So I just got back from New Orleans.
I have a long and strange relationship with the south. It began way back when, in 1990.
I had a penpal in New Orleans. He was bat shit crazy. Of course I was young and naive and merely thought he was "eccentric". My travels at this time had been limited. I had hung out on the streets of Pittsburgh briefly, due to some crazy circumstances, but I had spent a lot of my childhood going into Pittsburgh but that was no biggee. I lived in a rough part of Philly. I had been on trips with family and/or with school: To Buffalo, to Baltimore, To D.C., but I had never really been too far out of the region. So, when this whack job offered me to visit New Orleans over my spring break, I readily accepted.
 So armed with enthusiasm and forty bucks, I tool the amtrak. I was eightteen. I watched with excitement as the world went by. I marvelled at how beautiful and lush the landscape was when I woke up in my coach seat. I asked the conductor where we were. I had never seen anything like it.
 " This is Georgia," he said in a beautiful drawl.
 We went on to Mississippi and Alabama. Now these states were downright creepy. I didn't even like stopping in the station for a few minutes in these rinky dink towns. They seemed drab and gray and filled with hate. Not the creative, Boyd Rice style misanthropy but unadulterated, bigoted hate peering out at you from some run down porch in the middle of nowhere. It was the kind of hate that made you never want to have your car break down in the town and where you could picture someone actually saying "You ain't from 'round here, are you?"
 Louisiana wasn't so bad. It didn't impress me in the way that Georgia had, but I dug the swamplands and it still seemed very rich and lush.
 When the train pulled into New Orleans, I was greeted by a balding, middle aged man with wilted flowers in his hands.
 "I dumpster dived these from behind a flower shop," he told me. We walked up Canal Street and through the quarter. It was the week after Mardi Gras. The streets were filled with people, bustling with activity. It was a refreshing change from the cold bustle of downtown Philadelphia. We meandered toward a bus stop. He took me up to some street with some quaint french name or other. It all seemed so bright and colorful and lively next to Philadelphia. I slept on his couch in some small one bedroom apartment.
 Through the weekend I got the tour of New Orleans. I peddled readings in the french quarter. I walked around through the graveyard. I wrote in my diary in the park, watching these huge, gorgeous birds you only find in the south and sitting in the lakefront, feeding the gulls.
 My "friend" it turned out, was batshit crazy. I originally wanted to move to New Orleans but I abandoned this plan when this guy started calling me at five AM saying all sorts of crazy shit and would call me at no other time. But my dream of New Orleans stuck around.
 When I had gotten to the point in Philly where I needed to move out, see the world a bit more, I considered New Orleans rather seriously. But I had little money, and even then I knew it was an ill thought out plan. So I went to San Francisco instead.
 Life led me to the southwest. I was living in Arizona. I started thinking about New Orleans after a couple of years. However, I had visited Austin and really become enamored with it, and besides I had a friend moving there.
 So I went to Austin which became wrought with extremes. It was beautiful. I loved the hill country, the buildings, the cafes and clubs and overall charm. I didn't like the attitudes of Texas superiority, or the two facedness disguised as southern hospitality, or the really distinct caste system and segregation. I had some great experiences and met some great people but I had some equally fucked up and when I left I was glad to leave the south.
 I had considered going to New Orleans but a boyfriend at the time (thankfully long gone) wanted to go to Chicago. He was worried about the economy there and I was worried that another southern city would be a frying pan-fire scenarios, so we went to Chicago.
 I always wondered how it would have worked out. When said ex turned into a real ass a few days before we left, I got an invitation to go to New Orleans and stay with a rather flaky girl I knew online. Again, common sense prevailed and I didn't go. But ever since, I've thought about it. It has always been my dream city, the city of last resort where I would go after I had exhausted every other place and was finally ready to settle down, buy a home, and all that crap.
 Well that just got shot all to hell this weekend.
