Mexico in November

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First Days On Isla Holbox

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In the Otavalo-last year in Ecuador

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5th Anniversary of Katrina 2nd Line

Louis Armstrong's Jazz Mass 2010

St. Augustine's church in the Treme

On the joys of working for free..voluntourism, New Orleans 2009

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Streets and Clubs

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Sunday in the Park, with the Indians

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I should know better

By now I should know better: when out in New Orleans, carry the good camera.  I've told myself this many times, New Orleans being just too full of liberal photo ops. But yesterday, I was going to church. To church, with a quick stop at NOMA, how interesting could that be?  Besides, although it was sunny and bright, it was supposed to pour and I didn't want to risk getting the better camera wet.  So here I was, once again regretting my choice.

First, why was I going to church?  A bit of an unusual choice, even for a Sunday.but I was thinking about the Unitarians. About Unitarians and last year. They say that first impressions are lasting and when I arrived at the bunk house  last year, it was filled with them.  They were a wonderful bunch; healthy, happy, hail and whole and we had a good time together, working and playing.  I especially enjoyed partying after work with the pastor.  As I've said before; these were some of the best times I've ever had with a man of the cloth.  The impression that they left of knowing how to embrace all of life and being so grateful for it, left me curious about them.

So I googled  churches and found one in Lakeview,  three miles north on Lake Pontchartrain, lost somewhere in the nexus of desire and limitation..

I had heard that this area had been hard hit by Katrina but in the many months that I've been it New Orleans I had yet to visit there.  Well, what a mess.  Lakeview is an economically mixed neighborhood.  Here, as always, there are the poor,  but many wealthy families have  built imposing homes out there.  I guess I was assuming that their recovery would be more complete.  But no, it looks like the hurricane roared through here a few months ago.  The water marks here are ten feet high.  Most of the roads are still barricaded.  I was shocked and I wanted my camera.

To drive in Lakeview you need a few things: a four-wheel drive vehicle, a very good map, a lot of time and possibly, a kidney belt.  The roads are so damaged that all my concentration went to trying not to harm the truck that my friend has left me for the summer. The street signs are still down so that it was hard to tell where exactly I was.

I stopped to ask directions of a man who couldn't let me go until he had shown me his water marks, the work he had done on the house and the garden he built for his peace of mind.  Charlie told me that he is making 'it pretty' in order to attract a new woman into his life as his wife had left him after the storm. "Where exactly is the church?" I pressed before she became me.

 I was a half hour late to the service which has been held in a temporary building since the church was destroyed in the storm.  The parishioners are mostly locals and a study in healthy attitudes towards life and it's adversities, not a complaining, nor worrying bunch.  Stoic but flexible and inspiring.  The sermon was full of reminders that life is full of both joys and sorrows.  I was happy to have finally found them.  I left with a hand full of homemade cookies and thoughts about the meaning in the mythology of this American life.

Post script:  I must go back with the camera.

Sunday in the Park with Chuck:

On to New Orleans Museum of Art in City Park to see the poet Chuck Perkins and the Mardi Gras Indians.

On my way to City Park the rain comes. No ordinary rain-southern Louisiana rain.  A solid mass hitting ground that already permeated with water six inches below the surface.  There is nowhere for it to go but up.  I'm in the trusty truck but I'm starting to get nervous, the water is rising so fast.  The only condition on the generous loan of this truck by it's owner is that I Don't Let It Drown!  So I turned away towards Esplanade Ave, also called Esplanade Ridge.  Locals joke that it is their mountain, its actually a slight rise of a few feet, but still the highest ground in the city.  The French first settled here for that reason.  My adrenaline is pulsing, but I make it to the museum and park illegally, who would ticket in all of this?

Upon entering the museum I forgot about the elements, but I really wanted my other camera.

Chuck Perkins  the spoken word poet, our virile voice of rage and reason, was spilling poetry and passion.   His appearances are 'Events' as they are quite rare and he was in electrifying form.  Backing him were the Mardi Gras Indians with Big Chief Monk Boudreaux .  The acoustics in the lobby of the NOMA are celestial, and the neo-classic Beaux Arts architecture grand. NOMA was built in 1911with the intention of being a "temple of art for rich and poor alike." Judging by the mix of people attending, it looks like they have kept their promise.  The show was five dollars.  When the performance ended and I left, the sun was again out, hot and heavy.  There was no ticket on the truck. Another perfect New Orleans day-except for that camera.

