It was the last day of classes for the semester, so the last daily commute to campus. Nice. I am already fantasizing about all the aimless rides I can take myself on between now and January 11, when classes start up again. Tonight, though, I made my regular ride down to the Treme to meet up with friends for a little TV and conversation. I rode down Bourbon Street once I hit the Quarter, which I hardly ever do because of the crowds. But how many drunk pedestrians am I really going to have to dodge at 8pm on a Wednesday? Plenty, it turns out. Bourbon Street on a cold Wednesday evening is funny that way. The bars, restaurants, and strip clubs all have their doors and windows open, Margaritaville pouring out (no, really), so it sounds like its Friday night. But when you peek in those same clubs, they are virtually empty. I hopped off my bike to snap a picture of one of these noisy empty clubs when I heard the smack of mardi gras beads in my bike basket. I heard the hooting coming from the balcony above and looked up to take this picture of the guys, waving to the virtually empty street below. Nope, I didn’t flash them. I got back on my bike and pedaled away, thinking, as I often do in this town, that this place is both New Orleans, and the fantasy of New Orleans, and you’ve got to pay attention to what you’re seeing.

Tonight Jack and I rode down to the Treme for dinner with friends. The Quarter is so quiet now that Essence Fest is over. It’s funny how Bourbon always seems to put on the same show, whether anyone’s there to see it or not. The music came blaring out of that bar with the bull riding and ladies in skimpy outfits were trying to lure folks in to strip clubs. But there weren’t a lot of people out and about to be lured. That’s how Bourbon Street is, though. It’s like Las Vegas–always on, and always selling the same experience that is meant to seem like it just sprang out of nowhere for your endless debauched pleasure. On my way home I passed these police officers on horseback, apparently writing a ticket, though I don’t think for anything this guy did. I’m not sure why they’re on horses in the Quarter. I mean, bikes are quicker, I’m sure. I remember a demonstration I went to in New York years ago where there were cops on horseback. They charged in to the crowd, and I was scared. They are big and fast and they seem out of control when they come at you. I wonder, though, how many tourists see this and think it’s a quaint part of the show. Me? I don’t trust the NOPD, and I don’t trust them on horseback either.

Yeah, it’s summertime in New Orleans.  It’s hot.  I rode my bike down to the Quarter this afternoon for the Creole Tomato/Zydeco/Louisiana Seafood Festivals, and I really felt that humid heat, and I was, how shall we say, glistening.  You’ve really just got to give in to the sweat here.  Everybody’s sweating and we’re all basically wearing wet t-shirts all the time; there’s no use in fighting it.  Riding a bike, though, does create a tiny bit of a breeze to offset the heat, but ultimately it’s a losing battle.  I spent part of the fests sipping ice water inside a cool bar, but then I was itching to join the crowds.  It didn’t cool off much as the sun went down, but again, the bars are kept frigid around here.  A. and I went to see a show at a club where it was so cold, we were getting goosebumps.  We stepped out on this balcony to warm up a bit.  I stepped outside and my glasses fogged up almost immediately.  The air was thick and heavy.   It felt good to chew that air from up there, looking down at Bourbon Street in all its sweaty glory.  Then I rode home, slowly, stopping for ice cream on the way.  Yes, it was another hot Saturday in New Orleans.

I’ve been taking some time off the bike to give my poor knees a rest, so today’s ride just took me to the hair salon and back.  On my return, I stopped to snap this photo of the Bike Route sign on Coliseum and Antonine.  I pass this sign almost every single day.  It makes me laugh when I notice it, because taking your next right doesn’t feel any better or safer on the bike than turning on Amelia or Delachaise or most other streets (though I don’t recommend Marengo below St. Charles, unless you’ve got shocks).  But what makes a bike route?  There’s a bike lane on St. Claude, yes, and it works.  It’s clearly marked, smooth asphalt, and mostly free of parked cars.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t go that far–just from Elysian Fields to the Industrial Canal.  The levee path is awesome, and City Park has some good asphalt.  But what’s a “bike route” on the streets of New Orleans?  I know what’s not one, from my perspective: Camp Street, that bit of Magazine in the Lower Garden District right before the bridge, Bourbon Street on weekend nights.  And no streets are free rides.  I mean, this is New Orleans–we’ve got potholes galore, not to mention the many ripples and folds of piecemeal street construction.  Fortunately, there are folks in this town working on making it easier to know where to ride.  Check out NOLA Cycle Bike Map Project;  I for one am real excited for that map.  And excited for my knees to start feeling better so I can hit the streets again.

