Nola, the slower New York

Got back from my first ever real vacation Friday night. I’ve traveled before, but I’ve never really needed a BREAK, like I’ve been needing this one since the new year. I went to New Orleans*, Louisiana for a week. I used to go to school down there, and still have friends who go to Tulane and live down there. I flew down monday morning, got out of bed at an excruciating 4:45, and headed for Newark. I love travel; packing, flying, and all of the other things involved with it… Flying most of all. I love turbulence. I guess that’s weird, because really, if there’s enough turbulence the plane could be tossed out of the sky. But I like the bouncing around, my stomach jumping up and down, it’s quite exciting, a pleasant experience. 

Any hoo. I arrived in nola around 1:30, Mir was there to pick me up. We drove back to campus and I got to see her house for the first time. We lived together in Sharp during freshman year, and then she was in Herby as a sophomore, and now she lives in this house off campus, and plans to stay until she graduates. It’s an adorable house, three bedrooms, huge kitchen and living room, dining room too. All the houses are basically the same, and the one common factor is the wonderfully southern screened in front porch. A few chairs and one very comfy love seat on her porch. 

Tuesday I went to the quarter on my own. I took the street car ($1.25) to Canal and then walked up Bourbon, which, really you don’t want to walk on during the day if you can help it. Once the sun’s down it’s perfectly fine, readying itself for the onslaught of drunken tourists and college students of the evening. But during the day it is horrific. Nothing is open, except the occasional bar that is a restaurant during the day. And you can ask anyone, you’ll know as soon as you’ve turned onto Bourbon street, if not by the name tiled into the corner, then by the putrid smell of piss and vomit, left from the previous night, and nicely ripened by the hot mid-day sun. I walked nearly to the other end, before turning right and walking over to Decatur. Decatur is where the famous Cafe Du Monde is, as well as Jackson Square and the French Market.

Somehow, in the 8 months I lived in nola, I never made it to the market. It’s kind of a wonderful experience. It’s one of those things you can’t plan to take a trip to, because on the day you visit, it will inevitably be closed. I wandered over to it, and everything was set up. It is a wonderful juxtaposition of a nyc’s china town and a street fair, but much smaller. It covers what looked to be maybe a two block long area. There is food, though not much, and really nothing you’d like to eat. There are the never ending tables of jewelry, each table with the same exact stuff, lots of mardi gras masks and beads, the rings and earrings you could have found on St. Marks Pl last year.  But then there’s the random cool stands selling something you’ve never seen before. One fellow had a stand with a  bunch of tiles that had pictures of them. He was a photographer and he and his wife set up this business, she put the pictures of the tiles and kept them organized, and he sold them. There were the typical ones, of Cafe Du Monde, or of a fleur de lis, but then there were fun ones. There was “The Boot”, the infamous bar adjacent to Tulane, where “Girls Gone Wild” got a lot of their tape. There was one that the guy said was a sign over a tire shop which said, “No loitering, no crack selling, no cat selling,  the facts.” Another stand was a guy selling vats of what he advertised as pure shea butter, but really looked like lard in plastic containers. Because I’m who I am, I took some from the sample jar; comparable to butter. 

I moved on down to a cafe which had an outdoor seating area, and a jazz band was playing for the patrons. I took a seat, and ordered an ice tea. I don’t drink ice tea normally, but I suppose I wanted to feel southern, and I always imagine that’s what rich Cajuns drink while sitting on their porches, letting the mid-day sun pass. The band was pretty terrible. They played ensemble for the most part, but gave way to each other in each song for solos. The bassist was just terrible. From my experience with George, and Rene Miller’s Wedding band, I know that the bass is a background character, like the peasantry, not noticed until they’re not there anymore. The bass is the heart beat of any good jazz/blues band, and I stand by that, but this fellow just wasn’t. He didn’t bring the warmth to the line like I expected him to, and for his solos he always pulled out his bow and played (not well) the world’s easiest sequence of notes. At one point I think he got into “twinkle twinkle”. But, when he wasn’t playing his solos, I was able to disregard him, and pay full attention to the trumpet. He was amazing. And his voice, he sang in such a way that I had to mentally control myself, and not fall back into nostalgia. He sang “What a Wonderful World”. That song, sung well, and with the soul he seemed to possess, just gets me right in my coeur/core.

I also had a cup of gumbo. Yummy. Imagine: Andouille sausage, shrimp, and some kind of cephalopod, all stewed for hours in a tomato base, smothered in cajun spices, all sitting on a bed of rice. I enjoyed it thoroughly, paired nicely with my iced tea. I was engaged in conversation by a fellow drinking something the barmaid concocted for him, and puffing on a cigar. Rafael was in town from Florida on business. Though his presence did interupt the lovely afternoon I was having with myself, it was nice to meet someone new.

