The Quarter
When I moved to Lakeview back around 2007 it was as silly as it may sound, the culmination of a long-running goal of mine. Since I was 5 I had wanted to move into the city. Our visits to my dad's mother who lived around Paulina and Newport on the north side were like excursions from the deserts of the suburbs to a bustling oasis. It was so unlike what I knew. There was a different energy. A different taste in the air. The seeds were planted then that guided me into young adulthood.
Granted, it took me about 8 years from moving into the city to moving into Boystown, which to me was the epicenter of that childhood desire. For no other reason than it being the "gay" neighborhood. Every city has neighborhoods which are either gay-specific or are renowned for some other reason that makes them the "it" place to go. For me, it was that small swath of land encased between Belmont and Addison.
When I moved there, I felt like I was part of something. It was so much more to me than wanting to be within a five minute walk of the bars. I wanted to be a part of the energy of that neighborhood. I'm not sure I have ever explained that accurately to most people who endure my rage-fueled grieving when I was forced to move out of that place because of my finances. Nor do most people understand why I hate the upper class yuppies for appropriating the neighborhood and slowly tearing away everything about it I once loved.
Don't be mistaken. As much as a person can love inanimate objects and ideas, I loved that neighborhood. I was proud to live there. Somewhere in the time I spent there, it became a part of me as much as I was a part of it. Having it torn out of me was one of the more grueling experiences of my life. What does a person look to when their one goal is more or less destroyed. Surely, there is no going back because what it was I loved no longer exists.
I recall all this because the Doctor had asked me over the weekend if I thought I would get sick of New Orleans if I moved down there. Truly, after Boystown the only place left in my mind with the same energy and inspiration is the French Quarter. Not exactly the same attraction but in the same range. New Orleans, and the Quarter in general almost instantly took up residence within me when I first stepped onto Bourbon Street.
I was 27, helping a friend move across country. Our last stop before his destination was a night in New Orleans. I have vague memories of driving his truck through the Garden District to a small hotel off of what must have been St. Charles Avenue. We checked in late, but still went out for dinner. Taking a street car to Canal street. It was another world down there.
That was one of my first major travel experiences. And New Orleans was unlike any of the other places I'd ever been. The buildings were old and the history seeped through the bricks. The streets were narrow and bustling. People walking about in them as merry as I've ever seen. We sat on a balcony on Bourbon and St Peter. I was overwhelmed by the energy so much so I could barely speak. I was just inundated on all sides.
I went back pretty much every other year after that. The place is in my bones. I feel it right now as I sit there. The question of whether or not I would get tired of it if I live down there seems irrelevant. Being able to live down there would be too amazing a feat to even ponder anything after.
There was nothing more I loved about living in Lakeview than going about my average, boring routine day in and out IN that neighborhood. It made the mundane into an event for me. I was never just going to the grocery store. I was never just walking to the train for work. I was never just going to the same old diner. I was doing all those things in a place I loved. I was a part of all that energy.
It makes me recall Hemingway and his peers living in Paris in the early 20th century. Or Kerouac and his exploits across the U.S. People seeking inspiration from surroundings. Taking in that energy and creating art in their cases. I have no doubt my own feelings in this situation mirror their experiences. Maybe not all people, but certainly some are compelled to visit and live in places that they are inexplicably connected to. An invisible muse.
One should never say never, but I doubt beyond sporadic visits I will ever live in New Orleans. My excuses range anywhere from my parents, to cats to hurricanes... it's all fear of course. Not even bothering to consider things like work or money. Why poison the fantasy further.
There's a funny thing about when I go down there... folks will often find me in the bar at 9 AM drinking, seeking out to do so. Granted, it's generally Mardi Gras when we go, so it is already an endless party. But, for me in those times I don't see myself as the lonely drunk, sitting alone at a bar. I am there absorbing the energy. I am living in the moment. Watching what other kind of people exist in that time frame. Seeing the streets with only the random person going by. The quiet before the rest of the world wakes. The bartender working at that odd shift, having seen the drunks flowing out at 4 AM, still on his shift. The early, loud group getting ready to head to a parade route. Lonely old men who have been drinking for a decade in the shadows at the other corner of the bar.
