver, Ernst Hansen's wife, a talented Italian cook, developed a line of flavorings from spring water. They opened shop in 1934, and moved to its current location 10 years later. It has been operational since, with a hiatus when first Mrs. Hansen, then Mr. Hansen died within a year after evacuating from Hurricane Katrina, both in their mid-90's by that time. The shop was reopened by the grand-daughter of the original founders. At 72 years strong, it has a loyal following, some of which have created a line out the door on this and many other days.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I order creme of almond, with a dollop of sweetened condensed milk in the middle and on top. After all is said and done, the snowball is the size of a wiffleball perched on a tin can, with a small crater filled with condensed milk on top. We pay the owner-operator, the last Hansen working the shop, who puts our money into the cash register which is comprised of only a wooden drawer in an old dresser. Charles asks where the tip jar is and the staff takes it out of a cupboard, explaining that they don't want people to feel obligated; they'd rather us come back for more with friends. The owner explains that her grandmother would have had a heart attack if she knew that a tip jar was on the premises. We drop off a dollar and head back into the burning heat to sit on the metal bench outside. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And then it happened. My first bite was something akin to almond-flavored, frosted cotton candy, a cloud, and a kiss on the forehead by a unicorn. I was dumbfounded. The ice is noticeably finer, fluffier, than the any of the dozens of snowballs I've consumed to date. Childhood memories crawl out from the crevices of my brain, of family vacation ski trips when my sister and I would take afternoon lunch breaks and purposely spill our cranberry juice boxes into freshly fallen snow.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I am not alone in my newly-minted addiction. While we are seated outside, we see a teenager in a school girl uniform hop out of an SUV as her mom waits for her with the engine running. At the same time a couple park a car and make their way to the door. The teenager looks at her competition with a side glance and speeds up her pace just short of sprinting. She opens the door to find the line spilling out, and dejectedly turns around back towards her mother, money crumpled up in her hand, head hanging.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On one of my many subsequent visits I was able to arrive exactly upon the opening of its doors at 1pm in the afternoon, on a Wednesday. But I was not the only one keeping track of Hansen's doors; of all the gin joints in the world walks in Ragin' Cajun James Carville, whose books and movie about his work on the Clinton campaign once played an influential role in my own brief career as a campaign manager.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Shaved ice and sugar. For 72 years these two elements properly executed have made frustrating and sweltering New Orleans afternoons more livable, more joyful--for school girls, campaign managers, construction managers, or even just small time explorers alike. Hansen's snow-blizes are proof that sometimes, the best things in life cost less than $5.00.</span></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-55878662275899606272011-05-30T14:21:00.000-07:002011-05-30T23:01:24.727-07:00Ode to the Crawfish Boil<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6hxiEXbRmI7S9q1XXdsh4XC8kCLOKzM130gm_dEwjT8bKM29QpGzB7bZo5Zt4L-gBEQjUbEwHuqQc3GEMfma3H8-H7RX1ytagSrdEvn3mxkW6TQvqxkSlbq57IR7pJ8lp72zUGiL0PVl/s1600/P5151793.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXSs-B88CJsbu9TAzxKLIt3upV3H97f2zH5diWGRZX6pYJg1coN6mnLN2kZjm6aFcf95z4c0_JO_rNAvpoOOdWrWYkefT97lb351De6MqoM0GpAv4YO6wP6CJEM8bvNyyKzSRaN6h-3FdK/s1600/P5151787.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXSs-B88CJsbu9TAzxKLIt3upV3H97f2zH5diWGRZX6pYJg1coN6mnLN2kZjm6aFcf95z4c0_JO_rNAvpoOOdWrWYkefT97lb351De6MqoM0GpAv4YO6wP6CJEM8bvNyyKzSRaN6h-3FdK/s400/P5151787.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612623382863240322" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I can't put my finger on precisely what it is. Is it their pint-size cuteness? Their buttery-sweet flesh guarded within mini-lobster-like tails? Or the recklessness of it all, tearing heads from tails, throwing shells askew... In Louisiana, the crawfish boil is one of the many signals of spring turning over to summer.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Picture a sweltering weekend afternoon in Louisiana. Muggy, hot, heavy air. And then picture a backyard, of any size, large folding tables set up banquet style, wrapped in plastic with butcher paper thrown on top. Beers are served generously as people meet and greet, their eyes distracted, wandering frequently over to the corner of the yard, where there sits a large multi-gallon pot being heated by a propane tank with a giant colander fitted inside. Hosts are throwing in ears of corn, potatoes, sausage, lemon halves and spices, on top of heaping piles of boiling, bubbling crawfish. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When will it be ready</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> is the question burning on everyone's brain.