Sunday in the Park, with the Indians

http://www.flickr.com/photos/32617733@N06/sets/72157624489434516/

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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ib-BJ_NbqXg

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.