Parting is such sweet sorrow

It’s early June and our bus just crossed the Mississippi state line, where a sign proudly declares: “Mississippi: it’s like coming home.”

What a bizarre way to welcome visitors into a state. It’s like coming home, but not quite home. Mississippi: you might want to visit, but you wouldn’t want to stay.

I am confused and humored by these words, and so I write them down in my journal. An hour later, as we drive into Louisiana, I record the words of our state’s welcome sign, which reads: “Bienvenue en Louisiane” as if to remind us that this place is not really part of America— at least not the America George W. Bush thinks of when he says God Bless.

As our bus heads towards Lake Ponchartrain, the large and usually benign buffer between New Orleans and all points north, I begin to ponder what the Big Easy’s welcome sign would read if she were to ever have one.
“New Orleans: City of Hope”
“New Orleans: Birthplace of Jazz”
“Welcome to New Orleans. Ain’t no place like it.”

Ain’t no place like it. Yeah, you right— as Harry Connick, Jr., one of the city’s many musical sons might say in that trademark local “yat” accent. Ain’t no other place where the thought of car-eating potholes, smoky jazz, French courtyards, outdoor parades, football, hurricanes, food, quirky architecture and a truly unique way of speaking can fill you with incredible nostalgia— a nostalgia and indelible charm that has been known to overwhelm New Orleanians who depart from the realm of the Crescent city for a day or more.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

I find these words written in an earlier entry of my journal, where I wrote the phrase after reading it on the back of a Washington D.C. bus. I noticed the words as I looked out the window of our bus, which had driven all the way from New Orleans to the nation’s capitol with 35 female high school students from the Priestley Charter School and several teachers and administrators in tow. Another bus, which carried about 40 male students and staff members, including my husband Hazim, followed close behind.

The words appeared on the back of that bus as part of an advertisement for a local performance of Romeo and Juliet. When Romeo and Juliet confess their love for one another in Shakespeare’s famous play, Juliet says, “Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” The painful departure is their sorrow, while anticipation of their next meeting is sweet.

I didn’t think about the words again until I looked at my camera, admiring the digital photos I had snapped that day. As I clicked backwards through the smiling faces of Priestley students in front of Capitol Hill and the White House, I arrived at the first shot I had taken. It was a practice shot, aimed randomly out the bus window, to see if my camera was working. The shot unintentionally captured the back of that bus decorated with Shakespeare’s words just as it had started to rain.

Parting is such sweet sorrow. It sounds cliché, like a Hallmark card message, like a phrase I have heard far too often. Somehow it perfectly captures how I felt as our bus pulled away from downtown New Orleans at the start of our trip, when the sunset was barely visible through the many oaks lining South Carrollton, and the Superdome was straight ahead of us as we exited onto the highway. I felt excited, nervous to be leaving our city at the start of hurricane season, but also somewhat sad.

Several days later, as our bus crossed Lake Ponchartrain, I felt some of that sweetness that Juliet spoke about— not the let down that usually accompanies a return trip home after a vacation. There was a distinct uplifting, a sense of privilege… to be returning to this improbable city perched on the edge of the Mississippi, near the imposing mouth of the Gulf.

* * *

Hazim and I parted from New Orleans a total of three times this summer. First there was the bus field trip to DC in June, a road trip to Dallas in July, and an extended road trip to the northern reaches of New York and back in August. Each time our “sweet sorrow” and separation anxiety from New Orleans grew stronger.

The Priestley students first made me aware of the deep difference of this city while we were in DC. Many students had never before left Louisiana and some had never left New Orleans. Only a few had seen another part of the country before, but most did so while evacuating hurricanes. I immediately noticed how different the students seemed in DC. Not only were they one of the only large groups of African-American around— they were also loud, full of laughter, loud gestures, and colorfully dressed in a way that no one else was. These children, who acted and looked much older than other high school students around, seemed to wear New Orleans on their sleeves.

