This article first appeared in the Denver Post newspaper, Opinion section on August 26, 2007. (Congrats Megan.)
Recently, I finally persuaded Anne, my hypochondriac Colorado friend, to visit New Orleans for the first time. Most people I talk to think that the entirety of New Orleans is either underwater or totally destroyed. I figured if I could change the mind of my most skeptical friend about the city then it still has a fighting chance of not being battered into the ground by politics and hearsay.
I also wanted to see how much a little pure-hearted normalcy could shock someone who has been conditioned to associate New Orleans with little more than helpless misery. What the city needs, and what has always kept it afloat, is tourists, not pity.
I grew up in Denver, but have been a New Orleans transplant for the last seven years. I lost my house there to 5 feet of water, I was hospitalized for black-mold inhalation, and I teach in a failing public school. You can pick any sphere of life-failing education, rising crime rate, a lack of environmentalism, and New Orleans is struggling in that arena in some way. But while the place is far from perfect, it is wholly thriving.
When I say I live in New Orleans, I just want people to see for themselves, to not stare at me, open- mouthed, uttering, "What's it like down there?" This is what it's like:
Anne arrived in the humid soup of Southern heat. In the warm midnight breeze, we skirted the crescent of the river and arrived at the Bulldog, a Christmas-lit patio bar that lets you snag as many pint glasses as you want for keeps on Wednesday nights. We pushed our way through the packed bar of twenty- and thirtysomethings to the patio where water pours uniformly out of 50 brightly colored keg taps. As she eased into her second beer, I could see her forgetting the sympathy-packed stigma that we were in post-Katrina New Orleans. We could have been at any crowded American bar.
In the morning, we hit Surrey's early for its signature coffee and Caribbean egg and avocado breakfasts. Surrey's, a café that opened right after the storm (and supplied my roommate and me with to-go coffee and oatmeal for weeks before the fridge arrived), still doesn't have a credit card machine. It's still stubborn, still New Orleans, still alive, and unaware that it should be anything else.
Soon I realized how focused I was on showing Anne that the city was all right. About halfway through day two, I stopped the I-have-something- to-prove New Orleans propaganda. Anne's eyes were silently registering scenes that show New Orleans outside of the 9th Ward - a part of the city that should be remembered, but should not be the defining picture of New Orleans if we are ever to fully rebuild.
Under the canopy of oak branches, while passing quiet columned hotels and bustling eclectic coffee shops, I thought: Shouldn't status quo be more of a silent state than a put-on effort?
We got our bikes and I gave Anne the once-over of immediately accessible New Orleans. We rode through the charmingly dilapidated Marigny and Bywater districts, slowed for plywood and debris in the streets, and lingered at long porches covered in azaleas and confederate jasmine. We took Royal Street through the French Quarter and peered into galleries packed with new art, advertising "White Linen Night" in August - a very clean, hey-look- we're-more-than-thriving-arts-festival, that to outsiders, like most post-K things in New Orleans, has become an ironic, self-proclamatory testimony to normalcy.
We slipped by Bourbon Street as quickly as possible because anyone who really loves New Orleans for all its art and culture only goes to Bourbon when friends are in town, when it's Mardi Gras, or when it's just really late and there's nothing else to do.
On the way out of the quarter, we glided down St. Charles as the sky began to darken and big magnolia petals ominously swirled around our tires. Tulane University and Loyola New Orleans stood majestic against their cypress backdrop. Audubon Park teemed with dog walkers, raucous barbequers, and parents playing with their kids. As the warm rain painted our backs, we raced past old men hauling antiques in from their shops on Magazine Street to a soundtrack of jazz spilling out open doors.
By the time Anne left, she had stomped her soles off to the bumping brass of the Soul Rebels in Le Bon Temps Roule bar, while drinking Abita beer and refueling with crawfish pies at the encore. We had twirled on our tiptoes to the delicately powerful violinists, keyboardists and bassists of Vavavoom in the cozy couch cavern of the Spotted Cat on Frenchman Street. We had somberly driven through the 9th Ward, Lakeview, New Orleans East, and the more devastated areas of New Orleans Uptown in total silence.
I realized, in the presence of Anne's gradual tranquility, that most Americans have heard New Orleans' steadfast rhythm. There is only so much you can say about devastation and how to go about rebuilding something that was never ideal. Everyone has their opinions about the Army Corps, the 9th Ward, or the racism and inequality that continue to widen their scars across the nation. But sometimes, it just helps to be where you're talking about, to soak up the slow mundane routines that still guide New Orleans' everyday existence. Culture is not always clean, and a cleanup never is. Sometimes, you just have to eat, drink and dance to appreciate the true, undebatable state of simply being, and this is what New Orleanians still do best.
