Wandering Within The Favorite

I lived in New Orleans years ago. And as with most experiences, I failed to recognize how happy I was there until I made the conflicted decision to leave. I return when I can and imagine I always will, long after my best loved New Orleans inhabitants move away. And every time, every quick weekend, every lazy wandering, I remember what it feels like to fit into a place.

I am certainly not unhappy in Minneapolis. I've built a warm, connected circle of friends here, watched my sister grow up there, and treasured the novelty of living so close to my parents after years away. And after a few years of constant yearnings to get back South, I finally love it enough to be comfortable with the thought of making it my long term home.

But that feeling has been crafted out of necessity and as a result of great effort. I had to make myself love Minneapolis, something I never had to do with New Orleans. I loved her instantly. And more than loved, I felt at home within her streets from day one.

In New Orleans, I am not a noisy woman. I'm pretty boring, maybe quiet, by New Orleans standards. Comparatively, I feel (and have been deemed by some Minnesotans) boisterous, overly neon, a bit too giggly in certain situations. The difference, I think, is simply a matter of ambient noise (or lack thereof). Minneapolis is a quiet city compared to New Orleans jazz, jackhammers, hollers, and horns. I feel noisy in Minneapolis because there isn't enough sound to drown me out.

My first few years in Minneapolis I thought that it must be impossible to be happy in a place where one doesn't fit. And I'm not sure if the shift in my thinking is a reaction to knowing that a move back to New Orleans is likely not in the cards, or perhaps a result of having nestled into Minneapolis just enough to make "fitting" less important. My comfort level in Nola, if I'm honest, also made me physically and spiritually lazy.  So perhaps I'm better served in a city I have to force myself to embrace on occasion.  Perhaps I am a better version of myself when I live where I don't necessarily belong, but wander from time to time in a city that reminds me of the version of myself I found easiest to love.

Melancholy in Minneapolis

Now that I am no longer a Louisiana resident but a Minnesotan who longingly looks out car windows searching for snoball stands and jazz brunches and beads, I find that my trips back to New Orleans have become increasingly bittersweet. The longer I spend away, the more permanent the move feels. And the more I accept that moving was right, but that "right" is not necessarily supposed to feel good.

When I moved here I thought I would go back. At least, I think I thought I would. Or, if I didn't think that I'd return, that wasn't something I allowed myself to admit. New Orleans became a city I could only survive by myself. I could love it, love living in it, but I would never thrive, never do anything but survive its myriad temptations. I'm not saying I had a drinking problem or anything anyone needs to raise their eyebrows at. But New Orleans was entirely too comfortable for me. It fit me the way only Heaven should fit a person. The only time I truly grew in that span of time was when school forced me to think and the city forced me to leave. I could spend hours, days, years, in the Quarter, doing nothing but eat and write poetry and listen to jazz. And I suppose there are many who happily embrace that life. But it would have drained me eventually, that level of ease. Ah, the Big Easy, I'd never thought of that until now...so, so incredibly true. An ease that sucks you in and, for some, keeps sucking until any individual drive just disappears. But I've never been good with middle ground, moderation. New Orleans was the BIG Easy for me, it could never be the Moderately Easy, so as to leave room for personal success, passion, growth.

A colleague at work commented before I left that he thought it would take a good while longer before Minneapolis became more of a Home than New Orleans (here's your shout out, Stu). He's definitely right. While I can accept that New Orleans was never a Home for the long term, it was the first Home, after Morocco, that I made myself. And while there were elements of it that were emotionally and physically unhealthy, it was still a Home I was loathe to leave. I always felt remarkably understood in New Orleans, not only by the friends I found there, but by the city herself. So bright and battered and somewhat crazy and overly romanticized and silly and broken and gorgeous and terrifying and unbelievably strong. Not to put too cheesey a point on it, but She was all the adjectives I either attached or wished to attach to myself. So She was easy to love. Impossible to leave.