Maafa remembrance 4th of July, New Orleans

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Dancing at Candlelight Lounge

My favorite bar.

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A New Orleans Week-end

You say tomato...

Today I'm volunteering to usher for a musical, in Louis Armstrong Park in Congo Square. I need a little rest from all the fun.  We have three festivals going on in the Quarter-the Creole Tomato Festival, Vieux To Do, and the Cajun Zydeco Festival. Yesterday I went  hear Preservation Hall Jazz Band play in the French Market.

I was on the phone when the Naked Bike Parade flew by. I bid a hasty farewell and ran after them, hoping to get a good shot.  

In wandering back through the French Market I happened to catch Bruce 'Sunpie' Barnes's lecture on food's influence on early Cajun Zydeco music.  Did you know that the phrase "Yippe ti yi yo" comes from the Cajun cowboys in South-west Louisiana?  It's a Cajun expression and the 'little doggie' doesn't refer to a cow, as I've always have been told, but to the Louisiana CataCoula Leopard Dog, the oldest breed of dog in the US.

 From there I went to sample the Creole tomatoes .  Creole tomatoes are god's apology for Southern Louisiana's abysmal summers.  A true Creole tomato is only grown in what amounts to Mississippi mud.  They are legendary here and much anticipated.  Many vendors were handing out free samples which people lined up for.  I ate my share and then wandered until I found my favorite booth for Fried Green Tomatoes.  How can you not love this place?

Trekking back through the Quarter I passed the statue of Our Lord behind the St. Louis cathedral, here better known as 'Touch Down Jesus'.  Jesus lost a thumb in the Storm, I believe I know who possess it.
On my way back to the bunk house I made a new friend on the streetcar.

Friday  I joined the local gym,trying to keep my life-style somewhat in balance.  Except for, dancing, running after money shots and back-stepping in second lines, when something wild possess you, it is impossible to move much here in the summer unless you are in some  serious air conditioning.  We become an indolent bunch, dragging ourselves through our work and play  under the crush of heat and humidity, sugared up on iced tea or anesthetized by alcohol, dreaming, swatting flies, always seeking the shady side of the street,  hoping for the slightest breeze.

Crossing the Rubicon

Back to the Bunk House-Hands On New Orleans

 Back in the bunk house...

First a little background...
Last year I was in South America with no plans to return to the States for a good while.  I was feeling high and happy and very fortunate to have dodged the economic crisis by selling out my California life: selling my business , my sweet little house that I had lived in for 25 years and raised my children in and by getting out of the stock market.   I'm no financial wizard but  I was blessed with a wise and rueful nephew who pushed, educated and encouraged me to sell until I finally listened.  The crash for me started in January 2005 and by September 2008 I was relatively protected, resigned and tired of thinking about it.

While the world was melting down, thanks to my guru Galen, I was safe but I was still feeling a need to escape the fallout.  I didn't feel like watching what was happening around me, the stress was escalating and many friend were not happy with the choices I was making.  Besides, my adventurous spirit, long dormant, was waking and calling me out to play, mostly in the form of travel.  My gratitude towards life and my nephew in particular for steering me through the  meltdown unscathed, left me with to strong desire to give back. Who and how could I help?  I had been a chef and business owner for thirty years and I had no other particular skills.  In looking to be of service in a more committed way, I went back to school, became certified to teach English and took off for South America.

In the midst of my wanderings, in Ecuador and Peru, I began to get emails from old friends, who were going to Jazz Fest.  This is a sacred sojourn for many and a twenty year ritual for my friends.  Would I please join them?  At first thought this made me laugh.  It was a ridiculous idea.  So not on my radar.  But a few emails more and I began to give it more serious thought.  It was a crazy thing to do and perhaps partly because it was so, I warmed to the idea.

Hot night on Bourbon St.

I'll Fly Away-1st Krewe of the Dead Pelicans Parade

back on track

In my first week back I wrapped up 4 days of glory at the French Quarter festival. Made new friends in strange and sudden ways, I’m sure that the alcohol had something to do with it.  But not entirely. Spent three action powered days with Larry my chef friend from LA., who swears that he will be coming back, the place has gotten under his skin just as it has mine. The saying here is that the mud is thick-it sticks to you.