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The contents of the cauldron are finally removed from the heat by the colander-like apparatus, and poured generously down the length of the tables. Beers are immediately set down, and like ravenous beasts, humans begin tearing crawdad heads off, pinching tails, and sucking down the sweet and spicy flesh of the elusive crustaceon. If done properly, guests are sweating like pigs, their mouths on fire from the heat of both the spices and the flesh.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I love a good crawfish boil.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Like most of the culinary traditions of New Orleans with any merit, the crawfish boil has its roots in Cajun country, where refugees of the British expulsion from Canada eventually settled. When first granted asylum by the King of Spain in the 1700's in Louisiana, the Acadians first passed through the big easy, where they were treated with disdain by the French aristocracy who already called New Orleans their home. They made their way westward, deeper within the sleepy swamps of Southern Louisiana along the Mississippi, settling in what is now ubiquitously known as Acadiana, or Cajun Country. Acadians, eventually referred to as Cajuns, thrived in the fertile swamp, taking advantage of everything native including the crustaceons. At the heart of Acadiana is the one million acres of the Atchafalaya Basin, which is today the largest crawfish reserve, and as I write these words, its multi-generational human inhabitants have relocated due to the opening of the floodgates of the Mississippi River by the federal government.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As a people with an agrarian heritage, the Cajuns also learned to farm crawfish in rice fields left to fallow. A drive through Acadiana is notable for the flat plains filled with rice, which alternatively serve as crawfish hatcheries, enabling a longer season for crawfish by two months. Farm-raised crawfish harvest can begin in December and end in July.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The music, food and culture of the Acadian people remains resilient, and a source of pride for many Louisianans, not only in Cajun strongholds like Beaux Bridge and Lafayette, but also back into New Orleans. Typically a weekend family tradition, it has also been adopted as the perfect summer kick-off, battling the barbecue for 1st place in the hearts of Louisianans. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, while you can pick up a batch of crawfish in plenty of bars and restaurants, the traditional crawfish boils are the privilege of those who've stayed in town long enough to have some roots with the denizens of this fine town. Having moved here last June, it wasn't until April 2011 that I experienced my first, and haven't stopped since then, counting five already this season.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Almighty Crawfish Boil is a visceral experience. Standing in the swampy heat, all you can breathe are the fragrances of the mudbug and the spice bath. You perch yourself in a spot amongst friends old and new, all of whom, like you, are focusing all energies on the task at hand: how to extract that tail from the shell with ease and efficiency. There is invariably music in the background, dipping sauces, chunks of potatoes and sausage. You eat with your hands and blow your nose on paper towels to cool down. And if you're like me, you suck the spicy juices from the crawfish heads like a character in a science fiction movie, or just a normal Asian. There is nothing but hollow shells left on the butcher paper, empty beer cans are askew, rinds of lemons. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So trust me on this one: If you find that even after a thorough washing, your hands hold a crawfish fragrance, your mouth is on fire, and sinuses are cleared, consider yourself lucky because these are all signs of a good day at a crawfish boil. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6hxiEXbRmI7S9q1XXdsh4XC8kCLOKzM130gm_dEwjT8bKM29QpGzB7bZo5Zt4L-gBEQjUbEwHuqQc3GEMfma3H8-H7RX1ytagSrdEvn3mxkW6TQvqxkSlbq57IR7pJ8lp72zUGiL0PVl/s400/P5151793.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612685729657052754" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 326px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Tips:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></div><div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Backyard boils.</span></b></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> The ultimate crawfish boil occurs in the backyard. If you can, get yourself invited to one; If you're especially lucky, go to a hipster crawfish boil, so that you can elbow hip vegetarians out of the way and have more goods for yourself.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Restaurant if you must.</span></i></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> If you find yourself anywhere near Lafayette, try Hawk's, a family establishment nestled in the middle of a family-owned rice farm and crawfish field. It's about a half hour drive out of Lafayette, but these giant mudbugs are worth the distance.</span></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Local bars.</span></i></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Any bar with seafood in New Orleans should be able to throw a crawdad your way, but local corner bars will have a traditional boil once a week in any of the less polished neighborhoods (think Central City, Mid-City, Seventh Ward, etc.).