I will never feel in Minneapolis what I felt in New Orleans. Without a Jackson Square to curl my toes into and beignets to devour and perfect, perfect jazz floating down the river, Minneapolis has no hope in convincing me that she's a worthy replacement. But the longer I am away from New Orleans, the more I love to visit her, daydream about her, pretend she loved me back. The longer I'm away, the more anxious I am to love a city that pushes me and makes me slightly uncomfortable, a city that cocks its head at my accent. I don't have any immediate plans to leave Minneapolis. But if ever I were to leave this city, I want to love it enough to miss it.

Katrina-ing

Hurricane Katrina was a long, long time ago. Over three years. I have graduated from law school, moved a thousand miles North, passed the bar, found running, found a church, found friends, decorated an apartment, revisited New Orleans, embraced cooking, built a life since that evacuation. And now, on most days, Katrina is a memory and not a process I'm living through. I'm not "Katrina-ing" anymore, not wondering why or how or shouting angrily at God or redesigning a life out of the bits left behind. But Katrina was a moment, a large chunk of a moment, about a year of a moment that sticks in my head and divides my life into chapters. There is pre-Peace Corps and post-Peace Corps. And there is pre-Katrina and post-Katrina. Divisions of living wrapped up in a life.

Many people up here ask me about Katrina, ask me about New Orleans, wonder aloud why anyone would live somewhere "like that". More than one person has smilingly assumed I was thrilled to be up here as opposed to "down there", thrilled to have found the light evidently and moved away from that scary, sunken city. While such assumptions offend me to no end, they don't hurt like they used to. I was so, so disappointed in myself for not being strong enough to stay. I was quick to attack those who spoke disparagingly of my darling, battered city and quick to defend what I abandoned. I realize now that New Orleans, leaving Her, was something I felt I needed to be forgiven for, which is silly.

I haven't thought about Katrina in awhile. I try not to. I think of and miss New Orleans daily. But Katrina I try to ignore. However, I saw a movie last night (The Curious Life of Benjamin Button) that brought her home. Seeing all of the New Orleans footage was wonderful, loving those streets again, remembering those balconies and that river and that streetcar. But the last scene of the movie shows a large, beautiful clock in a warehouse as it is flooded by Katrina's waters. And for a moment in that theatre I could not breathe. The walls closed in, my face went numb, and I felt my heart stutter. For a split second I felt every inch of water that crept into my building on State Street, saw the windows of the Delachaise shatter, saw the water line, breathed that horrible death smell, stared at my perfect pink bike twisted and gnarled against my house, wondered if the heavy oak that was left leaning against our roof would break through my bedroom, picked up the stacks of poems and stories destroyed by the window I left open, threw out the molded furniture, dry heaved on side steps as we cleaned out the freezer, walked along a street-a million streets-where noone lives anymore, saw the houses, all those pretty houses, wondered how many were dead in each attic.

It was just a moment. But it made me want to hold New Orleans in my hand, sing her to sleep, smile at her and how far she has come. To be so bruised, so destroyed, and to have regained so much...I was proud to have known her, pre-Katrina, as she knew me. And I am proud that we both emerged from that deluge, shaky but assuredly standing.

Favorite Spaces

I asked a friend a couple days ago to tell me his favorite place abroad and his response inspired me to think up my favorite spaces, stateside and in the whole wide world. And here they are, in no particular order, totally subjective and based purely on the company involved, the daydreams had, and the presence of sunny skies on the day(s) visited:

1. Favorite beach: Essaouira in Morocco. The blue and white of the boats sticks with me, as does my first and only camel ride, which occurred on the sand outside the city.

