Today I found out that the Algier/Canal St. Ferry has been reviewed on Yelp. For your entertainment, here are a few of my favorite snippets. Read all the reviews here
From Sunil: I wonder about the passengers though. There were couple of folks with beers in hand and this was in the middle of the day.
From Mo: Lets face it, the Mississippi aint looking its prettiest when it meets up with New Orleans. It just looks kinda industrial and dirty.
From Russel: I like taking visitors here after they've had a day running around the FQ like kids on speed, as the relaxing change of pace can usually do them some good by that point.
From Vicky: I heart you. You are the best way to cross the river. I love that I can drive on, park my car and watch New Orleans come closer or zoom away. It's also a great way to see the bridge closer, and from a different point of view.
No, Vicky. I heart you.
From Danielle: Nice views, ride the Mississippi and get your Tom Sawyer on!
Indeed.
From John: If you're bored, go across & come back. It's a kick.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
Spring stream of consciousness
Spring is springing and there is no escape! The air is heavy despite a rising breeze and I should know better than to forget a jacket when a very temperamental March is only a few days away. But I have my Friday coffee and peach danish, so life isn't too terrible as I sit here and wait for the ferry.
The sky is darkening rapidly-- clouds are approaching the West Bank from the bridge and the French Quarter. Every time a gust blows across the river I am caressed with a wet washcloth of wind--it's both invigorating and clammy, like holding a boy's sweaty hand for the first time.
A man beside me is wearing scrubs-- I think because they are comfortable and not because he works in the medical field. I really want to eat the peach danish in my bag but I'm saving it for when I can move away from Mr. Scrubs' cigarette so I can enjoy the peaches and cream aroma properly. I smelled freshly cut grass on the ride in this morning and it made me want to dig in the dirt so badly my heart constricted. This time of year makes my blood ache to grow flowers and strawberries and fling the windows wide so I can smell and hear the world coming to life again after the forced quiet of winter.
At the coffee shop this morning they were already preparing for the Lunch rush-- the special today is a Lenten dish and when the lady told me I was immediately transported back to my Catholic school days. Though I no longer practice, this hearkening back to the rituals of my childhood is somehow comforting. Family has been on my mind lately. Last night I dreamed I paid Rodney Dangerfield $200 to be my dad for the day. I have no idea where this came from and wonder what other strange B list celebrities live in my subconscious unbeknownst to me.
On the ferry now and all of a sudden the wind went from playful and wet to cold and fierce. The rain is starting to fall and I will be a drowned cat by the time I get to work. Blowing so hard now that the ferry can't dock. I love it.
The sky is darkening rapidly-- clouds are approaching the West Bank from the bridge and the French Quarter. Every time a gust blows across the river I am caressed with a wet washcloth of wind--it's both invigorating and clammy, like holding a boy's sweaty hand for the first time.
A man beside me is wearing scrubs-- I think because they are comfortable and not because he works in the medical field. I really want to eat the peach danish in my bag but I'm saving it for when I can move away from Mr. Scrubs' cigarette so I can enjoy the peaches and cream aroma properly. I smelled freshly cut grass on the ride in this morning and it made me want to dig in the dirt so badly my heart constricted. This time of year makes my blood ache to grow flowers and strawberries and fling the windows wide so I can smell and hear the world coming to life again after the forced quiet of winter.
At the coffee shop this morning they were already preparing for the Lunch rush-- the special today is a Lenten dish and when the lady told me I was immediately transported back to my Catholic school days. Though I no longer practice, this hearkening back to the rituals of my childhood is somehow comforting. Family has been on my mind lately. Last night I dreamed I paid Rodney Dangerfield $200 to be my dad for the day. I have no idea where this came from and wonder what other strange B list celebrities live in my subconscious unbeknownst to me.
On the ferry now and all of a sudden the wind went from playful and wet to cold and fierce. The rain is starting to fall and I will be a drowned cat by the time I get to work. Blowing so hard now that the ferry can't dock. I love it.
We're stuck!
I think I'm about to get rained on. I thought I could beat it but the wind came up so fast the ferry can't dock. Happy Friday!