The old, dusty woodwork and shelves with cluttered bottles. The tattered stools. Ancient paneling on the walls. Posters for events that will be happening long after my flight has left. Puddles in the pavement outside. Bricks on the sidewalk. Shuttered windows on a house across the intersection. Someone in a feather boa and top hat walks by. The flame of a gas lamp on the street flutters. Someone on another balcony emerges with a cup of coffee. Do they live there. Are they just visiting. I see it all. I take it all in and it becomes a part of me. And I, a part of it for that moment. I am connected to it.
Perhaps I don't get that drink. When I wander out in the early morning hours, when everyone else is still sleeping I sometimes simply wander the streets of the Quarter. I am just a guy, walking down the sidewalk. Seeing the sun break, casting long shadows down Dauphine Street. I am the guy walking past the bar window someone else sees. Going where?... they do not know. Nor do I.
I am looking at the balconies. The plants cascading down. The Boston ferns twisting slightly in the breeze. Some with water dripping down to the street below. Someone up there is up early too, giving their plants a drink. Some wrought iron is rusted over. Some thick with years of paint. Some shutters closed. Some wide open. Old trees with their gnarled branches reach towards the sunlight. A secret corridor between two buildings, sealed off by an iron gate, peering down into a courtyard with the faintest sounds of a fountain trickling. Palm trees. Banana trees. Plant life unlike anything I see farther north.
And the houses. Right on the sidewalk. Connected right to the energy of the city. These mystery people who step right out of their living rooms onto Dauphine, or Bourbon or any other of the famous thoroughfares. Who are they... what are their lives like. Someone walks by heading in the opposite direction. Someone worn out, slightly tattered. Looking more like a resident on the way to work than a visitor up early. Rickety old convenience stores on corners receiving the morning deliveries. Someone with a house washing off the evening's stink from the sidewalk to the gutters. A bike rider pedals by. A street cleaner hisses down St Anne. Beer trucks line Bourbon. People going about their lives down there, the same as up here.
It is all within me. When I go out there alone. When I sit there alone. I am not alone. I am the French Quarter for that time. I see it all. I sense it all. It is energy. It is love.
Granted, it took me about 8 years from moving into the city to moving into Boystown, which to me was the epicenter of that childhood desire. For no other reason than it being the "gay" neighborhood. Every city has neighborhoods which are either gay-specific or are renowned for some other reason that makes them the "it" place to go. For me, it was that small swath of land encased between Belmont and Addison.
When I moved there, I felt like I was part of something. It was so much more to me than wanting to be within a five minute walk of the bars. I wanted to be a part of the energy of that neighborhood. I'm not sure I have ever explained that accurately to most people who endure my rage-fueled grieving when I was forced to move out of that place because of my finances. Nor do most people understand why I hate the upper class yuppies for appropriating the neighborhood and slowly tearing away everything about it I once loved.
Don't be mistaken. As much as a person can love inanimate objects and ideas, I loved that neighborhood. I was proud to live there. Somewhere in the time I spent there, it became a part of me as much as I was a part of it. Having it torn out of me was one of the more grueling experiences of my life. What does a person look to when their one goal is more or less destroyed. Surely, there is no going back because what it was I loved no longer exists.
I recall all this because the Doctor had asked me over the weekend if I thought I would get sick of New Orleans if I moved down there. Truly, after Boystown the only place left in my mind with the same energy and inspiration is the French Quarter. Not exactly the same attraction but in the same range. New Orleans, and the Quarter in general almost instantly took up residence within me when I first stepped onto Bourbon Street.
I was 27, helping a friend move across country. Our last stop before his destination was a night in New Orleans. I have vague memories of driving his truck through the Garden District to a small hotel off of what must have been St. Charles Avenue. We checked in late, but still went out for dinner. Taking a street car to Canal street. It was another world down there.