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Bonne chance and bon apetit!</span></i></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-42004961238181349102011-05-22T21:06:00.000-07:002011-06-20T21:52:03.491-07:00Love at the Lakeview<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiRGLRqvdVCxfybIiLEdfNGu1O9DClyuT6W0ABqol9eWnp5Wj1xJuGhFVxpvqhUzKBFZndqxzsAHGFliN9A2paAdtxNJ0pQb3vHGQuPxOKcNlr6qMsaMexG30Q2Y1t3tr16V2fBmU-2HM/s1600/P5221806.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiRGLRqvdVCxfybIiLEdfNGu1O9DClyuT6W0ABqol9eWnp5Wj1xJuGhFVxpvqhUzKBFZndqxzsAHGFliN9A2paAdtxNJ0pQb3vHGQuPxOKcNlr6qMsaMexG30Q2Y1t3tr16V2fBmU-2HM/s400/P5221806.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609748040614492674" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 0, 0); font-family:georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"It is always in the midst, in the epicenter, of your troubles that you find serenity."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 0, 0); font-family:georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> --Antoine de Saint-Exupéry</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">All these years of love found and love lost, yet the secret to getting over heartache in an expeditious manner still eludes me. In my childhood I once had a dog, Brandy, intelligent in many ways, yet with a pathological habit of running full-speed into a sliding glass door, even after we put stickers on it. Stunned, surprisingly surprised, a little dizzy. That was Brandy and that's me after a heartbreak.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It's that frustrating feeling after a 20 minute conversation in which decisions are made and all of a sudden, a person who has made you feel incredibly special for a couple months, will probably never make you feel special ever again, despite well-intentioned but unrealistic promises to keep in touch and remain friends. It was an amicable separation of ways for the most logical and foreseeable of reasons, yet still I am left feeling a bit bruised up and gloomy. It's that kind of gloom that a hundred sit-ups, biking 10 miles, and running three miles every day for a week in 90 degree heat can't do much for. That kind of gloom you don't feel like talking about, except for once, with a good friend, for barely half an hour, your eyes brimming with tears. That kind of gloom that really is not curable by anything but time. That was my fate this last week.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I decided to do what I do best; I decided to go traveling. Survival instincts dictated that I get out of my house this weekend to fill my time with music, people, food, beer--anything but my own thoughts. Recruiting Milo-dog and my friend Clancy, we load a small truck and head to Lafayette to reconnect with a couple friends, a couple acquaintances, and a cousin. Once there, I manage to book a schedule full of social engagements, doing everything I can to mask my poor spirits, with some amount of nominal success. I even manage a little laughter, but still the risk of debilitating gloom pervades. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Eventually it is the Lakeview that rescues me from myself. A tent and RV site with a handful of simple cabins tucked away in the outskirts of the sleepy town of Eunice, the Lakeview Park and Beach is set against a small lake and a swarth of canopy-forming trees, somewhere deep within the rice and crawfish fields of Louisiana. At the campground there is a primitive pole barn, and an old dance hall moved to the site in the 1970's, but dating decades earlier. While the dance hall itself stands impossibly and lovingly in disrepair, the family-proprietors have transformed the pole barn to host live zydeco and cajun bands on the weekends. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I had been there but once before, about nine months earlier, the day after the Blackpot Festival. I was with a gaggle of old musician friends from Alaska, and had fond memories that spanned many hours into the morning. With safety in numbers, we were a strangely compatible mix with the local high-caliber Cajun musicians who played that night. I had not been back since then, and this time around I am equipped with only my New Orleans Clancy, who knows nothing of the place or the people. With some amount of trepidation but little to lose, I decide to return for a Pine Leaf Boys performance.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The barn is small but spacious, with plywood floors and high ceilings, fans strapped to joists next to the windows. Like a portal into another era, the thin barn walls seemed almost bursting at the seams with music of a time far past. Accordion, fiddle, bass, and drums, vocals of an oldtime French filled the air. The Pine Leaf Boys dutifully are churning out high-energy Cajun tunes and couples are dancing the Cajun two-step in a circular conformation. At one point, the twenty-something-year-old band members bring up a 92 year-old Cajun gentlemen who croons with a volume and vivacity giving no indication of his age. There is no mistake that I am in Cajun country.