Hugs, Bugs and Tears

Dozens of people, from a bartender that had to stand on a beer cooler, to a female cop in uniform to a 60 something year old man in a truly appalling Hawaiian shirt, hugged me this past weekend. It happened in airports and at a festival, in bars and, in the case of the officer, in a trailer, which temporarily houses the Deputy Chief of the New Orleans Police Department. I received the same level of affection from friends, family and strangers alike. The only commonality we shared was birthplace. We were all native New Orleanians. In every case it was soothing and in every case I got weepy eyed.

I spent six days spanning the end of last week, into the beginning of this week in New Orleans. I hadn't been home since a few days after the levee broke. This was the first time in too long that I walked the streets of my youth and danced in the sun at Jazz Fest. Much has changed. Fully one third of the geography of New Orleans resembles a George Romero movie. No lights, not traffic, street or home breaks up the eerie stillness of empty streets. Houses stand vacant, as often as not with doors hanging open, windows broken and roofs in various stages of disarray. Not even a feral cat breaks the still of the night. With no electricity to be had in the hardest hit areas, mom and pop establishments and corporate megaliths like HomeDepot and WalMart remain vacant. I had to traverse this wasteland twice daily, once in the daylight and once in the dark of night. I still don't know which view effected me most adversely.

The heart of the city was up and running, fully open for business. Although, every single restaurant, bar and retail outlet had help wanted signs posted. It was a grim reminder that life was happening in the normal New Orleans way, but that there are not enough people to staff it adequately. The French Quarter was it's usual gaudily lit and garishly decorated self. The immediate neighborhoods rollicked with the Jazz Fest crowds, though spray-painted x's and o's on buildings proliferated. Even the most boisterous crowds reverently passed these markers of less lucky fates; some even furtively caressing them in homage. I admit to doing so myself on a number of occasions. No one had to explain the significance of the various markings, and no one asked.

The Uptown neighborhoods, the Irish Channel and the Garden District seemed resigned to life going on, at all costs. Local watering holes had music and people spilling into the street. A palpable vibrancy echoed everywhere. Trees, shrubs and bushes blossomed and you would be forgiven for forgetting, if only for a moment, that the Storm had occurred. The only sign of things amiss here was an armed sheriff on duty in an all night Rite-Aid, and the absence of the constant clickety-clack and iron bell of the St Charles Avenue street car. I didn't venture all the way up the line to the Carrollton neighborhood, I just couldn't take seeing one of my favorite areas different than I remembered it. That notion nearly kept me from enjoying the best night of the trip. A bar/restaurant I worked in for years had changed names and design and designation so I had decided not to go in. Then the band started to play and I was sucked in. Before I knew it I was dancing and singing with people from New Orleans, nine states and three countries. The band kept it up until way into the hours when civilized folk are supposed to be in bed. I left there, in sunglasses, happy and cheered that, although the place had changed, the spirit had not.

A friend I brought along with me was introduced to the glories of a crawfish boil at my brother's house. My brother's roof had only been recently repaired; half blew away in the storm. Everyone of his friend's in attendance had some storm damage, from the brother-in-law who lost it all, to the coworker who lost two cars. None of that was discussed more than perfunctorily though. On this particular Sunday it was all about seafood and sun, laughter and lagniappe, music and moxie. Mounds of steaming, bright red bugs, mixed with corn, potatoes, sausage and mushrooms, graced a newspaper covered table, while fried catfish and grilled tuna competed nearby. No one left hungry or anything other than happy, and my friend became part of the extended tribe.

The high water mark, if you will excuse the metaphor, came while I was standing in the infield of the New Orleans FairGrounds with Little Feat playing behind me. Talking to a man from Vermont, by way of California, awash in a sea of people from all over the world, I had an epiphany. At that moment, and for every moment from then on, there was no place in the world I would have rather been, and no place else that will ever, truly be home.