"EL SOL"

     Have you ever wondered what it is about sunrise and sunset that makes us stop and gaze, stop and feel not quite so civilized, somehow less important than when we had control over something? I was up early, on the road just as the sky went gray in the east.  On the interstate, tail lights ahead of me were obscured in the glare of all the head lights coming at us on the other side. To the left of those head lights, just off the highway, 80’ to 100’ trees were thick against the horizon. Occasionally, when the trees were not so tightly set, there was a flash of orange/red and it was gone; after all, I was stretching the speed limit just to keep up and all I got was a glimpse. 

     So you pay attention to the driving: you have to do that or you get too close to the semi squeezing on your left or you don’t notice brake lights flashing, several cars ahead. You drive. People all around me have made a conscious decision to bypass New Orleans; stay north of Lake Pontchartrain on their way to Mobile or maybe Tallahassee. I’d be getting off soon, turning north. I stay in the truck’s shadow for what seems like an eternity. I wonder, what happened to the guys up in the fast lane; I don’t need a semi with an attitude just two feet off my shoulder. Somebody get out of this guy’s way. At least the day was dry; no spray coming up off tires and no thump-t-thump of wipers, smearing the glass because nothing would have slowed them down. We would still be racing up the road and I’d have done better to sleep in, to go later in the day. Traffic eased and the truck rolled on, leaving me with space, nobody in the fast lane. I glanced across the median and the sun was topping the trees. Three quarters of “El Sol” was nested on top of those dense treetops. In just a mile, another minute, I’d be able to see a clear, defined space between sun and trees and my day would be delivered. 

     When the air is dry, low humidity, the sun turns bright, white/yellow, shortly after it clears the horizon and you can’t look right at it. On humid days, with haze up high and fog hanging on the bayous, the sun comes up wearing a red/orange shirt and you can gaze right at it for as long as you like, the same with sunset. Just a few weeks ago I was on the beach, Lake Michigan, for sundown. One of my favorite places, I have lots of photos from there but I keep going back. The day was windy and clear, high pressure, high sky. I was hoping for some haze and an orange sunset but it would be white/yellow, right up to the last few minutes. I waited, like waiting on water to boil, for the sun to sink down and nest behind or beside the light house. My patience paid off. The sun turned orange and the sky behind it went red. The edge between them was sharp and clean. I got several good shots in those last minutes, then I let the camera hang on its strap and just watched El Sol sink into the lake. 

     Driving east on Interstate 12 it came to me and it was easy: everything should be that easy. I know why we stop and gaze, stop and feel small; why the sun on the horizon moves us like it does. It's then, for just a few short minutes: if you like the metaphor, we can stare straight into the eye of God. We've been conditioned to look down or away for fear of burning our eyes. Something primal about it, mysterious yet comforting. The fact that someone is waiting for you to call or come through the door is irrelevant. Sun rise, sun set; we really do take it for granted. El Sol neither rises nor sets, it just hangs out there like it has for billions of years. It’s people who go in circles, on a planet that revolves and rotates in circles. We study the science and master the math but you don’t have to be educated or even smart to wait patiently with the naked eye for the horizon and the sun to close the gap. Then: there it is and there you are.

FRENCH QUARTER +1

The French Quarter is a great place to hang out. Hot & steamy or with a damp chill, the place is a reality show with characters ranging from Mormon missionaries to pierced and tattooed rebels; from tourists flaunting their hometown sports team logo to local street musicians; each one looking to the other for something they can take home. There’s a break in the early morning when last night’s derelicts run out of fuel and melt away, and the working class reclaims the new day. It’s a brief lull in the dance, like an intermission between acts. Shakespeare said that all the world is a stage and that we are the actors; and no place is that more apparent than the French Quarter. 