Now don't get me wrong, it was great fun. We got to the hotel. It was gorgeous. Absolutely charming, without a doubt. There was a lovely courtyard and it was really quaint and really cozy. It had the old french style that is so popular around there. I wasn't thrilled about the fact that our door was a giant, sliding window right next to the bed. (Makes it hard to get a sense of privacy.) I also would have liked if there was room service, since the restauraunts were a bit of a hike. (Not too bad, about five or six blocks, but when you're tired or have been running around all day, that can be a bit of a pain.) But otherwise, it was really nice.
 As we walked around in search of food (which was tough because pretty much restaurant closes at 10 PM and since our plane got in late, by the time we got to our hotel, every place was closed.) a clown passed us on the street, looked at me and said"Hey, BAYBEE". Rob commented how he could tell I had a thing for clowns. (The first time Rob asked me out, he was dressed as a clown.) After finding a greasy little diner, we went to this divey bar, which was obviously a drug den. It was both cool and creepy. The jukebox had some cool stuff on there and it was a good time overall.
 The next day, we wandered around the quarter. I found some cool clothes, good places for food but the crowds around bourbon and decatur were nigh unbearable. Additionally, everyone in the shops seemed to mistake me for a local. I didn't mind, as they were friendly and nice, but I suspected that if I had let them know I was from out of town they wouldn't have been so friendly. This was proven repeatedly through the weekend, especially in the bars. There seemed to be a real resentment toward out of towners. I guessed this was because the only real economy was tourist based so you were forced to either work in that industry or moved. But still, it seemed excessive. I mean there was no real differentiating between the folks who were cool and respectful and the gawking idiots with cameras who bought every kitschy little thing and made loud, obnoxious comments.
 We checked out the local goth night, Mausoleum. It seemed promising at first. They had put an amazing amount into the decor, it looked really spectacular and they had a wide variety of cheap specialty drinks. But it never got busy and played pretty much rehashed 80s stuff. Men Without Hats, Duran Duran, Soft Cell, that sort of thing. They also occasionally played the more hard edged eighties stuff but when Rob made a request in the same basic genre, the dj gave him a real major attitude. He visibly sneered at Rob, and really rudely told him no. When Rob went to get another drink, the bartender, said (very sarcastically) "like you really need one". I got the same basic impression.
 We walked around some more but pretty much got the same impression. The city struck me as pretty and comfortable on one hand but dirty, smelly and hostile on the other. I was baffled by the open hostility to anyone who goes into a bar that they don't happen to know. I mean, okay I can see how you would get sick of dealing with drunks. But , to quote reservoir dogs "I have four words to say to that. Learn To Fucking Type." Which was how I felt. It isn't my fault that you hate your job and it's not like you don't make money doing it. I mean, hell, bartending jobs are the holy grail  of Chicago. If you can get a bartending job, you're considered to have the "ideal" job. If you hate it that much, then quit, but please don't take it out on me. This made it hard to really enjoy the bars, and I have to say, I don't mind sitting in a bar while I drink. I mean, I have a full bar at home, and when I go to a bar it's to enjoy the vibe of said bar, perhaps get a little human interaction. The whole "to go" aspect didn't really matter to me, I would have rather not had the bars oozing with resentment and actually had a last call and have to drink my booze inside.
 I realized how out of shape I was. All the walking caused a splintering pain in my calves which got worse every day, but it was good to realize I was getting exercise. I could actually see the effects.
 We also walked in on some random couple having sex in the hotel courtyard. Luckily, since they were both butt ugly(literally) we caught them as they were finishing and putting their clothes back on. But even that was an image we found hard to shake. Another guest asked me if they were staying here or if they simply had gotten in while the gate was open. I commented that if they were, they should know where their rooms were.
 But overall it was nice. We had some absolutely amazing food and a lovely hotel room, lots of coffee and beignets and an enjoyable time walking around the quarter.
But still, after this week, I can say I would never want to live in New Orleans. As a city, it's too hostile and too smelly and too economically depressed. It's a great place to visit, as they say, but I wouldn't want to live there.

 february             pontifications