2. Favorite mountain: Roan Mountain, Tennessee. Family is everything.

3. Favorite mountain range: The Atlas in Morocco, specifically, the pass between Marrakech and Ourzazate.

4. Favorite large city: Marrakech, London

5: Favorite middle-sized city: New Orleans, Bath (England), Tours (France)

6: Favorite small town: Elizabethton, Tennessee

7: Favorite place to get lost: the souk in Marrakech

8: Favorite breakfast place: That one cafe in Bath with the crazy good eggs and sausage

9: Favorite lunch place: Reginellis in New Orleans, Hanout to the left of the second street in Youssoufia, Morocco with the hottest bread and freshest sardines, Imos in St. Louis, Sims in Little Rock, The Flying Fish in Little Rock

10: Favorite dinner place: Muriel's in New Orleans, Delachaise in New Orleans, Leila's kitchen in Morocco, Cunetto's in St. Louis

11: Favorite snack: sweet peanuts and fresh steamed chickpeas in Morocco

12: Best shopping: Magazine Street in New Orleans, the section of the souk in Marrakech with the crazy lanterns and yarn, the dye section of the Fes souk

13: Best nightlife (bars/pubs): Bath, New Orleans

14: Best theatre: Fox Theatre in St. Louis

15: Best place to swim: waterfall on the road to Hana, Hawaii

16: Best place to have a great time even though you have no knowledge of the language: Vienna

17: Best cheesey tourist location: Big Ben, Buckingham Palace

18: Best cheese: Tours, France, and the Porter's Cahill at the Delachaise in New Orleans

19: Best wine: Tokaj, Hungary

20: Most terrifying/exciting car ride: cab between Marrakech and Ourzazate

21: Prettiest scenery: Alaska, driving to Denali

22: Best place to breathe deep: Audobon Park in New Orleans in the spring, top of Pinnacle Mountain in Arkansas, square outside the theatre in Tver, Russia, with a bit of snow in the air

23: Most beautiful sounds: "Allah Akbar" prayer call during Ramadan in Marrakech ("God is great" translates for any faith), Caroline singing in the car, when my mom calls me "Honey", morning on the Roan, slap of running shoes on pavement, rain on my window in New Orleans, wind at Tintagel Castle in Cornwall, sound of a bat hitting the ball at Busch Stadium

And there are more favorites tucked away, I'm sure. But this is a good start.

An Accent?

I went to a friend's party last night in celebration of her passing the bar exam. It was a happy, familial affair with champagne, toasts, a cheesily decorated cake, and lots of hugs. I didn't know anyone there besides the lady of the hour so I spent some of the evening talking with her friends, all of whom are from the Minnesota/Iowa/Wisconsin area.

I never think of myself as having a Southern accent. This is largely because I am from the South and so I know what an accent truly sounds like. My mom still has hers, and my extended family members have accents ranging from Texas to Arkansas to Tennessee to the Carolinas (yes, they're all different). I, having moved to Missouri at 10 (and Missouri is NOT a Southern state), lost my accent pretty rapidly and picked up only parts of it upon living in Virginia and Louisiana. I know that it comes out a bit more when I'm around my family and also when I'm sleepy or angry, but I really don't have a strong accent so it surprises me when people pick up on it.

Four times last night people asked where I was from. When I told them I was originally from Arkansas and had moved here from New Orleans, they all shook their heads and said, with varying degrees of self-congratulations, that they knew I was from the South. I am not offended by this in the slightest, mind you. I am, assuredly, a proud Southerner and will always happily recount how I managed to end up in this frozen tundra. And most people love to hear the "y'all" and the sing-song nature of an accent. But it still trips me up a bit, reminds me that I'm not from here, even though I really do not need a reminder.

But I do like having a story to tell, I always have. I like coming from somewhere different, knowing something different. It's hard for me to invision living in one place for all of my life, the way many people here have. In some ways I envy their comfort, the friends they've had since they were in utero, the knowledge and familiarity they have with a specific stretch of space. But I am also glad that I've lived in several states (and even a couple countries), have family in several more, have traveled extensively and called faraway places "home" and not thought it odd. But after years of wandering about with no true desire to be in one place for too long, I can grasp the merit in roots. And I think Minneapolis is a good place for roots.

