Tonight found me riding my bike down to the Lower Garden District to meet friends for drinks and socializing, and then over to one of my favorite bars for some dancing. The first place didn’t have anywhere to put bikes, so I locked up on a pole about half a block away; a couple bikes had already staked out the bus stop sign. Riding a bike makes so much more sense than driving here, but there is a definite lack of bike infrastructure. Take, for example, Whole Foods in Uptown New Orleans. That place is crawling with bike-riding do-gooders, but there’s just that one artistic bike rack in front, and then the racks in the parking lot, a dangerous place for drivers, let alone cyclists. Up at Tulane the bike racks on the upper part of campus are almost always filled, unless you get there early. I walked my bike to the second bar, knowing they’ve got a rack. I took this picture of the thing loaded with bikes; there’s Rhoda, jutting out in the middle. Bikes were locked to the gate in front of the house next door, including a set of three lathed together with a serious chain. This I like to see, but the place clearly needs even more racks. Please, New Orleans, give me a safe place to put my bike. After locking up, I headed in and danced and danced and danced. I love to dance almost as much as I love to bike. I took my sweaty self home on the bike, zipping through the humid night air, thankful.

I love to dance.  No, I really, really love to dance.  If you know me, you know I’m telling the truth.  So when M. put out the call to meet at the bar for Gal Holiday and the Honky Tonk Revue, I was in.  I hopped on my bike and headed down to the Marigny.  It was one of those thick nights, strangely cool and hot at the same time.  By the time I made it down the band had been playing for a good 45 minutes.  And they are good.  Gal has an amazing voice, and the way she sings the standards–Bob Wills, Johnny Cash, Patsy–makes me move.  I expected to see the dance floor hopping, but no such luck tonight.  I snapped this picture of Gal and the band, but there’s no crowd around them, like there really should be!  I am happy to dance by myself, but a real party is when everybody’s dancing, when the electricity passes through the crowd, when strangers are all your dance partners, and the sweat and heat and sound are your air.  So I was a little disappointed, and surprised at the ability of so many people to stay in their seats.  But I stomped around and danced and had a wonderful time, and I’m definitely feeling like some Jazz Fest is in order this weekend.  I’m guaranteed to find some fellow dancers there.

I had a great bike riding day yesterday.  I rode down to the Quarter to see one more panel at the PCA conference, back Uptown for drinks with friends, back down to the Bywater for wine with friends, to the Quarter for some dancing, and then back home.  I didn’t take any pictures, though.  I just rode.  It felt so good.  Today the winds were up and the weather was bad and the tornado warnings were on.  So naturally I went out on a bike ride.  I meant to just zip to the grocery store, but I forgot something very important.  It’s Easter.  New Orleans is a religious town, but I still forget that, especially considering how much time folks here spend doing, well, sinful things.  But most stores and restaurants were closed today so people could spend the holiday with friends and family.  This meant my short bike ride became longer as I rode around looking for a store that would sell me cat food, potatoes, and romaine lettuce to feed myself and my kitties.  I ended up at the Winn-Dixie over on Tchoupitoulas, along with the rest of the unprepared New Orleanians.  I snapped this picture while waiting in line with just the few groceries that would easily fit in my bike basket.  Other folks weren’t constrained by this little detail, so that line moved slowly.  Next time I tool around town on a holiday, I’m bringing Jack so I can fill up the panniers with ice cream and discounted holiday chocolates.  Priorities, people.

Today was Super Sunday–the day when all the Mardi Gras Indian tribes parade together–rescheduled after last weekend’s rainout.  The weather was perfect today–sunny and warm, with occasional clouds to cool us off.  I rode my bike toward Taylor Park and just followed the crowds.  And man, there were a lot of people.  I wandered around for a bit and then texted with S. and met up with her to follow the parade.  We walked our bikes through the crowds, stopping to  watch.  The tribes were dressed beautifully and the music was wonderful and I just loved the feel of summer.  We ended up back at the park and I got in some dancing as a band played some old favorites.  Everybody was dancing–young and old, men and women, everybody.  People were dressed to see and be seen.  There were puppies, strollers, bikes, crawfish, barbeque, and, of course, beer.  I was reminded of last summer.  Oh, summer in New Orleans.  So many festivals, so much music, so much dancing outside.  My very favorite things.  If today is any sign, we’re off to a good start.  I decided to go with this photograph rather than one of the gorgeous outfitted Indians, because I love the crowds.  And that’s the part that feels like community–all of us dancing, together.  And getting there was much, much easier by bike than by car, because the streets were ridiculously crowded.  This summer will definitely be better by bike.

