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.