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Nothing had changed at the Lakeview Barn since last I was there, or probably since it was built. I grab a couple $1 dollar beers and recognize some familiar faces, the first of which was Toby, one of the family owner-operators. Back in October Toby had concocted an enormous pot of steaming, freshly made Cajun-style gumbo at 4 am that saved my life. Unsure if he would remember me, I felt an urge to say hello and thank him for that fond memory. Toby greets me as if I were an old friend, recalling details of our conversation of over half a year ago. He shares with me and Clancy his new theory that the affinity between Cajuns and Alaskans is derived in the comparable hostility of the respective terrains, and with peels of laughter, we all concur.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I dance the Cajun two-step. I chat with a banjo-playing woman I had met through work. I greet Grammy-nominated acquaintance musicians who receive me with a type of warmth that can only be sincere. Outside I look for Clancy who also is heavily engrossed in friendly conversation with more Grammy-nominated Cajun musicians who had enthusiastically initiated conversation with this newcomer into their close-knit musician circle. Without a hint of snobbery or irony, they tell me that their names are Philippe, Jacques, Cedric...We all talk about music, learning new instruments, learning new genres, Lafayette, New Orleans, Alaska, anything and everything.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Eventually Clancy and I are driven out by a torrent of mosquitoes that I am convinced have racially profiled me for a concerted attack. After a warm parting of ways from all the kind folk with whom we have exchanged conversation, Clancy and I drive back to my cousin's air-conditioned apartment. The past three hours have provided me the much deserved respite from my mind's current state, and for once this week, I fall asleep easily, with only Milo-dog by my side.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After enjoying a traditional Sunday crawfish boil with my cousin's gregarious and welcoming Cajun in-laws, we head back to New Orleans. In the car I remember that I have one less person to tell about my weekend. I am saddened by this still, but now I am also grateful. There is always love at the Lakeview for just about anyone, and I can go back for more whenever I please.</span></div></div></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-6709685805120416292011-05-16T14:20:00.000-07:002011-05-18T22:20:31.059-07:00Mississippi Rising<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzrvo7DfjZcLYni12bRwXdIvO6x1mPwTGqYvrc3ptqZ_LjzxDya5EErIi7hrJ7XNd-4NipiZ1MjkDRQYWtSrubrm72NC1CukIgyGjJTBODolDien7H7kKBnP-MmZxtYtPo9mblMM9VN9e1/s1600/IMAG0067.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAqgY85fy_yy_h3uK3do8XGMBVHcAomfUKxHM9tvlX6eBvR-vGyBrVb8s98iOu_uO4ixbIlZ5RkC03yFbyi0A0FWtdZDMJ1tGXSBAOTUTF4dylolvYYZ-_VTZS1f1Kso8QK_cz4GoB1u2M/s1600/P5161795.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAqgY85fy_yy_h3uK3do8XGMBVHcAomfUKxHM9tvlX6eBvR-vGyBrVb8s98iOu_uO4ixbIlZ5RkC03yFbyi0A0FWtdZDMJ1tGXSBAOTUTF4dylolvYYZ-_VTZS1f1Kso8QK_cz4GoB1u2M/s400/P5161795.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607462632291942098" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span style="color:black;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Finally, the water covered even the highest mountains on the earth, standing more than twenty-two feet above the highest peaks. All the living things on earth died – birds, domestic animals, wild animals, all kinds of small animals, and all the people. Everything died that breathed and lived on dry land. Every living thing on the earth was wiped out – people, animals both large and small, and birds. They were all destroyed, and only Noah was left alive, along with those who were with him in the boat. </span></span></i></span></span></i></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><i></i></span></span></span><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">-- Genesis 7:19-23</span></span></span></span></i></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The thought of flood terrifies me. But given its prominent role in the Bible, I don't think I'm the only one. Perhaps it is the image of homes and pets and people people brushed away in one fell swoop like a bread crumbs being dusted off a table. Perhaps it is the thought of death by drowning. The images of flood by tsunami, that which was recently faced by the Japanese just months ago, a tiny island of a country, with little room for refuge from the waters. The images of the Indonesian tsunami of 2004, with 100 feet waves, and the death of 170,000 people. Villagers, running to the tops of mountains, to no avail. And, New Orleans, after Katrina broke, stragglers fighting for dear life to break a hole through their roofs as the water closed in on their homes, filling them like fish tanks with lids sealed on. Of those who didn't evacuate either to the Superdome or out of New Orleans, the lucky ones waited on their roofs for days in the blistering sun and sweltering heat, leaving the corpses elderly and the weak inside. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> So, yes, you can say I find floods terrifying.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">One can live a life in New Orleans and never see the Mississippi unless you want to. You can see the beautiful, oak-lined trees of St. Charles, the charming buildings of the French Quarter, the street car buzzing by your house, without seeing a riverbank. So it wasn't until I took the Milo-dog for a run on the levee did I see the water that has been rising for the past week. Where it normally is at least a few hundred feet from the Mississippi River Trail, it was now less than twenty feet from our paws. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">There are spectators today. There are also fishermen casting their lines from the bike path, hundreds of feet closer to the city than usual. College students are wearing sun hats, sipping their daiquiris as if they are sitting on an oceanside boardwalk. There is no indication on their faces that this is abnormal. There is no visible concern that the Morganza spillway floodgates have been opened up the second time in decades to relieve the water pressure of the mighty Missippi, yet still the Mississippi climbs higher and higher up the levee. There is no visible concern that there are levee police driving by constantly, inspecting for sand boils along the natural land levee where water may be surging through.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzrvo7DfjZcLYni12bRwXdIvO6x1mPwTGqYvrc3ptqZ_LjzxDya5EErIi7hrJ7XNd-4NipiZ1MjkDRQYWtSrubrm72NC1CukIgyGjJTBODolDien7H7kKBnP-MmZxtYtPo9mblMM9VN9e1/s400/IMAG0067.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607540848094329234" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 236px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I on the other hand, calmly head back to the apartment and immediately make an evacuation plan, a list of provisions, and send out inquiries to friends who might house me and my pets on my flight away from disaster. I pick up gallons of bottled water and dozens of protein bars. In the past 15 years I've lived in Budapest, Hanoi, New York City, San Francisco, Berkeley, and Anchorage. But this is the first time I've ever prepared to evacuate my home as an adult. While I love the laid-back culture of the Big Easy, I am not so easy about this flooding issue. Maybe it's the Vietnamese deep within me bubbling to the surface, preparing for the worst. I like to think that this is a healthy instinct. Either way, there's nothing wrong with planning for what mother earth has in store for us.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The proximity to nature can be a frightening one if you forget about it. I recall an incident in my childhood in Orange County, when it was still filled with orange groves, decades before it became the overpriced tract-home spectacle, subject of cheesy melodramas on network television. As a child my sister, our neighborhood friends, and I would run wild through orchards of oranges, down into empty stone quarries, throw stones in the water, harass chickens and roosters cooped up in pens. And every fall, came the hot winds from the desert, the Santa Ana winds, rolling into town with dust and dryness, sparking wildfires amongst the suburban homes cusping the border of nature in the foothills of brush-covered hills. One of those autumns my parents calmly kept the radio on for an entire two days. My father hosed down our wooden shingle roof, and my mother packed a small suitcase for each child with only the bare necessities. They made reservations for a hotel, and my father stayed up all night, awaiting city order to evacuate. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I also recall the sound of night, sometimes filled with shrieking howling of bands of coyotes, not far in the distance, taking with them a small poodle or other pet into the untouched quarry. Tales of attacks of small children proliferated the neighborhood. It was a time when we still knew our neighbors because there weren't many of them, but enough to call it a true suburb, as if we were no longer part of nature, but instead, part of Los Angeles. And it was a time where the suburban culture Orange County is known for today had not yet accounted for wildfires, landslides, earthquakes, and wildlife that California once was. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Since then I've lived in towns tucked much further into the wilderness than Orange County, California, but for some reason, guarding against bears on a hike or shooing away moose in Anchorage seemed much less daunting then the thought of dodging coyotes in California. Perhaps it was because Anchorage was so apparently wild in comparison. In Anchorage, enormous state parks, hundreds of square miles large, are ubiquitous even within city limits and people occasionally got attacked by both bear and moose. But we knew it. We saw it, from our cabins and apartments and highways. And we knew how to deal with it because we had to everyday. Nature is in your face up in Alaska.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It is only when I forget about the presence of mother earth that I find her the most frightening. When I forget that Orange County was created not long after chaparral wilderness, mountains, and coyotes ruled the roost. When I forget that most of present-day New Orleans was a wild swamp not even 100 years ago. Or when we forget that Japan is not just a forerunner of technological and automotive advancement, but also a tiny island anchored within a powerful, daunting Pacific Ocean. It seems only then, when we forget how little we and all our things are, does the water creep towards us, threatening to put us in our places. </span></span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But the power of nature also forces us to take tally of those things most precious to us. My apartment is best described as cheap and cheerful, walls donned with paintings picked up all over the globe, a table I made myself, and various sundry items which are great for conversation but have little extrinsic value. Of my evacuation list, the only things of value that will be packed are a computer, a fiddle, and of course, my pets. In my last three out-of-state moves, these were the same items that held the most value to me in my tangible possession. The rest of my worldly goods, were and are not actually goods. Rather, my family, and my friends were there seeing me off or welcoming me back. Though I'm not thrilled at the thought of evacuation, it's a relief to know that those things I care about the most aren't large pieces of expensive furniture or unwieldy flatscreen tv's--those things of real valuable to me have legs and arms and brains and either need not be saved because they are elsewhere, or can be saved from the impending water with good planning.