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
A Valentine
Despite the commercial cheesiness of the holiday, I enjoy Valentine's Day. Not because I want to get flowers or chocolate, but because I like thinking about what it means to love. We tend to think about love in the context of our relationship with people or other living things-- I love this man, I love my dog...and we also like to exaggerate our enjoyment of inanimate objects that can't love us back-- I love cheese danishes, I love these jeans cause they make my butt look great. But that sells love short, don't you think?
On the surface, V Day is just a superficial excuse to make couples feel smug and single people feel gipped, but it can be more, too. Just the simple act of thinking about what love means to us as humans has to have some merit, right? V Day is a sort of touchstone for me when it comes to love-- I can look back to Valentines Days past and evaluate how I have given and received love. Over time I hope to see a positive trend of loving deeply and without reserve, of looking to see the beauty in everyone I meet, of loving others--and myself for that matter-- despite knowing that we are all imperfect and flawed, yet still deserving of love and compassion.
I want to see the beauty in every person I meet. I am a long long way from that ideal, but in the meantime I can practice by seeing the beauty in the people I love and by celebrating and honoring them. I can also look for the beauty and love that abounds in the whole wide world (this blog is an exercise in that effort) so, to that end, here is my VDay Ferry Commute Valentine to you. May you find beauty and joy everywhere you look.
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| In Mardi Gras gnomes |
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| In resting butterflies |
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| In banana flowers! |
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| In knowing that weeds are plants whose virtues have been forgotten (that's Emerson, I think) |
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| In finding cozy nooks |
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| In ferns that spring from walls |
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| And flowers that spring from streets! |
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| You can figure this one out! |
To me...
Happy Valentine's Day!
Happy Valentine's Day!
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
What's a Z Drive got to do with it?
There is a new ferryboat captain among us. Over the past week and a half, I surmise that his hard landings have loosened the teeth of just about everyone who rides the ferry on a regular basis.
I first noticed something different last week when we inched across the river and then slowed down even more as we approached the dock. To say we came in slowly was an understatement. Paint dried as we crossed the last 30 feet of river to the dock. Grass grew. I sprouted three new gray hairs and read Ulysses cover to cover. That afternoon I spotted my buddy Mr. A and asked him why the slow ferry movement had taken Algiers by storm.
Mr. A confirmed that there was, in fact, a ferryboat captain-in-training and that it would take a while for him to get used to piloting the boat because it had a Z drive, which most pilots aren’t used to.
What’s a Z drive, you ask? Well. According to Wikipedia and Mr. A, Z drive propulsion is the s*#t. It allows a boat to move every which way, which is important for ferryboats (so we don’t get run over by an oil tanker or can dodge Paul the Pelican, for instance).
From Wikipedia:
So apparently there are a lot of different levers to manipulate in a Z drive ferry and it takes a lot of time to learn to finesse them and work them all at one time. I bet a 10 year old video game aficionado could learn pretty fast, though.
Anywhoo, this morning Captain Novice was so slow that he didn’t manage to dock the ferry until 5 minutes after we were supposed to leave. And he came in at a really weird angle (in addition to failing Z drive class, I think he failed geometry, too). First he hit one side of the boat against the dock so hard that it almost made a light pole fall over, and caused 2 people to lose their footing. Then he inched the other side ever so slowly to the dock. After 5 minutes of excruciating maneuvers, you’d think he’d only caress the dock. But no, he SLAMMED into it a second time. By this point everyone waiting to board was either cracking up or rolling their eyes and I actually started to feel sorry for the guy.
Yes, it’s kind of hilarious, but it also made me think about how scary it is to be completely new to something. You just have to have faith and muddle along until you get the hang of it. Whether it’s yoga, cooking, working on an assembly line, or driving a ferry, cultivating your sense of humor along with new skills is important. And so I could learn to be a little more patient with Captain Novice. But I’m sending him a bill if I chip a tooth.
I first noticed something different last week when we inched across the river and then slowed down even more as we approached the dock. To say we came in slowly was an understatement. Paint dried as we crossed the last 30 feet of river to the dock. Grass grew. I sprouted three new gray hairs and read Ulysses cover to cover. That afternoon I spotted my buddy Mr. A and asked him why the slow ferry movement had taken Algiers by storm.
