Tonight’s bike ride took me over to the Treme to watch some TV with D. and friends. The evening air felt oddly cool; it’s only August, and it already feels like fall! I’m sure it will warm up again, but I’m just a bit nervous that summer’s over. On my ride home I stopped at Cafe du Monde, locked my bike to the railing, and sat down for some beignets and coffee. While sitting there I watched John Brown’s New Orleans Sidewalk Astronomy. I have passed this guy a zillion times, but I’ve never actually looked in that telescope, or even stopped to see what he’s selling. But he’s part of the underground economy here in New Orleans. It’s massive, including tarot card readers, tap dancers, frozen mimes, and, well, an astronomer. John Brown clearly states “Donations Accepted” on his materials. Other street acts put out their buckets or shoeboxes with dollar bills clearly visible as a sign to tourists that pictures can be taken, but dollars should be exchanged. As I started on beignet number three, a drunk couple, probably in their late 40s, stumbled up to John Brown. She had peeked at Jupiter earlier and wanted him to do the same. He drunkenly landed his eye on the eyepiece and asked if that was “Titan up there? Or another moon? Wait. It’s Saturn?” Then he wandered away, hand on his pocket but not in it, drunkenly failing to meet his end of the bargain. It can’t be easy to make a living here, depending on the tourist to lay down the cash. I wonder how, exactly, people manage to make a go of it. That’s some hard work.

I waited all day for midnight to roll around, because that meant it was my birthday, one of my very favorite days of the year, even if I do have to share it with my twin sister. Some people hate their birthdays, hate getting older, hate something, I don’t know what. Me? I love it. As Bruce says, it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive. If it were, I’d be headed straight to hell, because I got to spend tonight, and these early morning hours, just plain happy to be here, sticky from a wet-hot day of riding Rhoda around on errands, to work, for play, zipping through the empty streets of late-Monday-night New Orleans. I rang in midnight with D. and some beignets before heading over to Harrah’s for a couple drinks and some slot play. I watched the poker tables for awhile, noting the scolding that woman got after she showed her two aces–the guy she beat would have bet it differently, apparently. After some unsuccessful, but fun, time at the slots, I stepped outside to the warm wetness of high humidity, the kind that fogs up my glasses immediately. I snapped this picture of a palm tree and the glowing Harrah’s ball from the steps of the casino. Both of them are so terrifically artificial. Yeah, the palm tree’s a total plant, an impostor. But heck, what isn’t a plant in this town anymore? We make our environments, even the parts we imagine are outside human hands and consciousness. I’m totally fine with that. The casino is a sad artificiality, one that sells joy that isn’t actually for sale. But tonight I thoroughly enjoyed zoning out inside its air conditioned and smoky comfort, because that’s what I wanted to do. And it’s my birthday, so it’s most certainly my prerogative. Then back on the bike, Bruce in my ears, speeding up St. Charles. Wheeeee!

I got a text from S. this morning asking if anybody wanted to get a bagel or beignets.  She had me at beignets.  I hopped on Rhoda and sped down to the Quarter to Cafe du Monde, listening to that sort of music that makes you feel like it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive.  While sitting there inhaling my fried dough, I snapped a photo of this gang of kids waiting to cross Decatur.  They are all wearing matching flag-colored tie-dyed t-shirts, so I’m guessing they were together.  And I’m guessing they were visiting our fair city.  I saw a lot of tourists today, like I always do when being a tourist myself.  It’s funny how some things in a town are put on the tourist list and others aren’t.  When I go for beignets, I always know I’m acting like a tourist.  But I just love fried dough!  Then again, when I ride my bike along Bayou St. John I don’t feel like I’m being a tourist, even though if I visited this town, knowing what I know, I’d definitely make a stop there.  The thing about tourism is that it’s about economics.  The French Quarter feels like it’s zoned just for tourists to spend money while feeling like they’re experiencing “New Orleans.”  I don’t know what authenticity means, but I know the Quarter feels like Paris or New York…in Las Vegas.  But I love tooling around the Quarter on my bike, and today was no different.  We finished our beignets, headed to a couple of coffee shops where I did some writing, and then I headed back Uptown for work.  Another lovely day on the bike.

My sister is in town this week, and we are having a fantastic time.  But that does mean I haven’t been riding my bike as much.  So while she spent the day at the Pop Culture Association meetings, I took the chance to take Jack on a speedy ride to work.  It was a beautiful day in New Orleans, and it felt amazing to be back on the bike.  After work I sped down to the Quarter via St. Charles to meet back up with E.  We headed over to Cafe du Monde for some beignets.  I locked my bike to the railing and we sat and watched folks walk by.  I also spent a good amount of time watching my bicycle.  I snapped this picture to catch the limo in the background, with the license plate #BRLIMO.  Ah, Baton Rouge.  I wonder who takes a limousine from Baton Rouge all the way to New Orleans.  I only and ever want to ride my bicycle.  It has been so, so strange to drive around this town over the past few days.  I realize I don’t even really know how to drive here.  I got lost driving home from Mid-City; I never get lost by bike.  I spent several minutes today trying to figure out how to take a left both onto and off of Canal.  Last night I actually waited around for twenty minutes to take the streetcar!  Man, life’s easier with a bicycle, that’s for sure.  But I’ll trade some bike rides to have the sister in town.  But as soon as she’s gone, I’m going on a long, long ride.  God, I love that bike.