When walking down St. Louis we spied an interesting scene that we couldn’t identify so we paused and turned to ask the guy on the stoop what we were looking at. He said that it was his home and when we jokes that “Well honey I’m home” he invited us in to his private party, treated us to some really decent red wines . The house formerly belonged to Al Hurt and as is typical of houses in the Quarter, it took up a small amount of curb but once inside, went on forever. out into an open courtyard.Out back by the old slave quarters there were giant boats of crawfish and bowls of sweet southern praline’s. We stayed for hours and swapped restaurant stories.

Life is grand. Sitting C.C.’s on the internet and having my french roast. I must return to Robiere’s and pack. Today I move to Napoleon to D’s and start my work with her. I think today we will start with steam cleaning one of her apartments so that she can get some rental income.

D. is my Blanche, right out of A Streetcar Named Desire.  She smart and spun, cultured and careening, a once moneyed old New Orleanean, who would be comfortably retired if it were not for Katrina. .I suspect that she suffers from PKSD- Post Katrina Stress Disorder. Her house in the Garden district once belonged to Earl Long, Huey;s brother and governor of Louisiana. The roof was breached in the hurricane and she has not been able to get her insurance company to pay out.  Common story We met in a soup kitchen that she was running and I was volunteering in. Her food sense is refined and she is demanding and the result was probably the best food that any soup kitchen has ever produced. For my birthday last year she took me Galatoire's. Before we went she called to make sure that her favorite waiter would be waiting on us, they assured her he would. In old world New Orleans you are nothing without your own waiter at Galatoire's and your family tomb in a reputable cemetery. 

I have been busy rebuilding again.
(I've already installed a toilet, raised a roof, worked a machete until my arm refused to move, installed dry wall and ancient cypress mop boards and got back my favorite tool, the chop saw) connecting with old friends and going out to clubs day and night reveling in all this rich culture, ever flowing generous music, and eating, always eating.

I am way behind in my emails and in writing for myself. Have to figure a way to correct this soon. 

.  If you have HBO please watch 'Treme' I know quite a few of the 'real' characters in it and it gives you a some idea of why I'm so in love with this place.

Bon temp

Paradise Lost

Last night I went to hear Kerry St. Pe speak on the gulf oil disaster. Kerry is a marine biologist and the director of the Barataria-Terrebonne National Estuary Program. Not only is he a marine biologist but his family first settled in the estuary in the 1760s!.

People came for the information but also to commune with others. We are anxious and grief stricken and stuck to our computer screens with not much else to do. Although the news was far from good, the chance to process it with others was. We are a volunteering bunch here was no opportunity to put our energies to work. We watch our screens.

Unlike before and after a hurricane, when there is plenty of work to do (and during as well, although that might consist of the heavy lifting of glasses) we can't DO much. Clean up poses serious health risks and they don't want us anyway.

We got a good education on how toxic this stuff is and a feeling that the hubris of man has allowed us to create technologies that can destroy what is not in our power to fix.



What I'll never forget is Kerry saying repeatedly, "We are losing our culture, we are losing our culture". It is different here and these differences need to be saved now, as well as protected and preserved.


Free buffet was served after. Nothing flies here without good food.

BTW-In the last three years BP has had 760 safety citations while Exxon has had one.

Back To New Orleans

Free Black Men of Labor Parade

Last year, starting at Sweet Lorraine's. This year stay tuned for my second annual Bayou Bogaloo Pub Crawl to the Zulu Social Aid & Pleasure Club.

Original Prince of Wales Social Aid and Pleasure Club

Honey Swamp, I'm home...

Honey swamp, I’m home.

