Another Day in New Orleans

7/27/07

I woke up this morning from the worst dream I’ve had in a very long time. I can’t recall it exactly, but it was one of those dreams that went on and on. Something about my students putting something racially offensive on the web, my attempts to mediate the situation, the situation escalating into someone getting shot, another man pulling out a gun in the midst of a fight with the first gunman; I’m frantically trying every phone I can find to call 911 and none of them work. It ended with a second person getting shot and his mother blaming me for the whole thing.

I woke up in a sweat, feeling crazy, wishing to hell I had someone to talk to. I called my girlfriend J. Thank god for good friends. She talked me down—reminded me that I’m an emotional sponge and that this city is filled with unspeakable grief. I had a good cry over the phone. After the call I looked down from my 24th floor Mississippi-view window and saw the 8th floor outdoor pool. It looked like it would feel good to float in it for a while, so I did. I was standing in the pool looking out at the sky and one of the sunbathers asked me if I was okay. The kindness of strangers. I told her I was feeling very sad for the city, and we had a nice talk. It was her first trip to N.O. and she was having a great time—she had nothing to compare it to. Another woman entered the conversation; a first-time visitor who had gone on the hurricane devastation tour. (Me, I don’t need to see it to believe it.) After a little talking, I was feeling a little better, though still shaky.

I came back to my room to clean up for a conference session, and found the maid there. I just needed 5 minutes to get out of my bathing suit and take a shower, but she knew no English. “Français? Español?” Español. Cinquo minutos, por favor. I felt like a bonifide world traveler.

Then I went to an experiential Catherine Fitzmaurice voice workshop that was all about “diving into inner chaos” and “making your way back out.” Sounds scary, but it was perfect for my still-sensitive mood and afterwards my attitude was further elevated.

I went across Canal street for a quick lunch at the Palace Cafe and had a lovely shrimp rèmoulade salad with fried green tomatoes and little crab cakes. I sat at the bar and asked the bartender if N.O. is always this slow in July. He said it was, so it’s possible things are not as bad as I thought this morning. But I'm not convinced.

The afternoon was spent talking to voice teachers, first at a Voice and Speech Trainers Association (VASTA) information session, then later at a reception at the Orleans Café on Decatur street. Charmane, our bartender (who made me her specialty drink called a “Skinny dip”) was a boozy, blousy blonde with a deep southern drawl. We asked her about Katrina, and she opened up the floodgates about the Red Cross hording supplies and taking money, going to counseling with counselors who couldn’t possibly understand the magnitude of the situation, and the insurance companies refusing to renew people’s insurance. She looked like she was about to lose it in front of us from post-traumatic shock. Tomorrow’s her 44th birthday.

I took another walk around the Quarter tonight. There had been a torrential downpour earlier in the day and the smell of the hurricane mold started seeping out of the wooden clapboards. Many of the nicer homes had patio walls topped with razor wire to keep out looters. I found the store where I had bought the 6 oz. glasses (hooray, but it was closed until tomorrow), and wound up having dinner at the Court of Two Sisters, where I had a lovely blackened red fish, served over mashed potatoes and pan seared spinach.

There were a few more people on the street tonight, maybe because it was Friday. But still, it’s a far cry from what I saw the last time I was here.

I’m enjoying the good food, but I don’t want to be here anymore. It’s altogether too depressing and lonely. I truly don’t know how the people who live here can stand it. There’s a sort of slogan you see in the shops, on hand-lettered signs. It’s too sad for me to bear:

“Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?”

I do. Indeed.