Strange Encounters

I'd just about convinced myself that I didn't want to do a levee walk last night. Around 5:00, after an active day with the little man, I figured I deserved a little 'old fashion' relaxation. The tug of my waistband, however, nagged at my conscience (yeah, same kind of thing she talked about in her recent blog). The push to regain an earlier, smaller shadow of myself keeps me indentured to the exercise master. And, like those other women, I don't think he'll ever grant me absolute freedom from servitude, no matter how many acres of fried chicken, bourbon and coke and ettouffee I plow under while consuming broth, diet drinks, grilled patties without a bun, or even, gasp!, nothing for supper (yes, I know that's not effective strategy, but sometimes faced with a choice of cereal, lettuce or nothing, nothing begins to taste good).

Anyway, back to the encounter. The best thing about my walking exercise is that, once motivated to leave the house, the routine is usually anything but. Choose either direction on the levee and one is almost bound to come across something that makes the walking and jogging but a means to an interesting end. Thursday was no different. Doggie and I wandered briskly to the area of the levee under the Crescent City Connection, an enormous, twin-span over the river, right at the place cruise ships dock across the way. I'm always wary of unsavoury characters who might be wandering around, even though, until absolute darkness, there are still people near by: the shipyard crews, tugs docked with their barges and, lately, the Blain Kern barns are rockin' and rollin' with the push to ready floats for upcoming parades. This evening, I noticed a lone woman walking slowly toward me, watching the river, stopping to study the scene, and turning to retrace her steps for 30 yards or so. She didn't appear especially threatening, but hey, lots of things in this city aren't what they seem. As I stopped at my usual perch to look for anything interesting in the currents, as well as observe a new, gigantic cruise ship now docked in place of the former 'dormitory' one, this slight, middle-aged lady approached me, stopping alongside us. "Well, we were filming here today," she began, by way of explanation for her aimless walking. "We needed an 8-foot, dead alligator, so we had one built. Well, someone picked it up to take it back to the set, but nobody will say who has it, so I came back to see if it had been left down here." She had used the right button to get my immediate, undivided attention: filming. Of course, I asked her what, who, when, etc. She told me Keanu Reeves was at the levee earlier, taking part in the scenes about an exploding ferry, which explains the need for a dead alligator, except that a live alligator beneath the Crescent City Connection would supply all the publicity needed to make THAT film successful!! The movie is Deja Vu (sp); I think I read something about it. She said they were set to film in August, but, well.... Later they thought about moving the production site(s) but decided to return here and take part in the city's recovery. Nice gesture, that. And no, we didn't find a fake, dead alligator, but, again, the levee yielded more than a convenient place to engage the fitness devil: it gave me a renewed sense of "place". A place where anything might happen, and does!

All for one

Often, random thoughts and worries will be galvanized by reading something another wrote, or watching a movie or story tangentially-related. So it happened that a recent blog jolted my fuzzy musings into an organized frustration: We New Orleans people will all go up or down: together!!!

Strangely, here on the West Bank we go about our daily routines almost (physically, at least) untouched by the devastation in which we are immersed whenever we cross the 'connection'. Whether by bridge or ferry, immediately on entering the east bank, New Orleans' metropolis, I'm struck by the industry of some who are rebuilding and rehabbing in the midst of neighboring properties that are tumbled to the ground or resting partially on former sidewalks. My first thought, always, is along the lines of "what does that person think will come of this effort? Hasn't he read all about the infighting, the Bush campaign to frame us as reprobates? Just some down-on-their-luck crazy folks who want a handout." I wonder how the buy-outs (maybe backed by a state agency) will treat those who have 'rebuilt' on untenable real estate.

Well, one thing is certain: The ransacked, the looted and/or burned, the swept from the foundation and the untouched, glittering lucky mansions will occupy the same boat when the city's future is decided, over the next couple of years. No industry, no Shell Square, no lakefront neighborhoods, no Mardi Gras krewes and certainly no city government will survive for very long if the 'infill' of everyday folks give up on an impossible pilgrimage to return home to their city.

What in the world does our president believe is happening, day by day, week by week? People, businesses, schools, doctors are making decisions to hang on a l ittle longer, hoping our government will join hands with Louisiana and New Orleans, or they are drifting away, eroding the population and the "market influence" that Bush insists will decide the future of our city. Almost every day I drive past a hole-in-the-wall corner of an empty brick building a few blocks from my home: a free medical clinic, staffed by volunteers and some folks who are paid minimal expenses by non-profits. This is taking the place of a "free-market" medical clinic, such as the ones in Texas and D.C. This is where Laura and 'W' need to settle their derrieres for a few hours when they next descend (or is that condescend) on New Orleans to guage the health of our city in the aftermath of nearly total destruction.

Sometimes I have daydreams of the future when the lights are going out, one by one, across the river, as I watch from the levee. I and a few others from my wonderful, active, neighborhood are standing there, with our hands toward the sky, shouting that we are o.k. Don't do it! Don't give up! Like Horton and the little 'who' on the clover flower, I'm screaming at the mayor and the hoteliers and tugboat captains: We are fine over here!!!

The reality, as mentioned in the beginning of this entry, is that we, the unflooded, and they, the swamped, will rise or fall together. Should power-brokers or bankers believe they can pick and choose among the city's former residents to rebuild in a vision that isn't inclusive, they will be disappointed. The footprint should, and must, be smaller. But believe this: America won't flock to the Cafe du Monde or Jackson Square or St. Charles Avenue without the funny, crazy, carefree spirit that infects everyone spending time in the Big Easy. This is the vision that Bush and his minions actively are annihilating. They don't get it...or they do get it and don't want it.