I spent the weekend over in New Orleans down in the French Quarter a couple of weeks ago. A friend is working for a subcontractor for the state demolishing houses abandoned or too badly damaged by Katrina to be repaired. His work covers St. Bernard and Orleans parishes, and I think the Lower Ninth Ward.
I got over to the city mid-afternoon on Saturday and caught up with him at his rental studio apartment just off the Quarter. We talked a while catching up on all that has happened since we parted back in Chattanooga and then left on a walk past the casino into the French Quarter. The last time I was here was early April when I gave a talk at the Convention Center.
This time, we made it an easy stroll taking time to look at the shops, bars and music venues. We walked over to the levee on the Mississippi and back into the Quarter.
I spent some time looking at these establishments on the first floor and the apartments on the upper floors, imagining the stories of lives lived in them. I knew the interior of the blocks had some living space but I’d never taken the time to stop and peer through the gates, alleys and open garage doors to see the intimate and often delicately ornate gardens hidden behind these storefronts.
My fascination over these sanctuaries from the hubbub on the street grew as we walked. It was hard not to imagine how much fun it must be living in these flats watching the crowds pass every night, or walking down the stairs to join the revelry.
"The lucky ones have garages that provided the precious luxury of off-street parking. Look at that one on the corner that’s for rent. The whole thing is for sale, but I think you can rent the upstairs flat.”
I looked up at the tall narrow windows. There still was enough evening sunlight to see into the bare interior. A small chandelier hung in the living room. I think the flat holds a bedroom, living room and kitchen, plus the bath. Pretty limited space, but it has a nice balcony with wrought iron railings.
“I wonder what it rents for?”
“It rent for about $2500 a month, cheaper that what I’m paying now.”
“That’s not bad for this whole building.”
“No. That’s $2500 for the apartment.”
“Really?”
“My studio is for sale for $400,000. That’s one of the reasons I know about this place, if the studio sells I‘ve got to locate another place to live.”
The subcontract my friend is working on provides him a housing allowance that accommodates the reality of the high rent in this area. We walked on but now I was preoccupied thinking about how interesting it would be to live here, and what job I would have to snag to carry the rent.
We stopped in front of the Catholic Church on the square and watched a statuesque mime with a silvered face sit motionless on his bike. Had I not seen him a few minutes earlier I would have assumed he was just a piece of street art.
My friend realized something was going on in the church. He asked the policeman who was watching the entrance and discovered a wedding ceremony was in progress.
The policeman said it was OK to go in and listen.
“Just sit over towards the side and don’t disturb the rite.”
We went in during the priest’s sermon. The groom and bride knelt before the altar and the priest stood between them and the congregants. Periodically the priest would make a comment about the future role of the husband, or wife. This caused that person-to-be to turn a little uneasily on their knees to gain a backward glimpse at the priest. I felt badly for them. There was really no way to see the priest except to stand up and turn, and it was obvious they were not going to do that.
We left before the ceremony ended. As we went out I heard a young girl scream. She had touched the statute on the bicycle and the mime came to life giving her quite a fright.
As we walked on, I kept thinking about the apartments and courtyard gardens and what kind of job it would take to keep one. It would be so intriguing to live there.
The next day we went to the service at the Methodist Church over on St. Charles Avenue. It so happens that this Sunday was the first day of the 2008 hurricane season. The OT lectionary dealt with Noah and The Flood. The pastor remarked the congregation had no recourse. She could have used the New Testament reading in Matthew but that one gave no quarter as it was Jesus’ story of the wise man who built his house on rock and the foolish one who built on sand before the rain came down.
Afterwards with the thoughts of a nice balcony on a back street in the French Quarter still lingering in my head, we drove around the neighborhoods where he was working on the demolitions. There are so many houses that show no sign of reconstruction. The high watermarks are visible on a lot of them. Interspersed we see other homes fully rebuilt. It goes on street after street.
“They built the French Quarter where it is because it is high ground. It was the only safe place to live around here. Unfortunately New Orleans decided to grow.”
As we circled back and as we neared the Quarter again, my friend’s comments coming on the end of the tour was a sudden slap that me broke my thoughts on how I could make the money to get one of those flats. I realized it was time to get back to the camp to get ready for next week.
I thought about the narrow gate. I drove back towards Gulfport increasingly mortified over how easily the idea of easy living displaced my focus on the purpose of my being here in the Gulf.
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