But I'm still going to say y'all.

Craving a Place

I crave Arkansas the way some people crave chocolate or red wine or a perfectly baked apple. I crave the heat of the South these days, because Minnesota does not have a real summer. Summer here is a warmer version of spring, with little humidity, and too much wind. I crave the heaviness of Southern heat, the thickness of the air, the feel of sweat sliding swiftly down your spine or hanging lightly on your collarbone. I crave that pregnant silence in the afternoon, when even the bugs are too hot to talk, and the whole earth feels like the quiet calm before some great storm.

I spent a hiccup of time in North Little Rock following my evacuation from New Orleans. On several occassions I skipped class (did I retain anything that strange semester?) and drove to Pinnacle Mountain (pictured). I packed tuna salad and crackers and carrots and hiked to the top in the indian summer heat of September, and held orange leaves in my hand in October, November. I took my journal to the summit, wrote horrible poems about broken New Orleans, and sat for hours. Pinnacle probably doesn't even qualify as a mountain. It's not part of the Ozark chain, and having spent ample time in the Blue Ridge, Pinnacle doesn't come close to those old giants. And the Rockies, those young upstarts, have Pinnacle dwarfed by thousands of feet. But I crave that ancient, sloping, easy "mountain" and the quiet rocks at her top. I grew up climbing that glorified hill and I cannot wait to climb her again. Soon.

I Miss the Sidewalk

Well, I don't really miss the sidewalks in New Orleans. They're the most awful, ankle-twisting sidewalks in America, ripped apart by oak roots and the constant sinking of the streets. But I do miss walking up and down my street, State Street, to and from school. I miss seeing houses I'd never noticed before, in colors I'd forgotten about, with flowers I could never describe.

This was my favorite house. On the corner, the yard always smelled like clay and jasmine. It was beautiful.

I miss it

I miss riding in Stephanie's car. She parallel parks much better than me. I miss green salads, ham and brie pitas, diet cokes in wide plastic glasses. I miss wondering what will happen after law school, talking about boys, stopping by Shoenami to try on yellow shoes with gold heels. I miss living in the same city as my girls. I miss parking behind that SUV with the offensive bumper sticker around the corner from Kat's apartment, calling "hellooooo" as I walk up her steps, hearing Stephanie's "yay!" as Kat opens the door. I miss opening wine bottles, slicing up cheese, eating nuts that Steph made too spicey. I miss the Wicker Wonderland.

I miss New Orleans so much it hurts sometimes. And I miss my ladies even more.

Mardi Gras, Caenaveron, A little Louisiana for everyone...

Beads on wires, beads on trees. I think it's one of my favorite times in the city, just after Mardi Gras. The crowds are gone, the streets are quieter, no more parade traffic, but the beads are still there, still shiny and pretty and hanging from anything that can be hung on to. Eventually, maybe a couple months from now depending on the rain, the beads will fade and dull and bleach in the sun. Eventually, they'll be sad little reminders of a party, mini-invitations for next year's shenanigans. Kinda pathetic, really. But for now they're still lovely.

But there is another Louisiana I saw today. I'm doing a project on river diversions to create new wetland. My partner, Brandi, and I, with her husband, drove to one such diversion, Caenaveron, this morning. After what can only be described as an adventure getting to the ferry, we crossed the river to the side heavily hit by the Katrina surge. It's amazing, really, and I don't understand the science of it. How one side of the river is fine and the other leaves nothing but shattered skeletons of homes and empty foundations. I think the diversions are important. I think they could work, in theory. But, heavens, it seems like chump change sized up next to all the destruction. And I suppose that is my state's dilemma these days.

