"the rolling stones ARE new orleans"

i want to fucking move here.
amid my wanderings i happened into some of the area affected by katrina. and let it be known, this town is still fucked up. husks of homes with caved-in ceilings, missing walls, piles of detritus on the crumpled sidewalk, red x's spray-painted everywhere i turn. some were dated as late as 09/14/05- 16 days after the levees broke. outside of the french quarter, this place is a war zone. windows are boarded up; a high-rise building along canal street is missing most of its windows. when walking down the sidewalk, i am dodging traffic cones and sand and piles of broken cement. i am honored to witness this firsthand, disgusted as fuck that nothing is really being done to keep this in the forefront of the news. there are still fucking fema trailers everywhere. i took pictures. i was trying to be discreet, but invariably there would be groups of people sitting on the steps of less-fucked-up houses nearby, watching; i was embarrassed, and walked by with a smile, saying hello. "hello" they would reply, also smiling, genuinely friendly. this is now their reality, and has been for a while. i forget. and the way people reacted to me taking pictures, or the way they didn't react, cemented my love for this place.
happened upon a gallery in the quarter of intricate paintings done on humans, then photographed. the artist was there. we got to talking. we talked for at least half an hour. he showed me video of when robert plant came to town a few months ago and played a 'locals only' bar in the garden district. he was fucking cool as hell. he has lived here his entire life. and the above quote is his. "'can you hear me knocking' was written about the french quarter, i'm sure of it" he said. "that's my favorite stones song" i interrupted. "the guitar is so dirty-" "yeah, listen to it" he said. "he talks about cobblestones, throwing shit at her window, 'cause in the quarter you can't get to someone's place, you can only get to a gate." i was grinning uncontrollably at this point. "so when you hear that song, think of new orleans" he said. "believe me" i replied, "i will." his site: http://www.paintedalive.com
afterwards i wandered towards a bar i'd passed earlier: pravda, where the karaoke and frozen daquiri and becapped frat lushes don't tread, far from bourbon street; i was one of about ten other people, all of them locals, all of whom knew one another, and i eavesdropped quite happily whilst drinking a vodka-cran and doing the sunday crossword puzzle. i left and said aloud, "i will always be a nerd."
dried chicken feet at the voodoo shop. terrible karaoke (must someone ALWAYS be singing 'taking care of business'?) on bourbon street. the hick at pravda ordering grey goose and red bull, and me silently disgusted over such a waste of quality vodka. free samples of pralines. a 'mammy' salt and pepper set. i felt ashamed to buy such things, but they were selling them... sunflowers blooming beside a gutted home. a doll face-down and filthy in the dirt. the carefully stacked rocks on the banks of the mississippi. uncrossing my bare legs and realizing that the sweat makes them slide apart. purchasing a soda at the smallest a&p in america. comparing tattoos with the man who sold me a bracelet as his friends teased him for hitting on me. 2" long cockroaches skittering out from under the fountains. and huge rats clambering over garbage bags on the sidewalk, six or seven of them at a time, disappearing into the crevasses of wooden doors as i approach.
everyone calls me sweetheart here. and they seem like they actually believe it. i love that.
and even the dealers are charming. "hey baby" said a man about a block away from my hotel. his voice was like honey. "hello" i said, continuing to walk. "wanna smoke something?" he called to my back. i declined with a smile.
(and they sell absinthe here.)