Wednesday 3/12

Location: Meridian to New Orleans, LA
Weather: Sunny, high 60s
Music: Don Cabellero – World Class Listening Problem, Mission of Burma – onOFFon, Frank Zappa – Hot Rats, Porcupine Tree – In Absentia, R.E.M. – Fables of the Reconstruction

It’s hard to differentiate between meaningful discomfort and mere adjustment time. We sat right next to the kitchen area at my first-ever Waffle House and I didn’t exactly feel at home with all the noise, the matronly supervisor and drawling waitresses, and the camo-wearing and/or smoking clientele. It was easily the most stereotypically Southern experience yet, and I struggled to avoid placing my prefab life stories onto the participants. A day later, though, I also remember that my cheese and eggs were good, that I actually like grits, and would like to go back. So maybe there’s hope after all.

The forests became more and more dominated by pine trees. Alex pointed out that by turning the soil acidic by dropping needles, pines both encourage the survival of their own species and crowd out others that aren’t so fond of the acidity. I-59 was two lanes each way all the way to I-10 and usually featured a concrete roadway. These seem to be much more common down south than up north; there must be others, but the only ones I can remember now are I-95 in northern Maine and on the Pottstown Expressway between Allentown and Reading, PA. We’re joined by US-11, I-59’s sister (or is it brother?) road several times, often for long stretches; it’s as if the interstate planners decided to just expand the existing road and only build a completely new highway around the larger towns. Even when we do go through one of those towns, the highway forest remains unbroken--there aren’t too many people down this way.

I feel a surge of excitement while merging onto I-10, which deserves a geeky title like “America’s floor” or something. As we approach New Orleans, I nervously look for signs of devastation, unsure of how to properly react. Our first clue comes at the twin narrows bridge about 20 miles west of the city, where westbound traffic is down to one lane. In a different place, I might have suggested that we get off and bushwhack, but here we were duty-bound to experience the aftermath. An incredible amount of cranes, long lengths of incomplete bridge, and energetic workers were on the scene, confirming what I’d read about reconstruction occurring at rarely-seen speeds. We failed at lane-jockeying but were on our way after only about a half-hour delay. Even after failing to realize that “Vieux Carre” was the French Quarter, we had no trouble finding a visitor center and parking lot. Both of us had gotten plenty of friendly advice about staying safe in the city and I, at least, probably spent too much time worrying. Of course, it’s hard to say what “too much” is until you’ve seen “not enough”.

Most likely, we were both insulated from the worst areas and also not up to date on how much rebuilding has occurred. Except for driving to and from I-10, we stuck to Vieux Carre and the nearby Garden District. Certainly, there were signs that things were still not back to 100%--notices about newly expanded hours at many establishments, the occasional gutted building, and a number of for sale/lease signs even in lively parts of town. The roads seemed a little unnaturally empty, making for surprisingly easy driving despite a confusing street layout which had consecutive one-ways going in the same direction on at least a few occasions. Not nearly as bad as Boston, though. In a similar vein, Alex seemed mildly surprised at having to pay $12 for seven hours of parking, but I thought it was downright cheap.

Overall, though, I wouldn’t have found most of the effects unusual without knowing about Katrina. There were plenty of street performers, open shops, and tourists around. We enjoyed browsing a used book store with a friendly proprietor, relaxing while gazing up at Gen. Andrew Jackson, and just walking up and down past all the open doors.

And dinner! Good god it was amazing. We ate at what seemed to be a touristy-but-good restaurant, the kind of place I’d recommend to advice-seeking miniature golfers. There was a stage and the promise of nightly “Cajun bands” but we were too early for any of that. When we left around 6:00, the place was still maybe 15% full. I got a grilled seafood platter—catfish, crawfish, shrimp, and stuffed crab, as well as jambalaya and potato, and everything was just incredible. “One of the best meals I’ve ever had,” I’ll happily say to Grandma and casual acquaintances and the like.

Bourbon Street was hopping even at 6:30 p.m., and was much more sex and alcohol oriented than I had realized. I got jobbed for $5 for a photo of me and Alex holding a sign advertising “Huge ass beers to go”. Learning experience or bad sign? It’s pretty untenable to opine about how people need to stop the fragmentation of society and get together more while also fearing random interactions with strangers. Are spines available in stores, or is Amazon a better bet? Uh oh, there’s that forced humor again…and morbid self-awareness…hey, is that the Goodyear Blimp?!?

Our Red Carpet Inn was yet another pink hotel and was the secondary concern of what was primarily an RV park. Alex seemed pleased that the property was guarded by a gate, but it just psyched me out. Ultimately, the hardest thing was getting the cranky toilet to flush. Next time it’ll be easier.