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My parents' home never burned down from the Santa Ana winds, but </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">long after all the children had moved out and finished college, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">it was eventually taken from them by a fire caused by old electrical wiring . All told, I think they handled it reasonably well. A Buddhist monk told my mother, "You are so lucky to have those things destroyed. You now have a new beginning, with the weight of all those little things off your back." It was a bit shocking to hear at the time, but I think those well-intentioned words helped my parents get through the gauntlet of rebuilding their lives with less stuff.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Me, well for an ark I have a 1987 Toyota pickup, and for a menagerie I have two cats and a dog. So, if and when Mayor Landrieu makes the call, I shall load the furry beasts, a computer, my fiddle, some clothes, and drive towards those people who care about me and have already told me that they will provide me shelter from the storm. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My appreciation and affection goes out to all those who have called and emailed me in the past few days with concern of my well-being in these water-filled times. I will be fine.</span></span></span></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4259661664444622621.post-33213233370433166122011-05-10T21:46:00.000-07:002011-05-10T23:12:30.759-07:00Alone on a Mountain<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFS6xq0ZdYbyYKfpNJIQhpnmWaaGn3wYMoEgFRCoq8g9rfdxr62N4R7GE9phDyHDj-8wJiypY-nkJdPUq1oGlIvZ5WEXcXstSvm8qIMQPzSYahnNa6tjK9QY1kWRCcdzYyL38aHwdAlH-/s1600/P5091806.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFS6xq0ZdYbyYKfpNJIQhpnmWaaGn3wYMoEgFRCoq8g9rfdxr62N4R7GE9phDyHDj-8wJiypY-nkJdPUq1oGlIvZ5WEXcXstSvm8qIMQPzSYahnNa6tjK9QY1kWRCcdzYyL38aHwdAlH-/s400/P5091806.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605330947031067362" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />I was invited to stay at a house in the mountains, by a man I do not know well, but I like him. And, because I am in need of a break from the hustle and bustle of my New Orleans life, I accepted the offer.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The timing was perfect. Barely a year ago I left behind in Alaska a legal career, replete with hostile colleagues and bosses, for a softer, gentler nonprofit sector in the South, with kinder, less adversarial colleagues and bosses. Yet not even a year in my new job and already I am falling into old habits of overcommitment, unreasonable expectations of myself and others, and working on weekends, ultimately setting myself up for disappointment. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And though I gladly moved to New Orleans from Alaska, I missed the mountains and all the wisdom it has to offer in times of distress. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Six years in Alaska has endowed me with a respect of vastness, the breadth of the mountains, and the clarity that can result from challenging myself with an expanse of primordial rock. The sublime that is experienced at altitude was something I had learned to cherish in those years living in the great land. So, while I was hesitant to strand myself in a new place, relying on the kindness of a virtual stranger, I was confident that the elevation would do me some good and accepted the invitation to stay in the Appalachians. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But I know that the sublime is not always kind. The last time I slept in the woods, I was also with a man, M, my boyfriend at the time. It was in Alaska in November. We had hiked for an hour and a half with 30 lbs packs on our backs and a sled full of firewood which would serve as our only source of heat in the yurt, which was little more than a walled tent we had rented from the state parks recreation system. It was about 10 degrees F, and with every footstep, we collapsed one foot deep into partially packed snow. I was cold and tired and M was restless and impatient as was his modus operandi. As a pretense to go on ahead of me, he told me he would build a fire at the yurt so that I could warm up immediately. I was left alone on the trail, the light fading fast into the dark Alaskan sky. Guided by my piss-poor sense of direction, I missed the fork in the trail. My heart was pounding, the dark and merciless Alaskan cold weighing heavily on my mind. Every muscle in my body ached with pain, yet somehow still operational, running on fumes of fear-laden adrenaline. By the time I finally found the yurt, I added 40 minutes onto my hike and I was exhausted. Upon explaining my misdirection, M laughs at my stupidity. Tears stream down my face and I end the night shivering under three layers of clothing and wrapped in a sleeping bag, curled up on the plywood floor, my head inches away from the wood-burning stove. M is holding me tightly that evening, finally realizing just how far away I was at that moment, after all the countless hikes of being left behind by him. Barely a month later, it was I who left him.