It’s “up and at ‘em” early today. Sleeping in’s simply not an option. Besides, the local Cantonese (not right, but sounds good) inform me that I’m a still a decent three and a half to four hours away from New Orleans. Though their town continues to call my name and I’m dying to call right back, “Here am I!”, my original and primary goal of the trip was to get to a wedding in the French Quarter of the Big Easy, so for the time being, I must vacate the town which now proudly has its name etched in my heart.

All of the coffee I’ve consumed simply will not let me get to ‘Nawlins without making a trip to the restroom and while I’m inside a quick stop just inside the Louisiana state line, I quickly snap this picture of the bathroom door.

 

It’s an answer to a message about the KKK, but instead of refuting the content of the message, it refutes the construction. “Hey! Watch your grammar. If you were educated past the third grade you’d know it’s ‘all of you’ not ‘all y’all.’” This keeps me pondering and laughing for the rest of the drive.

With good humor now on my side and the sun peeking back and forth out of the clouds, I boldly make my way across the miles and miles of bridges leading into New Orleans and swallow the sinking feeling in my stomach that driving across Lake Pontchartrain gives me.

No time to pay attention to the sinking, however, because it is now being replaced with tears of joy and admiration. The first sight I see when pulling off the interstate is the now-intact Superdome. Just take a look at this picture and imagine the sheer size of the arena and then imagine winds sweeping through that are powerful enough to shed the roof like a layer of onion skin. That’s how powerful Katrina truly was.

Only a block over is the arena housing the New Orleans Hornets.

The hotel I’m staying in is just off the interstate on Canal Street. As I pull into the garage, I look just over to my right and reality sets in and it sets in very very hard. Here I am staying in a hotel on the edge of the French Quarter, getting ready to go celebrate a marriage at a very swanky wedding and getting ready to enjoy a city that has become near and dear to the heart of most every blue-blooded American and to my immediate right underneath an overpass are literally hundreds of tents, sleeping bags, recliners, couches and cardboard boxes containing individuals and entire families displaced by the hurricane. And my heart aches because it’s not over. It’s really not over. Moms, dads, kids and grandparents are living under the interstate and occasionally going out with cups, asking for money. But, really, how good is a dollar going to do? Even a hundred dollars? A thousand dollars? It won’t buy a home. This puts a seasick edge on the entire day, but I must press on.

My spirits are raised a bit when I find a familiar restaurant and seafood gumbo good enough to tell your grandmother to give up and go to blazes.

In continuing to explore the Quarter, my travels take me to some more familiar sights.

Cafe du Monde!!!!!!!!!!!!

The one and only Preservation Hall!!!!!!!

 

St. Louis Cathedral!!!!!

But it’s getting late and I must get ready for the rehearsal dinner tonight. It’s being held in a restaurant in the quarter and I’m getting antsy for my crawfish.

When I leave the dinner, my head swims with the surreal nature of the city, the fact that it’s still thriving, the French Quarter is seemingly unchanged, the mood is festive, Jazz Fest is in town and people are smiling and then I lay my head down at night and I see tents, sleeping bags, cups of change and on the outskirts of the fun….sadness.