I’m on spring break right now, and I keep expecting everyone else to be on spring break.  I know lots of college kids make New Orleans their spring break destination, so I also keep expecting to see Bourbon Street overflowing with them, even though it’s a Tuesday.  I mean, I was up for a nighttime bike ride down to the Quarter, and I’m definitely getting too old for such things.  Weekend nights have felt more crowded, but this was the scene on my ride home from the bar, following pool, cheap beer, and dancing with friends from Chapel Hill.  Seems the NOPD expects a crowd, too.  But no, the streets were pretty much empty.  But not of smells.  Man, the streets smell like trash, of course, but also that delicate mix of urine, vomit, and light beer.  It’s not pretty.  Now, I don’t know if this empty Bourbon Street is because it’s Tuesday, or because of the economy, or because kids these days are no longer interested in getting wasted on break.  But I wonder where the business is, though I’m perfectly happy to have pools of unknown content to navigate on my rides home (thank god for fenders).  When I stopped to snap this photo, though, I could feel the cops tensing up.  There were the four in this picture, and another three just out of frame.  The one on the far right said something about me taking a picture, and I felt suddenly under surveillance, and a little nervous.  So I took just this one picture and then got on my bike to go.  I didn’t even make two revolutions before one of the cops walked up, put his hand on my handlebars to stop me, and informed me that it’s against the law to ride a bike on Bourbon Street.  Um, ok.  Glad these gentlemen are on the case, because I was certainly a danger on my pink cruiser with my flippy dress.  I hopped off my bike to comply, and I asked if anyone had a tissue–I scraped my finger catching my bike as it fell over when I was unlocking it.  One cop started rooting around in his pocket, but another spoke up and informed me that I could get a napkin at a pizza place up on the corner.  Fine.  Just trying to make nice and get some public service, people.  I walked away, their eyes on my back, reminded of how one of the perks of being the state is a monopoly on the use of violence in all its forms, including this kind of petty surveillance.

I didn’t have any Friday night plans, so I decided to just hop on my bike and ride around and see what happened. I headed down to Bourbon Street, where something is always happening. Of course, it’s always the same thing–people staggering around in various stages of drunkenness, doing what one imagines one does in New Orleans. And one of those things is to throw beads at women flashing their tits. Now Mardi Gras is actually a family holiday, and the tit-flashing is more the stuff of tourist fantasy than anything else. But it was afoot in the Quarter tonight. I snapped these pictures of men on the balcony of the Royal Sonesta Hotel, just after a woman bared her chest. The beads were flying. I didn’t catch any, but I did get a strand from a man in town for a conference, representing his company, Horizon, which offers irrigation services to golf courses. They had personalized beads, and he strung one string around my neck. He asked me if I lived here–I do–and then if “it’s always like this here.” I said yes. Because on Bourbon Street, it is, and he is welcome any time, for better or worse.

I rode my bike down to the Quarter tonight, hoping to see some Saints fans getting their party on after a nice win this afternoon. As I walked my bike down Bourbon Street I noticed quite a few Bush and Brees jerseys, and some folks decked out in Atlanta Hawks gear, but all in all, it seemed a quiet night. Bourbon puts on a show every day and every night. Bars open on to the street, blaring the greatest hits from the 80s, 90s, and today. Some bars have live bands, like tonight’s rock and roll accordian battle band, and others host drunken karaoke. These bars are interrupted by daiquiri places, strip clubs, and, of course, souvenir shops. New Orleans has what some people call a t-shirt economy, and these stores literalize this, lining their windows with t-shirts bearing various and sundry bad puns and dirty jokes. I wondered, as I tooled through the drunken semi-crowds, how all these stores stay in business. Because the t-shirt economy doesn’t appear to be booming, folks. Walking down Bourbon tonight felt like walking through a casino in Vegas, where you are inside and it’s the same time all the time–party time–and you are supposed to feel like you are outside even though you are inside, inside where the ceiling is painted like sky and a fake river runs through it. Except on Bourbon you really are outside, but it feels so false, so fabricated, that you might as well be inside in a copy of the outside you’ve seen in movies. The streets were quiet tonight, on the Sunday after a big home game win by the Saints. Maybe it’s time the city look in to hiring extras. There are plenty of folks looking for jobs.