There is so much that's gone wrong for Louisiana, some by luck and some by its own lunacy, inaction, and readiness to sell to the highest bidder. How many price tags are there? How many homes to rebuild? How many street lights to repair? How many deaths to mourn? How many businesses demolished? How many schools still unopened? How many acres of wetland destroyed? And that last one, that wetland question, it pales in comparison of importance for almost everyone. Including myself. If you asked me today would I rather see an uprooted family back in their pre-Katrina home, rebuilt and happy, or see an acre of wetland restored, I would quickly choose the former. And I am one of the educated ones on this issue. Environmental impacts, environmental law: this is what I've chosen as the focus of my legal education. I KNOW the link between wetland destruction and New Orleans' fragility to future hurricanes. I know that the wetlands are our best defense. I know that we brought this on ourselves to some extent, that the failure of the levees is one thing, the wholesale prostitution of our wetlands another. But wetlands do not have a face, despite their importance, they do not evoke the same emotional reaction as a family left homeless. Because I can vaguely imagine that feeling of human helplessness, what it would feel like to have your home rotting and worthless before you. It did not happen to me, but it came close, close enough for me to smell what that flavor of despair must taste like. How do I empathize with a wetland?

Unfortunately for the future of the wetlands, Louisiana's best hope, they do not cry loud enough. Which isn't to say that you can't have both, restoration of the communities themselves and the wetlands. But I feel like there must be an end to the money somewhere, that it's impossible to get in the first place, and when there's a shortage the windfall will go to building more homes in flood plains, and the wetlands will be left to fend for themselves (with the small but mighty support of environmentalists) against OIL and DEVELOPMENT (such wealthy patrons deserve all caps).

Today, after seeing a diversion which made me hopeful, and the destruction, which made me sad...the emotional balance weighs heavily in favor of pessimism. But despite everything, driving back, seeing the beads in the trees, I could not imagine a world without this city, this deltaic wonderland, so it has to work. River diversions, green spaces, urban planning, education and health care reform...all these ideas swimming around, they simply have to work.

(picture courtesy of Jason Rinehart, photographer extraordinaire)

An Edible Afternoon

Somedays are so so pretty, I just want to hug them. Or eat them. They're so perfectly warmish but coolish enough for a soft long-sleeved sweater. They're perfect for sitting outside a coffee shop and watching other happy humans buy things they don't need, smile at people they don't know, and bop their heads to music they barely hear.

I think a pretty day in New Orleans is prettier than any beautiful day in some other city. But I am fantastically biased...

The Pursuit of Happiness, Not Just Another Will Smith Movie

One of my dearhearts, my kindreds, Stephanie, has found the love of her life. I met him last night and he’s perfect. Not perfect. Perfectly imperfect and perfect for her. They compliment each other the way men and women are supposed to compliment each other. He teases her, which she needs. And she blushes when he looks at her. It’s a beautiful thing, love. And she hasn’t always been able to see how worthy she is of such a thing, so it’s good to see a good man sit her down and tell her not only that he loves her but she’s deserved that love all along.

One of my other dearhearts, my other kindreds, Katherine, is not having so lovely a time. Love, yes, she has oodles of that as her fiancé is good at reminding her of happier days to come. But her back hurts today, and has been hurting, and it has been raining here for at least a lifetime. And we are all so so done with this chapter in our lives. So ready to see what’s next, to make homes and explore new lives. And I think she’s stifled here. It’s not really a feeling I can relate to, honestly. I’m not in love with anyone (but I’m feeling something). The closest thing to a lover I have at the moment is this city. She breaks my heart daily and I return daily for abuse, hoping this time she’ll love me back. Katherine, unlike New Orleans, has love waiting for her just a few months from now. Marriage, kisses, a white dress, a new home…all thousands of miles away and a few too many days to count. I suppose it would be tough, near impossible, to wait like that. Wait for your life to start. I think she’s a strong woman, and a patient one, for loving us as well as she does when her heart is so far away.