Mr. A confirmed that there was, in fact, a ferryboat captain-in-training and that it would take a while for him to get used to piloting the boat because it had a Z drive, which most pilots aren’t used to.
What’s a Z drive, you ask? Well. According to Wikipedia and Mr. A, Z drive propulsion is the s*#t. It allows a boat to move every which way, which is important for ferryboats (so we don’t get run over by an oil tanker or can dodge Paul the Pelican, for instance).
From Wikipedia:
“A Z-drive is a type of marine propulsion unit. Specifically, it is an azimuth thruster. The pod can rotate 360 degrees allowing for rapid changes in thrust direction and thus vessel direction. This eliminates the need for a conventional rudder.
The Z-drive is so named because of the appearance (in cross section) of the mechanical driveshaft or transmission configuration used to connect the mechanically-supplied driving energy to the Z-Drive azimuth thruster device. This form of power transmission is called a Z-drive because the rotary motion has to make two right angle turns, thus resembling the letter "Z".”
So apparently there are a lot of different levers to manipulate in a Z drive ferry and it takes a lot of time to learn to finesse them and work them all at one time. I bet a 10 year old video game aficionado could learn pretty fast, though.
Anywhoo, this morning Captain Novice was so slow that he didn’t manage to dock the ferry until 5 minutes after we were supposed to leave. And he came in at a really weird angle (in addition to failing Z drive class, I think he failed geometry, too). First he hit one side of the boat against the dock so hard that it almost made a light pole fall over, and caused 2 people to lose their footing. Then he inched the other side ever so slowly to the dock. After 5 minutes of excruciating maneuvers, you’d think he’d only caress the dock. But no, he SLAMMED into it a second time. By this point everyone waiting to board was either cracking up or rolling their eyes and I actually started to feel sorry for the guy.
Yes, it’s kind of hilarious, but it also made me think about how scary it is to be completely new to something. You just have to have faith and muddle along until you get the hang of it. Whether it’s yoga, cooking, working on an assembly line, or driving a ferry, cultivating your sense of humor along with new skills is important. And so I could learn to be a little more patient with Captain Novice. But I’m sending him a bill if I chip a tooth.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Some say this world of trouble is the only one we need
This afternoon I sat on the ramp of the ferry launch waiting for the boat that would come carry me home when two fiercely tattooed gentlemen rode up behind me. Both had heavy beards and wore T-Shirts with the sleeves cut off. One of the T-Shirts was supporting what I can only assume is some sort of death metal band called Goatwhore (advertised on front) with this slogan on the back of the shirt: "Who needs a god when you've got Satan".
(Google tells me that Goatwhore is indeed a band, and I've just listened to their song entitled, "Apocalyptic Havoc".)
Given their fashion choices and seeming predilection for scary tattoos of devil-looking beasts, spider webs and skull and crossbones, one could assume that their conversation would lean towards animal sacrifice, or at least heavy liquor.
But no, these men were deep in conversation about their jobs (at some restaurant or bar) and how the shifts they were given for the month of February only amounted to about 6 days of work. Not even enough to make rent.
***
This evening I stayed home, nursing a headache that's plagued me for the last few days, reading and generally waiting for a respectably late hour so I could justify going to bed. With my dog snoring contentedly at my feet, I settled in on the couch and picked up a book of short stories I've been reading and rereading lately, "The Shell Collector" by Anthony Doerr. No sooner had I read the first two pages when the sound of music began to punctuate the air. I set the book down and listened more closely. Trumpets, trombone and drum, growing louder, moving closer step by step. I put Moby on his leash and walked out into a breezy beautiful evening. The music was coming from my right and I turned the corner to see a second line procession making its way through the neighborhood. All around me porch lights blinked on and people tumbled out of their homes. Old folks and teenagers. People with dogs and people with babies--the crowd grew with every count of the music and I fell in line as the parade passed.
We wound through two more blocks, picking up people along the way. No one said much but they danced in the cool evening and you could feel an energy moving through the crowd. I had a hunch what the second line was for--who the second line was for--and my hunch was confirmed when we turned onto the street where a good samaritan was shot dead last week while assisting a neighbor who was being carjacked.
