On the Road, the sequel

This morning a mysterious man on a motorcycle pulled onto the ferry and parked in front of me, facing the French Quarter. His bike was laden with gear bags and what looked like a lovely picnic basket. He kept his helmet on and as the cars piled up I found myself looking at him for longer than was appropriate, wondering if I was seeing him at some point in an incredible adventure on the open road. Where was he from? Where was he going next? Was he reading Jack Kerouac by the glow of his headlights every evening? Did he sleep at motels with retro neon signs or under the decidedly un-neon twinkle of stars? On and on I went, and I said a prayer to the universe for his safe travel as he pulled off the ferry and into the big wide world.

This afternoon on the ride back to Algiers, as I leaned against the rail and thought about the day, onto the ferry rides my mystery man, bike still carrying his gear. Apparently his adventures took him to places he could reach in a day. Or else he just can't pack light.

"They will always be going to jail"

I am learning that people who are from here divide their lives into 2 distinct periods, "before the storm" and "after the storm". Even after experiencing Hurricane Katrina myself, I have failed to understand what a profound impact that day had on the fabric of this community's culture and identify.

Today I talked to Stuart. We were on the ferry together yesterday morning, too, and this morning we struck up a conversation. Stuart works at an Italian clothing store. He's just recently moved back to take care of his ailing father, having moved to Florida after the storm.

Before the storm he was a bail bondsman and, while the retail industry is a comfortable enough living, Stuart is taking his continuing education studies and preparing to be relicensed as a bondman. His reason for doing so is beautifully perfect.

"People might not always be wanting to buy fine Italian clothes, but they will always be going to jail."

Truer words were never spoken.

Fog rolls in

Guess what? When the captain can't see the ferry can't go. I learned this after waiting patiently as the fog tickled my cheeks and made me wish for a blanket, a book and a cup of coffee. I wasn't the only one waiting. The gate was up, there were no signs saying, "we give up! go back to bed!"...I listened for the sound of the engine but only heard the water lapping below me. I looked through the grate and watched the water carry a plastic bottle closer to a new home on the shore. The real estate market seems to be very tight  at the ferry terminal for an upstanding piece of litter like this bottle, but I imagine it will push its way in somehow.

Something moves in my peripheral vision and I spy a white egret hunting for breakfast. The sky and the water are the same shade of grey and I wonder if the egret ever gets confused about which way is up.

Finally, a gentleman parked beside my bike on the ramp exits the vehicle to relay the news he just learned,  (probably on NPR, because he looked the type, happily) the ferry is out of service because of the fog.

Back up the ramp I go to contemplate how best to get to work. I decide that I will wait for the bus as it would take the same amount of time as driving across the bridge and then I'd have to pay for parking to boot. But the bus was late and by the time I got to the stop the ferry was running again, the fog having retreated in advance of the morning sun. So, it was the ferry after all.

PS. That evening I learned that the ferry also doesn't run in high winds. Fickle beast.

Sun on My Spokes

A chat with Jerry Leon

Jerry Leon's teeth rotted out when he couldn't brush them after the storm. Ask him and he'll tell you. He doesn't mind, though. Jerry Leon's 71 now so teeth aren't as important as they used to be, and besides, he's had plenty of trouble to cut those teeth on. Like that time he was working for the steamship company out of California, working his way from waiter to cook (hand raised just so to show the perfect balancing technique of a man accustomed to carrying a tray full of drinks on a creaking ship), and, when he came home after a long trip, walked into his house only to find that his wife had moved without telling him, and then, boy howdy, did Jerry Leon have some explaining to do to the new husband of the home.

There's a restaurant you should visit, says Jerry Leon. It's by the African clothes store. Are those your real teeth, he asks? They're so straight and shiny. 

No, I can't tell you the name of the restaurant or the street it's on, continues Jerry Leon. You see, it's because old  Jerry can't read. But he's made it through just fine so far, he knows how to read other signs. 

What signs would those be? 

You have a glow about you, says Jerry, so I'll tell you. I'm old and I have to tell what I know to people who want to hear. 

Think clear thoughts when you cross this river, girl. Because if you dream of muddy water, bad luck is coming your way. 

I'm a little in love with Jerry Leon by the time  the boat docks and I watch him as he slowly makes his way off the boat. I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other soon. 

Sometimes you have to look hard to see something odd or different. Walking down a typical street in a typical town, glance at the people walking ahead of you. Besides wondering how the 80s have made such a head-scratchable comeback, you will notice that everyone looks kind of similar. They are rushing from here to there with nothing to recommend what complex and interesting people they are sure to be on the inside. The woman in the classic, sturdy heels with her black bag. The man in his khaki trousers and button down shirt. They are rushing to work, or to pick up the dry cleaning, or one of the thousand other mundane tasks we all take part in.

But. New Orleans. Here the odd seems to be everywhere I turn. New Orleans lends itself to the odd. And what's better, it's not even the flagrantly odd that I am bombarded with. It's the subtle odd, the "one of these things is not like the other" charm that almost everyone here (at least on the ferry!) seem to posses.

Case in point: The man waiting for the ferry with his pet on a leash. Nothing too odd about that until said pet jumped into the crack between two barriers and had to be lifted out by the neck, at which point the howling got my attention and I saw that it wasn't a little puppy on a leash, but a black cat.

Wonderfully odd and a reminder to look closely at life unfolding around me.

Here is the unhappy feline gazing wistfully at the crevice from which he came.

The first trip

A lovely view for a commute, no? The rumble of the diesel engines below tell me different, but looking out over the water for my first ride across the river I can't help but imagine I'm a traveler from another time, crossing the Mississippi to see what adventures await me on the other side. I have been captivated by rivers as long as I can remember, but there is something almost magical about this one. Coming across the ferry to Algiers for the first time and then wandering down the levee and seeing how fast and wide this river is shifted something inside me. It's like I remembered to exhale when I saw all that water, all that possibility. I knew I had to interact with that river every chance I got. 

So I found me a place on the West Bank, not heeding anyone's warning about the inconvenience of the ferry schedule. As many have said, if you are going to be out past midnight, you'll have to take the bridge instead-- quelle horror! To which I respond, my dad always said nothing good ever comes of staying out past midnight!

My first ride was perfectly breezy and exciting. I didn't know pedestrians had to go up top, so I had to do the ferry walk of shame back from the ramp. Tourist! I imagined the locals sneering. Yes, but not for long.