And then there’s me. And I’m happy. Happier than I’ve been in a long time. And I cannot tell what’s changed. I was so sad for so long, and so angry. Katrina ruined everything. Threw everything away that I thought I was keeping. Changed the city that I thought would be my forever home. My life felt like it was built by some outside consultant, some contractor sent here from Whoknowswhere to shape a life that would be Successful and Prosperous and Proud. But I feel safer now, and more at peace with where I’m going. I can only believe that God has a handle on the things I cannot see, that he knows where I’m headed even though I change my mind daily. I can only trust that he’s pointing me somewhere grand, maybe it’s here. And maybe it’s not.

Apple in the Square

I got down to the Quarter early today, about 2 hours before work. The weather is cool and windy now, perfect really. I walked around searching for Caroline's birthday present but found nothing I liked enough to purchase. After pacing Royal and Dauphine and Chartres I stopped at the A&P on some corner and bought a Diet Coke and a very shiny apple.

I followed the sound of horns to Jackson Square and sat in front of St.Louis Cathedral, eating my apple, watching the tourists. The horn section directly in front of me broke into a rough, gorgeous version of House of the Rising Sun and Mark Antony (that cannot be his real name) walked over and told me my hair was gorgeous in the light. I think he said something about "lovin" as well, but I focused on the sweet compliment and not the inappropriate insinuation.

He said something else. He said, "you by yo'self, that's powerful, means you not from 'round heah." I'm not sure what he meant by "powerful," maybe he doesn't see a lot of young women eating apples alone in the Square. But the "not from 'round heah" hurt. Is it so obvious? And why? Because I feel like I'm from "heah" more than St.Louis or Kansas City or Virginia. I feel like I'm from Arkansas and New Orleans, like the rest of those places were just cities where I happened to live.

And now I'm applying to jobs in cities that have never been home to me. It isn't to say that I was unhappy in those cities. But some places are just lonelier than others, and I have never been lonely in New Orleans. The pull of being closer to family and friends is what drags me away from here. And proximity to my parents and siblings is worth giving this place up. But that doesn't make the losing of it easier.

A Cool Front

I don't think there's anything lovelier than a cool front blowing through New Orleans after days of heat and pea soup-consistency humidity. Walking to work this morning I actually got slightly chilled, it being in the 70s and all. I almost bought hot coffee instead of my usual iced skim cafe latte.

Last night I went to a BBQ at Katherine's place. After an embarrassingly inept how-do-you-use-charcoal moment, we did manage to get a fire going and the bratwurst were perfectly charred. The wind picked up about the time we settled into our brats and beers, and it was the first time I felt a twinge of autumn in the air. It made me slightly sad, honestly. I love autumn, love the connection between cool weather and library days, but it's also likely the last autumn I'll spend in New Orleans and the last I'll have with these friends. It's exciting of course, to know that this time next year we'll all have directions and homes and careers or new studies elsewhere. But it's also terrifying how quickly it all flies away, how your life can alter so drastically in a matter of months.

I think it's odd how you can get very attached to certain people and yet know that it isn't forever. I've had several of these friends. Women and men that I was completely connected to, who saw me cry and throw up and yell and freak out, and then who just slowly disappeared into marriages or careers or homes. I disappeared, too, of course. Disappeared into Morocco or law school or Katrina. But then, there have always been those other friends, too. The ones that have stuck around for what seems like forever (and aren't they all tiny forevers? college? law school? Peace Corps? high school? snippets of time that keep on recurring...) and that I've always known would be around forever. It's just a comforting feeling, to have that moment of, "you're not going anywhere, really, you're staying with me."