His two young children watched it happen from a bus stop two blocks away and I've been troubled by the senseless tragedy of it all week even though I didn't know him. As we approached the house the widow and her two children heard the music and came to stand on the front lawn. The band halted in the street in front of her house and played three songs. The crowd clapped and swayed and the light cast by the street lamps was reflected back to me in the tears on many people's cheeks. I can't imagine most of the people knew the man, but it was clear they all grieved for him. I was moved by the beautiful joyous sadness of the music and of the people around me paying tribute. When the band finished, the wife said a few words of thanks and the crowd turned to walk back they way they had come, peeling off at each corner to go back to a regular Thursday night, accompanied by the fading strains of "When the Saints Go Marching In".
Whether we are death metal freaks, or regular dads, or trombone players or invincible teenagers, it's impossible not to get caught up in the mundane details of life on earth. But it doesn't hurt to be reminded every now and then, even when that reminder is born of sorrow that we can't fathom, that there are so many beautiful moments in between the mundane, the sad or the plain bad; we should treasure these moments before this life is not ours to live any longer.
When I got back to the house and picked up the book, I read the following lines:
(Google tells me that Goatwhore is indeed a band, and I've just listened to their song entitled, "Apocalyptic Havoc".)
Given their fashion choices and seeming predilection for scary tattoos of devil-looking beasts, spider webs and skull and crossbones, one could assume that their conversation would lean towards animal sacrifice, or at least heavy liquor.
But no, these men were deep in conversation about their jobs (at some restaurant or bar) and how the shifts they were given for the month of February only amounted to about 6 days of work. Not even enough to make rent.
***
This evening I stayed home, nursing a headache that's plagued me for the last few days, reading and generally waiting for a respectably late hour so I could justify going to bed. With my dog snoring contentedly at my feet, I settled in on the couch and picked up a book of short stories I've been reading and rereading lately, "The Shell Collector" by Anthony Doerr. No sooner had I read the first two pages when the sound of music began to punctuate the air. I set the book down and listened more closely. Trumpets, trombone and drum, growing louder, moving closer step by step. I put Moby on his leash and walked out into a breezy beautiful evening. The music was coming from my right and I turned the corner to see a second line procession making its way through the neighborhood. All around me porch lights blinked on and people tumbled out of their homes. Old folks and teenagers. People with dogs and people with babies--the crowd grew with every count of the music and I fell in line as the parade passed.
We wound through two more blocks, picking up people along the way. No one said much but they danced in the cool evening and you could feel an energy moving through the crowd. I had a hunch what the second line was for--who the second line was for--and my hunch was confirmed when we turned onto the street where a good samaritan was shot dead last week while assisting a neighbor who was being carjacked.
His two young children watched it happen from a bus stop two blocks away and I've been troubled by the senseless tragedy of it all week even though I didn't know him. As we approached the house the widow and her two children heard the music and came to stand on the front lawn. The band halted in the street in front of her house and played three songs. The crowd clapped and swayed and the light cast by the street lamps was reflected back to me in the tears on many people's cheeks. I can't imagine most of the people knew the man, but it was clear they all grieved for him. I was moved by the beautiful joyous sadness of the music and of the people around me paying tribute. When the band finished, the wife said a few words of thanks and the crowd turned to walk back they way they had come, peeling off at each corner to go back to a regular Thursday night, accompanied by the fading strains of "When the Saints Go Marching In".
Whether we are death metal freaks, or regular dads, or trombone players or invincible teenagers, it's impossible not to get caught up in the mundane details of life on earth. But it doesn't hurt to be reminded every now and then, even when that reminder is born of sorrow that we can't fathom, that there are so many beautiful moments in between the mundane, the sad or the plain bad; we should treasure these moments before this life is not ours to live any longer.
When I got back to the house and picked up the book, I read the following lines:
"Ignorance was, in the end, and in so many ways, a privilege: to find a shell, to feel it, to understand only on some unspeakable level why it bothered to be so lovely. What joy he found in that, what utter mystery."Yes. And yes.
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