Skayy and her new boyfriend picked me up later on, and I went off to Bourbon (now sufficiently un-smelly) to meet all of her new friends and business acquaintances. One of them, who worked in a Jester (daiquiri place) named Jersey showed me a magic trick, scared the crap out of me, until, of course I coerced him into telling me the trick, at which point I lost all interest. But then that’s usually how it happens. Sometimes my powers of persuasion work against me. 

I spent the next afternoon doing the most blissfully slothful thing. I took a book, my turkish silvers, and a bag of teddy grams, laid on the love seat on the screened in porch, and read. I was so happy to have time to just read again. As an only child, I quickly fell in love with books, and I love to read for pleasure, but rarely have time to do it anymore, if at all. I can honestly say that I spent at least 10 hours over the past week wrapped up in the world of Henry VIII and of Katherine of Aragon, Princess of Spain, holy unaware of actual surroundings, except that I was warm and sunny. 

I really didn’t do much else. Lets see, I reconciled with an old friend, and returned to him a shirt I had been holding on to since the fall of ’07. I met up with another and got to see the scary crowd she’s taken up with. Yeah, besides my walking around, seeing friends and reading, I did little else. I’d say that’s quite a successful vacation. 

An aside, I’m so glad I grew up in a city. I’m happy it was NYC, just because I’m biased in that i did in fact grow up here, but really any big city would have done. Though, not LA. Or anywhere in Texas. Chicago would have sufficed, or San Francisco. I’m happy for this because of all the walking I do. If I need to go somewhere, for the most part, a store or to get out money, I’ll walk. If I feel like finding lunch on a nice day at work, I’ll walk. Or if I’m out somewhere in the evening, pleasantly buzzed, I’ll find my way home on my feet. Everyone I know from college, including my darling Mirla, they all have such a different culture as it comes to transportation. Just a completely different mind set. For the first few days I like it. Things move much more quickly. If I want to get to Magazine for some Mexican food, it’s a 2 minute drive. But then after that, it just gets mind boggling. I feel like things are moving too quickly, I don’t have time to look at anything, it’s just in and out and in and out of a car, constantly. I feel like an old person being bustled about. And I don’t like it. People always seem to think I got jipped, what with not being able to drive, when they all have their permits at 15 and licenses at 16. And yeah, I think it kinda sucks that I can’t go on road trips, and that it’ll be that much more scary when I start driving because I’m all old now and set in my ways, but I think it’s all worth it for the way I see the world. ar

Memories

Drove by your house today on the way to the train. Flag was at half mast. The flag at your mom’s was too. I guess that means you’ve died. I just called mom, she told me Wayne was over and he told them you had passed, 9pm Christmas day. Dad and he are going to the viewing tomorrow night, but not the funeral Tuesday. I asked why not, Dad I could understand, he’d be a mess the whole time, but Wayne? Mom said he said it was because it was going to be jammed packed. Makes sense, you were an amazing man, I guess no space is large enough to comfortably accommodate all the people you’ve touched.

I love you. You made my childhood special. I suppose I was too young to remember, but mom and dad always tell the story of when we first bought the house. How you and Wayne came over with a basket of oranges, nuts and candy canes, just for me. I was three, and I’m sure I was elated. The previous owners of the house, or maybe the people before them didn’t have a good relationship with you two, so I guess you guys decided to make sure our relationship would be a good one. You made my sand box. I loved that thing, I think as an only child I could appreciate things like that more… Anytime any natural disaster occurred, you always fixed it. Whenever it snowed, you plowed our driveway. You never stopped in after to say hi or get a cup of coffee. In fact, dad always had to run out and stop you to thank you at all, but that’s how you are. You’re a stubborn man, prideful, and completely unwilling to show emotion, but I think you always had a soft spot for me. Whenever I’d bake at the house, I’d always make an extra pie, or batch of brownies, or whatever for you. I dreaded bringing them because that stupid white dog of yours always scared the crap out of me, even once I was bigger than her. And dad would never take them up to your door for me, he’d always make me do it myself. But I guess she was just doing her job. When we came to visit you on Wednesday she was as docile as the day is long, maybe she could sense you impending death.

And that time you took me up in your plane. That was such fun. It was soo scary, but so cool at the same time. There wasn’t a handle to hold on to, the only thing there was to hold on to was the second steering wheel thingy in front of me, and I wasn’t about to touch that. I suppose, in retrospect, that steering wheel thingy wasn’t engaged… So, though my hand were clenched into white balls of panic, I loved it. We flew over the finger lakes, and waved the wings at mom and dad down in the garden.

