Some places you have a good time, meet interesting people but when you leave you know you won’t ever go back. Other times you’re eager to go home if nothing more than to start planning a return. I spent some time in South Korea a few years ago, For exercise I went swimming at a local, indoor pool. They sold tickets for one-hour lap swim sessions, one after another for 10 hours. I went at the 2:00/3:00 p.m. hour, it was less crowded. As the 2:00 time drew near, all the men lined up at the pool door. You could hear pool noise on the other side then they blew a loud whistle, someone from the other side opened the door and we scurried in. You didn’t dare run but it was sort of a race to get positioned at one of the 8 lanes. All the while, the swimmers from the 1:00 session were shuffling back into the dressing rooms. At 2:03 we were lined up, 8 or 9 deep at a lane, the whistle blew and we slid in, began our laps. Swim on the right side of the lane, next to the lane divider, touch the wall, turn and begin the trip back, keep to the right. Everywhere, you are behind and ahead of someone with others passing on your left, going the other direction. You must be at least as fast as the person behind you. When their hands begin to interfere with your feet you must let them pass at the next end-wall or switch to another lane where the pace isn’t so fast. By 2:10 everyone was in a speed friendly lane, laboring up and back like dysfunctional polar bears at the zoo. It’s strange how much you can learn about total strangers, gliding past them, going and coming, lap after lap. One swam with her eyes closed inside her goggles, one swam as far as he could on one breath then stop to breathe and lurch out again. An older woman made eye contact underwater and nodded a polite acknowledgment. I tried to find a happy niche between two people near my speed. Finally we got a 2 minute warning, then the whistle. At 3:03 we were back in our gender appropriate dressing rooms. From 10:00 a.m. until 8:00 p.m. the swim progressed like migrating salmon, only inside, in shifts.
Walking back to my friend’s place the sidewalks were packed, store-front to curb. No organization, just mass humanity being totally courteous and polite, oozing along. I stopped at a bakery for a sweet roll. Coming out the door I merged into the flow and felt someone pull at my sleeve. A schoolgirl, maybe 15, in her school uniform, she held a clipboard and asked if she could interview me; a class assignment. The only shelter we had was a light pole otherwise we would have been swept along with the crowd so we took cover behind it. Her questions were easy; name, where I’m from, reason to be in Seoul, favorite Korean food. She was delighted that I liked kimchi but let down as I didn’t care much for the squid. She asked if I was a Christian. I thought it a little strange but it was on her list and I struggled for an answer. Finally I told her that I used to be a Christian and I still had friends who pray for me. It was good enough, she wrote on the page and we were done. I really liked Korea but I don’t think I’ll go out of my way to go back.
Where I go and know I’ll return is Louisiana, nothing at all like Seoul especially New Orleans and the French Quarter. But east or west, it’s the people who are irresistible. I’ve been going back to the Quarter at least every year for ever; sometimes several times. I stay away from Bourbon Street and out of the bars. Most of the out-of-towners go there to be insulted and separated from their money and most of the people they run into are from some other place. One rowdy wannabe from Dallas isn’t much different than another from Indianapolis. I hang out on Decatur St., Royal or Ursulines Ave. or Toulouse St., watch the natives, how they make ends meet. Bring your money to The Big Easy, have fun, stay out of trouble, take home a souvenir but leave your money.
I’m fascinated with street people. I think the attraction comes by way of my mother. When she saw someone in dire straits she would tell me, “There but for the Grace of God go I.” Then she would give me the long look and follow up with, “You too.” She thought it was divine intervention, I’m thinking more likely random chance and good fortune. I think all of the street people in the Quarter had high hopes to begin with. Nobody sets out to fail but that is the stereotype our culture has reserved for them. So I glimpse if I can, inside their souls, try to imagine their stories.
Latrobe Park is a small park at the corner of Decatur and Ursulines, near the gold statue of Joan of Arc. It’s all paved with a low wall, overhanging trees, benches and a couple of small fountains. It’s a shady place to relax on a hot day. Next door is an outdoor bistro with live music and small shops. It’s a regular spot for street folk, not the weekend weirdos, just the ones who want something better but can’t seem to make it work. Any age, alone or in groups, usually with a dog on a chain. They can’t camp out or loiter at Latrobe but it’s a good place to sit for a while. I sit near the bistro and watch them, take their photos. Next month I’ll be there again. In all of the Quarter, if I had to pick one place that means something special it would be Latrobe Park. I sit there with my Canon SLR camera, two credit cards and car keys in my pocket, captured by the allure of modern-day hobos. I’ve heard, “Hard times are halved and good times multiplied with friends.” I think that’s what they are doing. By the Grace of God, by random chance and good fortune: I was born in the right place at a good time and that was not my decision. But I’m probably better served by that set of circumstance than by all of my ill conceived, high minded schemes. How could I be so lucky that my parents found each other when they did! The French Quarter will always be a destination for me and Latrobe Park will be where I sit and watch the world turn.
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