I was all set to ride down to the Marigny for coffee and grading this afternoon when the rain started.  I don’t normally like to start a ride in the rain (thanks for the tip, pops!), but I just couldn’t wait.  So I donned my poncho, wrapped my messenger bag in a garbage bag, and took off.  And the skies just plain opened up.  I mean, it was really pouring.  Cars passing me threw up waves, leaving me soaked in spite of my fancy $3 poncho.  When I got to the Quarter, I had to pull over and take shelter.  I snapped this photo at the corner of Canal and Bourbon, surrounded by tourists taking similar cover.  The Quarter’s balconies serve so many purposes.  They are drunken bead-throwing party spots.  They are historical architectural artifacts.  They are gardens in the sky.  And today they were giant umbrellas.  That’s the thing, though, with space.  We make of it what we will even as it pushes back, placing its own limits on our possibilities.  I couldn’t take this umbrella with me.  I was going to get and stay soaked, but for a moment I found myself enough respite to clear my glasses so I could see again.  I stood still for a bit, but then hopped back on, went for coffee, and waited for the rains to stop.  It’s funny that it was on the way back, in the cool post-rain air, that I took my fall.  No worries–scrubbing, hydrogen peroxide and air and I’ll be all better in no time.

Yesterday was the first day of classes and I was excited to ride my bike to school. Until her chain popped off twice and her steering became mysteriously twisted. It was time to take her to the shop for some TLC. Five years of heavy riding and life on the hot and humid Gulf Coast haven’t been terribly kind. I was devastated to hear that they’d need to keep her for a week and a half. That’s far too much time without riding. Fortunately, my dear friend N. has lent me her bike to tide me over. And tonight I rode. And rode and rode and rode. You may have heard about a hurricane headed our way, which means that everyone is on edge, anxious, waiting to see when, if and how we’ll all leave this place. This weekend is Southern Decadence, though, a celebration of gay life in the south. This is one serious party, and it’s looking as if it’ll have no place to go. But people are here and dancing on Bourbon and St. Ann. Because we don’t know what’s coming. We have to wait and see. So I will ride my borrowed bike until I am told to leave, and these folks will celebrate loudly and deservedly until they’re told to leave too. I was happy to be out with everyone tonight, remembering that we are still ourselves and we are not even close to lost.

I had a truly lovely day today; surprisingly, I had it in a car. A convertible, that is. A. was kind enough to drive us several hours south to Avery Island, Louisiana, and the rush of wind far exceeded any I am able to work up on my bicycle. When I got home I considered giving the bike a rest for the day, but I was feeling a bit itchy. So I jumped on and headed down to the Quarter to see what folks are up to on a Sunday night. Bourbon Street was hopping, with beads falling from that balcony above Tropical Isle #3, drunk women holding hands and weaving through the crowd, men luring customers with promises of bargain Jaeger bombs (whatever those are) and Big Ass Beers, and all the other myriad folk who wander the streets on a Sunday. I snapped this photo of the carney outside Larry Flynt’s Barely Legal because he just looked so out of place in his vested suit. Moments before he gave a few bucks to someone who clearly needed them. All the while summoning customers from a shop openly capitalizing on the sexual allure of girls. In other words, stuff’s complicated.

I expect to see this sort of scene on Bourbon Street. I visited Las Vegas once, and this strip reminds me of there. Except in Las Vegas, they go to great lengths to make it seem like you are outside even when you are inside: ceilings painted with clouds, lighting dimming like a sunset at regular intervals, canals running through the building. Bourbon tries the opposite–it makes you feel like you are inside–or better, inside a place that is trying to make you feel like you are outside. But with terrible air conditioning. At the end of Bourbon tonight, though, past St. Ann’s, I saw this scene that I actually wasn’t expecting: a veritable ticker tape parade of napkins. I wonder what went on here. I know how the streets get wet with booze and vomit. Perhaps this stretch of Bourbon is trying to clean it up. I tooled to the end of the street, over to Frenchman, and then stopped for my own bourbon on Decatur. I, like everybody else up past my former bedtime, enjoyed taking in the sights.