I had that moment last night. Katherine and Stephanie were sitting across from me and I was talking to a girl I don't know and they were talking to each other. I just watched the two of them for a handful of seconds. Stephanie was tired and not in the warmest of moods, which always upsets me and throws me off a bit (and I'm no good at communicating that so that throws me off, too). Katherine was calmer and pretty, a wedding magazine will do that to a woman sometimes. They were laughing softly about something. I was cranky over my leg (long disgusting story...skin infection...blood...no need for more details) and feeling rather puny. But I saw them and everything ugly and impatient inside stopped exploding. Everything calmed. I just knew that it would all be okay. That they weren't going anywhere. California, yes. Texas, perhaps. Places other than places I will likely end up, definitely. But we aren't really leaving each other. Just spreading out, finding other things and people to love, but not loving each other any less. They are in the latter group, the group that does not disappear into the changes life brings. I had not known that before. I had hoped it, hoped they'd be in the small, select group of the Undisappearing, but it was just a hope until last night.

So now I know. And that's nice.

I want to be Modigliani's Muse

"Redhead in an Evening Dress" is one of my favorite paintings of all time. She's so coy and beautiful but she also seems tired of wherever she is, like she's at a party hosted by an acquaintance she isn't fond of. I love it. I've always imagined her in some great hall, having danced for an hour or two in the ballroom just around the corner. She's been bored by every suitor, of which she has not had many. And some friend approaches her, maybe it's a man, maybe it's a woman. Just a comrade, a friend who feels her ennui. Someone with a glass of red wine in their hand and a smirk on their face. Someone who says, "the food here sucks, want to get a burger?"

My Little Pony...

Maybe I had too much coffee. But today while I was driving down Magazine street I saw two men in their mid- to late 30s walking two shetland ponies on the sidewalk. These two men were smoking cigarettes. And walking their ponies.

Ummmmm...

The Music that Floats In

I work downtown some evenings this semester and despite this emotional, haunting week one year post-Katrina, I am loving this city today. The building I'm in is old, as are all the buildings in the Quarter, and the walls aren't especially thick. I hear music all night. There's a restaurant across the street and the Man With The Sax plays from 6pm until long after I've turned out the lights and gone home.

I'm trying so hard to stop loving New Orleans. I need to leave, take the bar elsewhere, somewhere safer and closer to family and further from evacuations. I should work somewhere less foreign, more comfortable, less damaged, more promising. And yet I love this night music so much and I love the crawfish boils and the hot, hot spring and the constant green of this place.

I need to stop loving it here, or Here will tempt me to stay.

This is Justice?

I'm spending the summer working in criminal defense. Criminal law has never really interested me, I took the job because I was told it would be research-intensive and after an eon of filling out immigration forms I was desperate to use my brain.

I spend most of my days staring, shocked, at the docket master (database of what goes on in court on every case). I don't know how to adequately describe the trainwreck that is the New Orleans criminal system. Men and women are lost, LOST, within the system. There are people accounted for on jail lists that have never seen the inside of a courtroom. Many people who were arrested pre-Katrina on small charges are sitting in a jail cell right now, having never seen or spoken to a lawyer. The prisons are so overcrowded, and the courthouses so incapacitated, that inmates are lodged hours away, sometimes in other states, and "brought it" for their court dates. And really, "brought in," is a relative term. I have been in courtrooms with exasperated judges, watched them call inmates who are listed on the docket but who were never brought in from their facility. Their case is pushed back AGAIN, they sit in their cell a little longer, and many times the inmate doesn't even know he's been called to court half a dozen times. He's just sitting there with his fingers crossed, hoping the situation improves. Months, nearly a year, lost without their day in court. Yes. This really happens. In America. You should be angry.

Things I Find Truly Offensive

1. These damn caterpillars. WHERE DO THEY COME FROM? One got caught INSIDE my skirt last night and I didn't notice until I was in my kitchen and felt red darts of fire against my thigh. Luckily I was alone as I just hopped around screaming for thirty seconds or so while trying to rip off my skirt. The little evildoer landed on my foot and I now have a four-pronged square of pain that looks kinda like a hickey, kinda like stigmata.

