It's Not Fixed
Bourbon Street is even seedier than I remember it. More strip clubs, I think. A stink of desperation hangs in the air, under the usual reek of alcohol-based vomit and urine.
Everyone knows if they get hit again, New Orleans will die.
And when I say everyone, I don't just mean the locals. Potential investors won't touch the place until after this hurricane season is over. Three out of five damaged houses look like no one's even considered repairing them. Downtown felt deserted. Omega Man deserted. There were places in the outskirts where it looked like no one had even bothered cleaning up since Katrina came to town, torn-off roofs and boats sitting by the train tracks a mile inland.
I can't blame them. If they get hit again, it won't matter what the place looked like.
I did my part to help. Booked a room at a hotel within stumbling distance of Bourbon Street. Then I drank until I had to stumble back. I was disappointed to find that Phillip Chan's Asian Cajun Cuisine was closed by the time I got clean and left my hotel room, but glad to see it still existed.
At two places with the word "Blues" on the door, neither of the bands could perform When Love Comes to Town by B.B. King. I recall the bleary sadness that only a truly drunk man who refuses to vomit can manage.
The next day my cellphone wouldn't work, light stung my eyes, and I had a couple of nasty scratches on my hands. Under a band aid. I had actually gone back to my room, cleaned up the bleeding gouges, and applied a neosporin-loaded band-aid.
Then I'd gone back out.
I slept through my alarm, but woke up in plenty of time to make my train.
It was a good night in New Orleans.
I hope the city's still there next year.
Everyone knows if they get hit again, New Orleans will die.
And when I say everyone, I don't just mean the locals. Potential investors won't touch the place until after this hurricane season is over. Three out of five damaged houses look like no one's even considered repairing them. Downtown felt deserted. Omega Man deserted. There were places in the outskirts where it looked like no one had even bothered cleaning up since Katrina came to town, torn-off roofs and boats sitting by the train tracks a mile inland.
I can't blame them. If they get hit again, it won't matter what the place looked like.
I did my part to help. Booked a room at a hotel within stumbling distance of Bourbon Street. Then I drank until I had to stumble back. I was disappointed to find that Phillip Chan's Asian Cajun Cuisine was closed by the time I got clean and left my hotel room, but glad to see it still existed.
At two places with the word "Blues" on the door, neither of the bands could perform When Love Comes to Town by B.B. King. I recall the bleary sadness that only a truly drunk man who refuses to vomit can manage.
The next day my cellphone wouldn't work, light stung my eyes, and I had a couple of nasty scratches on my hands. Under a band aid. I had actually gone back to my room, cleaned up the bleeding gouges, and applied a neosporin-loaded band-aid.
Then I'd gone back out.
I slept through my alarm, but woke up in plenty of time to make my train.
It was a good night in New Orleans.
I hope the city's still there next year.