So I walk and look for anything that stirs my imagination. I studied storefront doors with their heavy chains and monster pad locks. In this world of tweets and cyber security, the Quarter it’s still the middle ages with old world chains and pad locks. It’s as much about a message as it is about security. “We are closed. The street may belong to you but what’s behind this door does not. Mind your own business.” By midmorning, an ordinary person has turned the key and taken the chain inside. The door opens and they turn on the music. We are welcome to come inside and trade dollar-bills for a t-shirt or some hot sauce. In front of St. Louis Cathedral, the mystics have set up their Tarot card tables, waiting for the first tourist to have their fortune told. They sit together and enjoy a chat, a cigarette and finish their coffee. One lady noticed my “Michigan” baseball cap and asked if I was a Michigander. I said I was and she confessed she was too: from Auburn Hills. It would have been rude not to let her know where I called home: “Grand Haven,” I said, before she had time to ask. “Have a good one.” She smiled a genuine smile, not normal for panhandlers and such and came back, “You too.”

Restaurants that serve breakfast were starting to open and I wanted to try one that was new to me. Walking on Charters Street, I noticed a simple, hand painted sign over the door of a hole-in-the-wall place: Fleur de Lis Restaurant. My server, Ophelia, had a great smile and her eyes were smiling too. I noticed as I was waiting that she moved quickly yet gave her customers an undivided attention. Thru the window, in the kitchen, the cook Chris was busy. A tall guy with big arms, he could have been playing drums in a band the way he was moving food. My french toast was sliced thick and a little crunchy, I was happy. Everybody working in the Quarter has to smile and be what you want them to be: it’s just the way it is. It’s a hard place, often the smiles are shallow and mask something darker than you want to know about. I got the feeling that Fleur de Lis was a good place and it’s people were the real deal. Next time you’re on Charters Street, stop in, try the french toast and leave a good tip. Tell ‘em Frank says “Hey.”

FRENCH QUARTER

When I go places I don’t call it  “Travel.” I’m not a traveler, as that suggests a “tourist” connotation. I go simply because I want to, and I can. There is something about being in motion, seeing things go by that meets a need. Besides the motion, I like to discover new places and make new friends, so I go. Never been one for itineraries or tours, I usually go by myself, interact with working people and learn by doing rather than from programs, brochures or being told. I can’t think of anyplace I’ve been that I regret the going and I’ll never get to all the places I want to see. But then there are other places where I’ve been, where I keep going back, again and again: like the French Quarter. When I talk about New Orleans I assume that others have been there and know what I’m talking about. I can’t imagine a civilized adult who can drive a car or find their way to an airport who hasn’t been to the Big Easy, The Crescent City. It was founded of necessity, in a terrible location, a swamp where everything either floods or sinks. The Indians thought the white men were nuts: imagine that. But that’s another story.

This morning I got up early and went down to the Quarter while the tourists were sleeping in, while the drunks were still strung out and before the heavy chains and pad locks were removed from storefront doors. I had my camera, always looking for good lines and edges, looking for rich colors, taking advantage of low angle light that you only get, early and late. People were coming to work, sweeping, hosing down sidewalks and cleaning windows. A trash truck was making it’s last stop, leaving barrels clean and empty for the French Market. The unofficial measure of success for business in the Quarter is how much trash they haul off at the end of the day. Then you know, the day doesn’t end until just before the next one begins. I was there this morning on the bubble, the start of a new day. 

There are homeless people: some by chance and others by choice. By day they blend in; part of the atmosphere. They usually find a place to crash for the night, out of sight, often together with a dog for safety. One night, walking to my car from a jazz club on Frenchmen Street, I noticed a big roll of cardboard behind the iron fence in Washington Park. In better light I made out six feet sticking out of one end. This morning, walking Decatur Street; couldn’t mistake the human form on the sidewalk, wedged up against a wall. He was young, on his back with a black beard and his mouth open; one arm arched over his head. Nobody would lie down like that: somebody got him up and out of the street but left him there. 

They all have a story but nobody seems to care. Today’s sidewalk hero may have had a bed somewhere, just shut down before he made it home but either way, it’s a hard way to go. When I was little and later when I was grown; when someone had bottomed out, whether we knew their story or just thought we knew, my mom would set everything straight. In her soft, patient voice of authority she would say: “There but for the Grace of God go I;” then look me in the eye and amend, “and you too.” I took it to mean that even the best intentions can take you to a bad place, and if you are in a good place it’s as much about being blessed as it is about you. I watched him long enough to see he was breathing alright, then a little longer just to be sure. His story was a mystery to me but he was somebody’s son, somebody’s brother, somebody’s friend and I wasn’t his judge.