2. Styrofoam.

3. My complete inability to exit the front door without getting my skirt caught in it. It's not that tough, Rachel. Open the door wider, wear skirts that aren't so long. You're a grad student, surely you have the brain power to not fall down your steps every other day.

4. The freckle at the top of my forehead. It looks like someone took a sharpie and made a big black dot just below my hairline.

5. Condensation on the outside of plastic cups.

6. George W. Bush

7. The lack of Ethiopian food in the New Orleans area. I need to eat ethnic food with my fingers several times a year, people.

8. The amount of money in my bank account. Or, should I say, the complete lack of money in my bank account. I flipped a coin this morning to see whether I would go out to lunch with my roomie or buy groceries for the weekend. I flipped it twice because the "groceries" (tails) won. Why did I even flip the coin? Wasted a couple seconds of my life on that one.

9. Small, yippy dogs. Why can't everyone just have a REAL dog, complete with full-bodied bark and muddy paws? If I am attacked by one more manicured chihuahua at Audobon I will not be responsible for my actions.

10. My friends are leaving town. I'm gearing up for loneliness.

Sorry, compadres. I'm in a low mood today and decided to complain. As most of you know that this is not in my nature, I expect a plethora of emails sending virtual hugs and "snap out of it"s. Flowers would be cool, too. And chocolate. And if someone wants to volunteer to pay off my loans I'd really appreciate it.

It's a Scary Time for all Law Students

I would like to introduce you to Javier and Diego, the homosexual gerbils currently cohabitating with my dear friend, Katherine. Katherine, bless her dear heart, is currently studying for her Legal Profession final exam. And by "studying" I really mean "placing her homosexual gerbils into the stuffed bunny basket I gave her for Easter and taking pictures." This is what happens during finals, people. We go CRAZY. I'm currently studying for Business Enterprises and by "studying" I really mean "playing tic-tac-toe with myself on the inside cover of my textbook."

I just didn't want there to be any misconceptions as to the "studying" going on at present. Homosexual gerbils, tic-tac-toe...these are the current pasttimes being pursued by the future generation of American lawyers.

It's Been Too Long

I suppose it is fitting that I revive the blog on my city's birthday of choice. There's an hour and half left of this odd, lovely, broken, and laborious Mardi Gras so I suppose I will make the most of my alone time and detail what I have found of the city I left behind:

There are moments when I can forget Katrina ever existed. I can sit in the same corner of the same bar, in the same booth at the same restaurant, and sometimes I can order what I once ordered, drink what I once drank. But those moments are no longer normal, no longer expected. Comments are made. Even the new places, the spots I've found since returning, are peppered with scars. Delachaise, my favorite wine place and my favorite spot for discussing Katherine's nuptials, is beautiful and perfect. And one of its windows is boarded up. Still. And a boarded window is nothing, it is a tiny thing. A boarded window would be nothing to my friends waiting for their fema trailer. But the small things touch me now. Six months later, my city and my places are still lovely only to a certain point. The ugliness is as much a part of the experience now as the beauty once was.

I have mentioned to a few people that I am seriously considering staying here, that I can't imagine leaving, that law school feels like the beginning of a life here, not a transitional period. Part of me is afraid of what that could mean, staying in a city that is, on a good day, merely destroyed. New Orleans on a bad day? On a bad day I think maybe the city has ceased to exist, that it drowned beneath the waters and we are desperately trying to revive a shell of flesh. But even the bad days have some sick, solid, magical quality. Even the days I am exhausted by my life here, I feel like the exhaustion is an impetus in itself, that the terror of living amidst destruction is some variety of life I was built to embrace. I don't know.

I will always love walking around the Quarter with a friend, stopping for a beer, laughing, getting my heel stuck between cobblestones. I will never tire of the momentous and momentary exhultation that accompagnies a perfectly tossed bead, the shine of greens and purples and blues and golds hanging from those oaks. I will never stop thinking this city has a capacity for beauty that outshines this heavy Katrina mud.