Well, that was another long vacation from blogging.  I had  fall from my bike on Thursday and have been recuperating/trying not to bend my scraped-up knee.  And not riding.  But I got back on the bike tonight to meet A. for a drink or two at our friendly neighborhood bar, the Saint.  It was a quiet night, but that might have been because we were early.  Things really get going there late–and I mean late, like after two or three in the morning late–but neither of us were in the mood for that sort of night.  The thing about the Saint, though, is that you can go there for that late night bender, but you can also drop in for a drink and watch television or chat with a friend or do your crossword or play Centipede.  As the night went on, the dj turned up the music and the dancers arrived.  Now, I love to dance.  I will dance anywhere at any time with anyone.  These ladies brought the dance, and for tonight, we were all friends, all dancing to West End Girls at somebody’s house, drinking cheap beer.  Yep, it’s a neighborhood bar.  Unfortunately, the neighborhood is a dangerous one.  W. stopped bartending here because there’s no security, and she just didn’t feel safe working there at night.  While walking over with A. tonight we saw cop cars, lights on, creeping through the streets.  There are regular losses in the Lower Garden District–of life, of sense of self, of sense of being at home.  Even when we’re all in the bar, enjoying the unseasonably warm December nights, thoughts of all the people lost on the streets of New Orleans creep in.  Be safe, everybody.

This post is a bit late, as it concerns something I saw on my bike yesterday, but I don’t want to lose last night’s ride just because I didn’t have the energy to put words together when I got home.  Yesterday, just as I was heading home from a lovely weekend of camping, I got a phone call from E. letting me know that a dear family member had died.  Auntie L. was one of my very favorite aunts, the kind who whispers and schemes with you, lets you know you are her favorite, even when all the others are too, and insists on more fun than feels right.  For her to be gone, just like that, feels so wrong.  I wasn’t sure what to do with myself last night, pretty sure crying, eating McDonald’s, and watching football wasn’t really going to help anymore.  So I got on my bike, rode down to Frenchman Street, and met some friends for Linnzi Zaorski’s jazz.  I rode slowly, then super fast, straight, and then in lazy weaves on empty streets.  Nothing quite felt right.  It felt a bit like going through the motions, this pretending to be ok, but sometimes going through the motions is the best you can do.  When I got to the bar, tuned to the music, the tempo sped up and these dancers took the floor (look at her fling that earring!), I smiled.  There’s just something about good music and dancing freely that reminds me that it is really, really good to be here.

Today I rode my bike down to the Quarter for Vieux-to-Do, three festivals in one–the Creole Tomato Festival, the Louisiana Seafood Festival, and the Cajun Zydeco Festival. Now, if there’s one thing New Orleans is known for, it’s festivals. In fact, we were advised during new faculty orientation at Tulane not to “festival ourselves out of a job.” I laughed at the time, thinking, I must admit, that I was the least likely candidate for such a fate. After all, usually the mythos of a place is just that: mythical. Festivals in New Orleans? Sure, but if you *live* here it must be different, right? Wrong. Festivals here really are fantastic, and today’s was no exception. There isn’t really anything better than a sweaty crowd dancing to live music in the humid, chewy New Orleans air, tossing back lemonade/beer/creole tomato bloody marys. I danced like crazy, courtesy of several men who took it upon themselves to teach this clearly eager pupil a little bit of two step, a little bit of zydeco shuffle. These men can dance, and I think they want young people to know the dances too. There’s a lot of pride tied up in cultural traditions, just like anywhere else. The festivals are not just for show or just for tourists, but they are celebrations of life in this place. I simply cannot think of a better way to celebrate than to dance. I wish words could capture the feel of spinning without caring, of feeling the skirt swish around my legs, of smiling big without hoping–or worrying–that someone is watching. This is, for me, what freedom feels like. Words can’t capture these feelings–you’ll need to get out there and dance yourself. There’s more zydeco at Dos Jefes tonight, just a few blocks from my place. Meet me there?