Café du Monde at 8am. The place is already packed with tourists and some locals whom you can usually spot as the manner of dress here is unique. I’m especially fond of the older gents who sport straw hats, dressy linen jackets and shorts with sandals. I’m on a pilgrimage, once again taking in everything I find wonderful about this place. I short cut through Pirates Alley , where Jean Lafitte's’ brother had a blacksmith shop and cross Jackson Square to get my cup of chicory coffee and fresh beignets

I’m Gonna Let It Shine

The walk over is a doo wop of sounds: a small village and living museum waking for the day. Shop keepers opening shutters and throwing out buckets of swill water. Street musicians are setting up shop. Already the sounds of alto jax and horn in the air. In the air also is the smell of river mud, crawfish and funk. Centuries old urine and sewage systems stressed with the shock of all of us. But no matter, all great old cities wear this perfume. Bars are opening and preparing to get busy. Mist hangs in the air like smoke on Old Man River. Tourists are talking about their problems and who they said what to and how much they paid for their hotels and their tours. The locals quiet but acknowledging each other with nods and “how ya’ doin’”s. . There is still a chill in the air.

I’m staying in the Quarter on Dauphine between Toulouse and St. Peter's. My hosts are still sleeping. Robiere is the French sax player that I met in Johnny White’s on Bourbon St. last year. We became fast friends and I was lucky to receive such a quick entree into the city's music and cultural history through him and his wife Holly who gives leads historical tours through the city. They are both scholars and music aficionados. I owe a good chunk of my NOLA education to them. Within hours of landing we were watching vintage Count Basie 'soundies' from the 40’s in their loft. They are late sleepers as they keep musician’s hours. I’ve been living with no electricity in the jungles of Quintana Roo. I rise and fall with the chickens and the sun, so in spite of long travel day, I’m up and anxious to see my city.

New Orleans is pulsing with its usual energies and then some, still coming down from the high of the Saints win. Everyone tells me about what it meant to this city and how it has helped to change the world's view of them. Tourism is back. New Orleans is not lost but standing proud, full of hope for the its future with its newly elected mayor, Mitch Landrieu, the city's first white mayor since 1978. New Orleanian's were so tired of the failings of Ray Nagin that Landrieu won by a landslide, even capturing the black vote by 78%

But the work and struggle goes on here, as I was reminded within minutes of landing. While waiting to claim my luggage I heard my first story. A chauffeur sitting waiting for his ride told me of how his wife now lives in Chicago with the kids as in the time it has taken to rebuild their life here, she has built a new life elsewhere. He now visits her when he can. Versions of this story abound. Later, making my way into the city, I was dropped at Johnny Whites, the famous local’s bar that has never closed its doors, even during Katrina. The man sitting next to me starts to tell the tale of his return to Mississippi and the search for his house on a street that its self had been blasted into nothingness by the ferocity of those winds. The same stories that gripped me last year of what happened to these people and this culture during and after Katrina, are unfolding . They come pouring out, with no prompting, stories of loss and shock and courage. They both break your heart and inspire you , not told in self-pity but from an unrecognized need for catharsis.

I reach Cafe du Monde

I get my favorite corner table by the main entrance and cover myself in powdered sugar while " Down By The Riverside" and old jazz hits favored by the tourists are belted out.. I'm looking across to Jackson Square and the grand St. Louis cathedral, the oldest cathedral in north America. Flanking St. Lou are the Pontalba apartments, purportedly America's first apartment complex, built in the 1840's. My friend Donna grew up in them. One of the cooler thing about New Orleans is how personal all this history quickly becomes. It's not book dry and abstract, but up close and personal, you can feel it, smell it and run your fingers through its long tangled hair.

I went on a pilgrimage to see old friends and places. First taking the street car down Canal, arguably the widest street in the country, to Mid City to see my friends Mayla and Dianna. They had kindly left me their double shotgun camel-back for 3 months last summer. Their only condition fro this generous gift was that if a hurricane came, I would not let the truck drown as it had during Katrina. They are vegetarian and I arrived just in time for lunch. For once I got my ten servings of vegetables for the day. Something that is often lacking but seldom missed in my diet here. Good to eat green when you can.

That evening went to the new bar The Maison on Frenchmen for a free crawfish boil. The secret in the pot seems to be oranges. I lifted the lid and looked in. The chef told me with some anxiety that he was not giving away his secrets. Naw uh. I scored with two plates of crawfish, as my friend Donna is a vegetarian, bless her. Then we crossed the street and entered the latest revival of The Spotted Cat to catch my friend Robiere sit in with the a local band. The lead singer doing a sincere imitation of Billy Holiday, complete with white gardenia behind her right ear.