But for the most part, the central city feels to me pretty much
as it always has—air so thick you could wear it, smelling faintly
of sweet flowers and sewage, the buildings gracefully aging,
brightly-painted plaster crumbling away to reveal patches of brick
like some kind of architectural peep show. You can walk down the
street in the Marigny and simultaneously listen to six different
types of music spilling out of the doors of six different no-cover
bars—and each musician will be better than the last.
Now that the media focus is over, life goes on like it always
has: People get up, go to work, grumble about the weather and glory
in the fact that they live in one of the most frustrating and
soul-inspiring cities in the world.
Because even though they’re still dealing with impacted social
services and roads that never get fixed and levies that still
aren’t secure even though hurricane season began July 1st, the
people who live in this city—even the transplants or, as they call
them down there, expatriates—are a different breed. New Orleans is
more than just a city where they live. People here know the streets
better than a New York taxi driver knows Manhattan. Ask them what
they’re doing this weekend, and they’ll reel off a litany of
options—from an out-of-season parade to a festival to a concert in
the park. They love New Orleans like they love a mother, or a
grandmother: They’re loyal to her. And proud of her, despite all of
her failings.
And they’re industrious, especially those environmentalists who
made it through the storm. On my first day, I assumed that the
recycling truck would pick up glass and plastic, until my
sister-in-law explained that in the city where perhaps more bottles
are consumed per capita than any other city in the world, the
recycling center there no longer accepts glass. She pays an extra
$15 a month for the truck to come at all!
People here are environmentally conscious in different ways.
They plant expansive kitchen gardens and compost their trash to
feed them. My family keeps two heirloom chickens, which consume an
amazing amount of their leftovers, and lay enough eggs for their
family of three, as well as many of their friends and neighbors.
You see fewer hybrids than in California, but many people depend on
the streetcar for their daily commute—even in 100-degree heat and
what feels like 100% humidity. The classic Hansen’s sno-ball—a New
Orleans summer tradition—has inspired an organic fruit-juice
sweetened option at a new café that’s scheduled to open this month.
The Magazine Street Buffalo Exchange featured the best pre-worn
clothing I’ve ever seen in one room—and the best dressed and nicest
vintage aficionados I’ve ever met in one place. And the farmer’s
market is the only place to be on Saturday mornings, rain or
shine.
We take a lot for granted, living in California. The recycling
truck picks up not only glass and plastic, but Styrofoam and
aluminum foil as well. My local supermarket carries a wide
selection of locally sourced organic foods. I can buy organic denim
jeans at my neighborhood department store (if I’m prepared to look
for them) and bamboo t-shirts for my kids. I can walk to the
movies, the market, and to take my kids to school.
But I wouldn’t say we’re loyal. In a city so transient, it’s
hard to think that we’re living in a place where we’ll spend the
rest of our days—even if most of our days have been spent here so
far. We’re always on the look out for some place better.
Maybe if we could just import those organic sno-balls?