That was one of my first major travel experiences. And New Orleans was unlike any of the other places I'd ever been. The buildings were old and the history seeped through the bricks. The streets were narrow and bustling. People walking about in them as merry as I've ever seen. We sat on a balcony on Bourbon and St Peter. I was overwhelmed by the energy so much so I could barely speak. I was just inundated on all sides.
I went back pretty much every other year after that. The place is in my bones. I feel it right now as I sit there. The question of whether or not I would get tired of it if I live down there seems irrelevant. Being able to live down there would be too amazing a feat to even ponder anything after.
There was nothing more I loved about living in Lakeview than going about my average, boring routine day in and out IN that neighborhood. It made the mundane into an event for me. I was never just going to the grocery store. I was never just walking to the train for work. I was never just going to the same old diner. I was doing all those things in a place I loved. I was a part of all that energy.
It makes me recall Hemingway and his peers living in Paris in the early 20th century. Or Kerouac and his exploits across the U.S. People seeking inspiration from surroundings. Taking in that energy and creating art in their cases. I have no doubt my own feelings in this situation mirror their experiences. Maybe not all people, but certainly some are compelled to visit and live in places that they are inexplicably connected to. An invisible muse.
One should never say never, but I doubt beyond sporadic visits I will ever live in New Orleans. My excuses range anywhere from my parents, to cats to hurricanes... it's all fear of course. Not even bothering to consider things like work or money. Why poison the fantasy further.
There's a funny thing about when I go down there... folks will often find me in the bar at 9 AM drinking, seeking out to do so. Granted, it's generally Mardi Gras when we go, so it is already an endless party. But, for me in those times I don't see myself as the lonely drunk, sitting alone at a bar. I am there absorbing the energy. I am living in the moment. Watching what other kind of people exist in that time frame. Seeing the streets with only the random person going by. The quiet before the rest of the world wakes. The bartender working at that odd shift, having seen the drunks flowing out at 4 AM, still on his shift. The early, loud group getting ready to head to a parade route. Lonely old men who have been drinking for a decade in the shadows at the other corner of the bar.
The old, dusty woodwork and shelves with cluttered bottles. The tattered stools. Ancient paneling on the walls. Posters for events that will be happening long after my flight has left. Puddles in the pavement outside. Bricks on the sidewalk. Shuttered windows on a house across the intersection. Someone in a feather boa and top hat walks by. The flame of a gas lamp on the street flutters. Someone on another balcony emerges with a cup of coffee. Do they live there. Are they just visiting. I see it all. I take it all in and it becomes a part of me. And I, a part of it for that moment. I am connected to it.
Perhaps I don't get that drink. When I wander out in the early morning hours, when everyone else is still sleeping I sometimes simply wander the streets of the Quarter. I am just a guy, walking down the sidewalk. Seeing the sun break, casting long shadows down Dauphine Street. I am the guy walking past the bar window someone else sees. Going where?... they do not know. Nor do I.
I am looking at the balconies. The plants cascading down. The Boston ferns twisting slightly in the breeze. Some with water dripping down to the street below. Someone up there is up early too, giving their plants a drink. Some wrought iron is rusted over. Some thick with years of paint. Some shutters closed. Some wide open. Old trees with their gnarled branches reach towards the sunlight. A secret corridor between two buildings, sealed off by an iron gate, peering down into a courtyard with the faintest sounds of a fountain trickling. Palm trees. Banana trees. Plant life unlike anything I see farther north.
And the houses. Right on the sidewalk. Connected right to the energy of the city. These mystery people who step right out of their living rooms onto Dauphine, or Bourbon or any other of the famous thoroughfares. Who are they... what are their lives like. Someone walks by heading in the opposite direction. Someone worn out, slightly tattered. Looking more like a resident on the way to work than a visitor up early. Rickety old convenience stores on corners receiving the morning deliveries. Someone with a house washing off the evening's stink from the sidewalk to the gutters. A bike rider pedals by. A street cleaner hisses down St Anne. Beer trucks line Bourbon. People going about their lives down there, the same as up here.
It is all within me. When I go out there alone. When I sit there alone. I am not alone. I am the French Quarter for that time. I see it all. I sense it all. It is energy. It is love.