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Comparatively, the risks of this Appalachian mountain excursion were minimal. Neither hypothermia nor eternal darkness would be accompanying this late-Spring sojourn to the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina. Instead of a primitive yurt in the woods, I would be staying in the family vacation getaway of a doctor, a librarian and their three over-educated adult sons. And instead of being addled with a dysfunctional relationship that had long exhausted its formerly convenient nature, for a male companion I had A, a quirky academic with urban sensibilities who lived in a different city from me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When I asked in half-jest whether I would need iodine pills, a sleeping bag, or an emergency camping stove, my companion's email read, "Dear former Alaskan, meet Jewish vacationer." We spent most of the first 24 hours cooking in a kitchen with two sinks and corian countertops, listening to LP's on the record player, or watching movies on the flatscreen, with our feet propped on a glass coffee table as we sipped wine. Instead of the jagged, harsh beauty of the empty Alaskan wilderness, we had a stunning view of rolling hills, blue in color, dotted every so often with homes such as the one we were sitting in.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But by day two, the itch for a good blood-pumping hike finally called. I was flexible, grateful for any amount of elevation after almost of year of living in New Orleans. But it was A who set the agenda for Calloway Peak on Grandfather Mountain, the tallest of the Blue Ridge at almost 6000 feet elevation. From trailhead to peak, we were looking at 2000 feet elevation gain over the span of 4 miles. I knew I would be fine, as would A, with his wide set shoulders, muscular pecs, and tree-trunk legs. But Calloway Peak would be a first for both of us.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I found the hills beautiful. Our stepping stone-laden trail was shaded in conifers and rhodedendrons almost the entire way, and in the air was the unmistakable fragrance of lush foliage, the kind I have only experienced on a mountain. As a surprise to both of us, I was setting the pace, steadily soaking in as much of the perfumed air as my lungs could absorb. There is a smile on my face and after an hour, I stop to enjoy the vista, expecting to find the same smile on my companion. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But his wide-set chest is panting and his face is drenched in sweat. Knowing that he suffered from an aneurism at the age of 27 just months earlier, I silently chastise myself for such a frivolous excursion. I assure A that I have no qualms about turning around, but by now, peak-induced stubbornness has set in and he grumpily refuses.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">For another hour and a half, we continue, him in quiet determination, our lungs pulling us to the top. I move no further ahead of him than the sound of his panting. At one point he touches my arm gently and I slow down. We stop for water and snacks, and I place a kiss on his forehead, slippery with perspiration. I know he is frustrated with his body and the situation at hand. I know that if I could, I would carry him to the top of the hill. I know I won't be able to convince him to turn around. And I know, personally, that there's nothing quite as lonely as climbing a mountain when you're not sure if your body will allow you to get to the top. At the end of the day, I know that all I can do to make the journey easier is what M never really could: be kind, be patient, stay close by. But ultimately, it is up to A to get to the yurt. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">At the top, we eat our lunch of homemade pizza and cookie leftovers, drink our well-deserved water, and split a can of light beer. By now we are joking around and he is laughing at himself. We take pictures and eventually head back, relieved that it would be all downhill from there. We reach the car in less than half the time it took to get to the top. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Two days later, I am back in New Orleans, doing laundry, cleaning my apartment, preparing my headspace to go back to work. I think about issue 1 and issue 2 and the familiar swell of work-induced anxiety wells up inside of me, so I make plans with a friend to have a drink of wine, and look at my pictures of the blue hills of North Carolina. My calves are a little sore, as are my quads. The pain reminds me that all we can do to help us finish the journey is surround ourselves with people who are patient, kind, and close by, but that ultimately, it is our own calves and our own quads that get us where we need to go.</span></div>Small Time Explorerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860834002082367228noreply@blogger.com0