We had just had breakfast, Wednesday morning, Christmas eve, and were preparing ourselves to decorate the tree. Wayne came over. He said he couldn’t stay long, but wanted to tell us that you weren’t doing well, not well at all. You had been in the hospital again and weren’t getting better. The doctors decided to stop treatment, and send you home with a nurse. 24 hour hospis, I don’t know that word, I don’t think I’m spelling it right, but it’s what Wayne said. I asked mom what it meant after he had left, she said it basically meant that you were sent home to be as comfortable as possible, as you wait to die. Wayne said we should go on up, just go right into the house and holler.

We all sat in our usual seats after he left, dad got weepy right away, as expected. Mom tried to keep the mood up, told me it was ok to cry, absolutely not what I wanted to hear, but I couldn’t say anything because she was making herself feel better by trying to make me feel better. I wanted to leave the room, wanted to go upstrairs to my room and curl up in bed and cry for a while. But then they’d come up and try to comfort me and that was completely not what I wanted. So I stayed downstairs. I stayed and let it soak in. We got in the car and drove the few minutes to your house. The rain didn’t make it easy to get up your driveway, but we managed.

Inside were a bunch of people, a nurse and others we didn’t know. A small woman with long hair greeted us, brought us in to you. She told us that you were resting peacefully, that you were aware and could hear us, but would be unresponsive. We walked into your room and you looked so pitiful in bed. Not at all like the man I know. Your head was shaved, but I noted your eyebrows and handlebar mustache were still very much intact. You seemed to be sleeping. I guess you were. I sat on the bed by your head. Do you remember? I put my hand on your arm. I don’t know what I expected, but you were very warm and soft. You were watching AMC, some western, very much your style. Dad couldn’t talk, he was too weepy. Mom did most of the talking. She was so sweet, and sad because I knew what she was doing. She was trying so hard to not make it about herself. Talking about all the things you’ve done for and with us over the years helped to get it off her mind, but in the end it came out. She’s mad at you. And she had every right to be. You promised her you’d make it through this. You promised her and all of us that if she could do it, so could you. You’re not the type to let a girl beat you. So what happened?

When I visited you in NY, you seemed fine. When you came to that cookout this summer, you seemed fine, though you did have that nasty looking carrot juice stuff. Ack. And now? Now you’re dead. That’s so weird. I don’t suppose I really know what that means. Obviously I know what it is, but not really what it means. And I don’t like to think about it. But, now that I am, I may as well tell you. It scares me. Where are you? I know where your body is, starting to rot somewhere, but where are YOU. I don’t believe in God, and heaven and all that shit. But I do believe there is more to a human that his physical self. Call it a soul or whatever you like, but it’s there. But it’s not as simple as religion would like me to believe. A soul doesn’t exist, as I see, it until a personality emerges. Experiences built that personality, from the first thing a person sees, to the last.  But does this soul rely on the body it inhabits? When you died, did your soul float out and go somewhere? No, I think that’s ridiculous. But then what happens? Something that is cultivated over such a long time, it can’t just dissipate, not just like that.

And what were you thinking? Did you know you weren’t really getting better? Did you feel it in your bones that it was gonna get you? Did you just refuse to admit it to yourself? What’s it like? Answer for me the one question no one can ever answer, what’s it like to die? I know it didn’t hurt, not physically anyway. You were on enough pain meds to make sure of that. But what about mentally? What went through your head. Did you know this was it? Mid 50′s, and you’re done. You’ve done so much with your life, but you could still have done so much more. Did you ever make up with Jonny? I don’t know, but I doubt it. You’re far too stubborn to ever admit you’re wrong, let alone apologize. And if your brother’s anything like you, and I imagine he is, I doubt if he’d take the first step either. Did you think about him? I hope not, because I don’t want you to have regretted anything. I want you only to have had good thoughts, happy thoughts. I want you to have been aware that people who love you came in continuously for two whole days, sitting by your bed and saying goodbye. I want you to have been happy for those last conscious hours, and then I hope you slipped seamlessly into a lovely dream that never stops. That doesn’t seem so scary, I love dreaming, and often wished my dreams were real once I’d woken up. So maybe never waking up wouldn’t be so bad.

I know you’re dead, that I won’t ever see you again, but I won’t forget you, and maybe that’s what happens to the soul when a person dies. Everyone who knows someone never really thinks about that person when they’re together. But as soon as they’re not together, they start thinking about each other all the time. So now that you’re dead, you’ll actually be around more than you ever had been while you were living, in our thoughts and memories and stories. You can bet your ass  my kids will know you.

I’m not mad at you, and I’m not sad either. I’m just a little jolted, and scared maybe. You took life by storm, did everything you wanted, including things you weren’t supposed to do. I hope you know, that in a not so small way, you’ve touched my life, and maybe, if you didn’t know that, you do now. When we left you on Wednesday, I gave you a kiss and told you we love you. And I meant it.

So, that’s it n’ that’s all. Good night Stevie. I love you.