NOLA

I lived there for four years (more or less).

I rode the streetcars on a regular basis, and admired the amazing houses along St. Charles Ave., and the gigantic, beautiful old trees.

One fine Mardi Gras evening I was instructed by a police officer, “Sir, get out of the tree.” I was stone cold sober at the time.

I’ve eaten the food at Jazz Fest, marvelled at the displays (ahem) along Bourbon Street, and jammed to the sounds of street performers who really knew their stuff.

I know where I got my shoes, and how many letters are in your last name.

I sang the national anthem at the Superdome. From the field, not the stands.

I watched them assemble a parade in the middle of campus, to proceed outward that evening.

I walked down streets which alternated every block: bad neighborhood… good neighborhood…

I set foot inside St. Stephen’s church, and, as assured by my mother, did not, in fact, burst into flame.

I’ve been back four times since I came back north.

I can’t stop thinking that it’s all destroyed. That the Superdome is a shit-stained hell I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. That Tulane campus is probably underwater. That there’s not much to ever go back to again.

I think they’ll pull it together, assuming anybody wants to live there again after it’s pumped out; but the city will never be the same.

Update: This is interesting.

Comments are invited and encouraged

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