Today was my first full day back in New Orleans, and I spent much of it on N.’s bike, riding around to see what folks are up to. The rush of being back to the city and seeing it relatively unscathed is wearing off, and today I found myself feeling profoundly sad. Don’t get me wrong. I had moments of thrill racing through this place today, seeing people celebrating their return with neighbors, watching immense kindness amongst strangers, and the general goodwill I’ve felt since moving here. But this city feels so empty. I rode to Cafe du Monde for beignets only to find myself virtually alone. On a Friday afternoon. No one was hanging out by the river or lining up at the aquarium. The National Guard was everywhere, hands on machine guns while shopping for knick knacks. It was strange to see these military vehicles lined up outside Jackson Square, but nice to see I wasn’t the only one struck by the scene, by the naturalization of militarized space in our civilian squares.

But today I didn’t feel like politics. There are so many pictures to take here because the city came through Gustav brilliantly, but everything feels a bit off. I found myself riding around all day and wanting to ride around all night, to remind myself that everything is still here, that I am home, but I can’t. I realized I was trying to ride away from the sadness at what has happened here, from the persistent sadness of a traumatized city. Tonight I decided to go ahead and get off my bike. I can see more tomorrow, but tonight I need to settle in.

This past week was very, very challenging.  A good friend of mine was going through a medical crisis and everything else took a back seat, including my daily bike rides.  This was scary stuff, life and death material, and my rides and my blogs and myself exited as I entered the Twilight Zone of doctor’s appointments and ER time.  But things are looking up, and she’s going to be ok, I think, and tonight I got back on my bike and turned up my Bruce Springsteen, and remembered what it feels like to ride, alone, through this city.

I set out with a goal–a rare thing for me, riding at night.  But I wanted the delicious sugary fried dough and sweet cafe au lait from Cafe du Monde, along with all the tourists who put this on their short list of must-sees in New Orleans.  In this case, the tourists are right.  The place is a bargain and just what a girl needs to recover from a week of deep existential crisis.  I enjoyed my treats and then rode my bike down through the Bywater to the Industrial Canal and back up the St. Claude bike lane, snapping pictures and remembering what it’s like to be alone in the company of strangers, focused both inward–giving myself whatever I want–and outward–being part of a larger world, a context outside my–and her–head.   It’s good to be back.

I spent this afternoon riding my bicycle down to the Quarter for coffee and beignets at Cafe du Monde, interested as I was in the tourist class on a Sunday afternoon. I had brought with me Voices from the Storm, a new collection of oral histories from New Orleanians about life pre-, during, and post-levee break. It felt an odd and unsettling confluence, my newness to the city, reading words from those for whom this place has long been home, and watching tourists sample what they’ve been told is the real New Orleans. My efforts to distance myself from the tourists struck me; I wonder when, if ever, I will have the right to call this place home. But that is a post for another time. I spent my time at the cafe reading Voices, thinking about how these are the stories of just a few folks who lost during and after the storm. These desperate experiences must be multiplied by thousands upon thousands. This is a catastrophe of incredible proportions. How do I make sense of it when in many ways I can’t even see the city they speak of? One of the men in the book talks about Dauphine Street staying dry and watching from there the waves splash in from St. Claude Avenue. So after my sugary snack, I rode down Dauphine over to St. Claude to see how the two sides of the avenue look almost three years after the storm and the breaks, trying to trace out the some of the dimensions of catastrophe with my bicycle. I stopped, at Dauphine and Poland and watched the train go by. Then I went left and crossed St. Claude. And the difference between these two neighborhoods remains shocking. Both sides show the decay that is everywhere in this city; both sides have homes that are still boarded up, but the flooded side of St. Claude feels so much emptier–of plants, of people, of homes. Sure, there were lots of families sitting on porches, leaning against cars, barbecuing, and generally chilling on a Sunday afternoon as everyone does in New Orleans, but there were whole swaths of boarded up homes, desolate lots, and signs of a destruction you don’t see on the gentrified side of the lower ninth ward. That train noisly runs along the canal that breached the levees; it still sees the effects of those breaches and surely will for years as will I. I, though, can easily avoid seeing these parts of the city still abandoned to the flood. I had the privilege of making a very particular choice to go to this part of town, a privilege I forget far too easily.