Sunday, September 24th, 2006

Last night I got scolded for going downstairs to publish this blog at 4:30 in the morning. "Sweetheart, I can't have you coming down here at this hour. We're under marshall law and crime is rampant. You know that side of St. Claude used to be bad and it's even worse now. They're all just holed up in abandoned houses. I had to kick out a bunch of crack heads hanging out on the benches earlier tonight. We try our best to maintain a sense of normalacy around here, but it's hard. The National Guard is just one block away."

At that hour even the criminals are asleep. But I accepted my scolding and will hold off on publishing at all hours of the night. There must be so much that I'm not seeing during my brief stay. Given time, I'm sure my enthusiasm would be tempered by the reality of the situation. But still, I see signs of hope everywhere I look.

Nonetheless, today was a sobering experience. I went back to my old high school on the lakefront. The water damage was apparent and the whole first floor of the school is still shut down one year later. The field where I used to eat lunch and play hackey sack was devastated. The school was making great strides to continue business as usual, but things were definitely not usual.

I drove to my old neighborhood a few blocks away, just over the levee. Half the bridge was closed and I started to worry as I took a detour to get to my street, then saw tractors and trash littering the levee. Miraculously enough, 1711 Jay Street--the house I lived in with my mother all through high school--was fine, but a few blocks away the damage was intense. PJ's on the lakefront, where I used to hang out after school, was completely devastated. The water lines were well above my head and that's just where the water settled. The whole shopping center was gutted, and the gas station across the street, the apartment buildings and all the single family homes in that part of the neighborhood were destroyed. Most of the houses were abandoned, but a few brave families were camping out in trailers attached to what used to be there homes.

The storm was capricious, knocking out a street here and a street there, and leaving others almost untouched. The fortunes of thousands of people were laid out in the silent geography, the luck of the land. In mid-city, a whole neighborhood that sits on a ridge was spared, while all the houses below were destroyed. No one even knew about the ridge before the storm. Now every one refers to it as mid-city ridge--they were the lucky ones. I'm willing to bet the housing prices there have skyrocketed. The contours of the land, which were once invisible to its inhabitants, are now obvious.

Craig, the security guard assigned to an ATM machine plopped down in this abandoned shopping center in this wrecked neighborhood was happy for the company. "Don't believe what you heard in the media. This was a category 5 storm. There was sustained winds of 175 mph easy and gusts up to 2 and a quarter. It was the gusts that blew the trees down and the poles, that ripped off the roofs." Craig now lives in a houseboat a few miles away to cut the commute time. He has been assigned to patrol private property all over the state since the hurricane hit.

I drive down to the lake and am happy to see the same old sight: families fishing, artists sketching the scene, birds swarming over the lake and fish jumping in the twilight. The trees are held up with wooden braces, the levees are fortified with corrugated iron, and giant pumps are still installed in the bayou. But other than that, the lake looks peaceful and seems to have gone back to being a companion to the people of the city. New Orleans is the Crescent City because of its relationship to this lake, which gives and takes in cycles that have gone on since this city was first built.

Saturday, September 23rd, 2006

Even after Katrina, New Orleans is the funnest city in the world. It's almost 4 AM and I'm just getting back from my reunion and the night on the town that followed.

Tipitina's. The place I first cut my dancing feet. Where you can still hear Cab Calloway, Sly and the Family Stone and Curtis Mayfield songs performed live by musicians younger than me. Where funk still packs the house and people dance till dawn. Where the night builds and builds and everyone shares an understanding of the musical tradition.

Professor Longhair smiles down from the stage and people remember. Somehow I end up dancing on stage, just like the old days. The band calls for three ladies to come up and dance and my friends push me towards the stage. I dance my heart out and my old classmates cheer me on. The song ends and I descend from the stage only to be greeted by a very good old friend who I haven't seen in years, who I lost touch with somewhere along the way. She picks me up and spins me around. We dance the rest of the night together, as if we never missed a beat.

So here I am back in my hotel room reminiscing about my life tonight and my life 10 years ago. At this moment it feels like the same thing. My ears are buzzing and my voice is hoarse. I've talked and danced the night away. There's something about New Orleans that awakens my joy for life. Something missing in Los Angeles and London and all the cities I've lived since. New Orleans is home. I am the city.

I'm happy here. I feel at peace. It doesn't even bother me that all my former classmates are doctors, lawyers and real estate agents living in Texas and Louisiana. I'm just a poor documentary filmmaker living in Los Angeles, but here I feel at home.

Saturday, September 23rd, 2006

I drive uptown, passing Soul Food to Go stands and banners reading "Hold the Core Accountable." There's an explosion of now hiring and for sale signs, but in between all that the city is still very much alive. It seems like the mansions and the projects are for sale. The poor people can't afford to live here anymore and the rich don't want to. New Orleans may just become the perfect middle class city.

I can't remember ever seeing so many shiny new cars in a city where polluting jalopies once ruled the streets. Over 100,000 cars were destroyed in the storms and I can't tell whether these new cars are a result of gentrification or just replacing what was lost.

I park my white Magnum on Octavia street and realize that all the houses have a fresh coat of paint. The neighborhood looks great.

A couple sees me taking pictures and comes out to talk about rebuilding the city. "It's a day by day process, but it will get there. It's hard to explain to people who aren't from here what it was like to be away. It was unbearable." They have so much pride in this place and encourage me to come back and help rebuild the city. I want to, I really want to. The good people who stayed are the ones who know New Orleans in their heart and soul, not the pretenders who came for a good time and left when the going got tough.

I feel like a mother checking in on her children--making sure all my favorite places are intact. PJ's Coffeshop, check. The iced mocha still tastes the same after all these years... The Maple Leaf Bookshop, check. And earlier today, Cafe Brasil, Mona's, The Dragon's Den, Molly's, Faulkner House, check.

And, of course, WWOZ, New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Station. I can't help but smile listening to the raspy old blues men on the radio.

DJ: How you doing T. Model Ford?
T. Model: I'm hanging like an apple on a tree, waiting for the ladies to come out tonight.
DJ: Yeah you right. Keep your daughters locked up, cause T. Model's on the prowl.

You wouldn't believe the dirty conversation that followed...Clearly the FCC hasn't made it to New Orleans, but I have.