While sitting in the Smithsonian Air and Space museum with a few of the students, a group of young African-American members from the United States Air Force strolled by.

“Wanna join?” A proud female in uniform asked the students, unaware that I was with their group.
“The air force?” a Priestley girl answered. “No thanks.” The students laughed at her sassy answer.
“It ain’t that bad,” said the woman in uniform. “Where you from?”
“New Orleans,” the students said proudly.
The air force recruits laughed and walked off.

I wasn’t sure what to make of this exchange, but the Priestley student’s disinterest in the armed forces seemed to be matched by the Air Force members disrespect for New Orleans. None of the students seemed surprised when their city's namesake was met with laughter.

In a similar manner, no one was surprised that New Orleans made the front-page headlines of USA today twice while we were in DC. One story lamented the recent spike in crime, the other discussed the perils of the New Orleans education system.

Still, nothing could stop these students from feeling proud about their hometown—especially when it came to music and food.

Our large group of New Orleans high school students, teachers, and administrators gathered at the Golden Corral one night for dinner after a long day of sightseeing. I sat with a female student who looked a little upset as she sipped her sprite.

“Aren’t you hungry?” I asked.
The girl looked at me with a straight face.
“Yeah, but man, they don’t even have gumbo here."
"Yeah, this sure isn't New Orleans."
"Nope. I want soul food. I want gumbo and red beans and rice. Even the grits here is wrong.” “What’s wrong with the grits?”
“It’s all watery.”
I could only get her to eat strawberries and ice cream that night.

As our group walked down the mall to the Smithsonian Museum of African Art the next day, a street musician paused to ask our group where we were from. “NEW ORLEANS!” the students yelled. The man smiled and started to play Louis Armstrong’s famous “Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans” very off key. A male student muttered, “Man, he sucks.” “Yeah, that’s no way to play a trumpet.” Our group giggled in a hushed, proud way. None of those students were musicians themselves, but they knew how the song and trumpet should be played.

Armstrong’s “Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans” captures the same sentiment of Shakespeare’s “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Either would be an excellent slogan for a city welcome sign.

That message on the back of a DC bus came back to me as Haz and I drove away from New Orleans in early July, taking a different, northwesterly route through Louisiana that avoided Mississippi altogether. Beautiful bayous and swamps blanketed with a layers of neon algae followed us away from the old grittiness of New Orleans and eventually turned into rolling hills, plains and the wide open cattle country of north Texas: home to Dallas, America’s ninth largest city.

Dallas covers an extremely wide area with plenty of room to continue spreading. Everything is clean, new, and highly modern. The roads are smooth, without potholes, and the medians are without litter. The air is hot and dry and trees are very sparse. Buildings and pastures that look close-by are often ten miles away. Haz’s brother and his family live in Dallas, as do an Aunt, Uncle, and cousins of mine. Those facts are among the city’s most positive traits. The only tourist attraction in the city itself is the Texas Book Depository where John F. Kennedy was shot in 1967. An “x” still eerily marks the spot where a bullet made its historical impact on the road that swings past the depository.

I was studying for the Graduate Entrance Exam (GRE) while visiting Dallas. One of the words on my vocabulary study list was a perfect synonym for Dallas: Insipid. By definition it means: “dullness due to lack of character and lively qualities; bland and without flavor.”

Dallas sure has a lot of conveniences, and it is definitely very culturally diverse, but there is little to no history, flavor, or quintessential quirkiness that distinguishes it as a city of more than 1 million people, the ninth largest in the nation. Can you name a Dallas cuisine, style of architecture, music, or way of speaking? Dallas is famous for being the namesake of a 1980s TV sitcom and the site of JFK’s assassination…. but what else?

In Dallas, Haz and I enjoyed shopping in huge malls complete with skating rinks and in designer stores largely lacking in New Orleans. Still, we couldn’t wait to return to our city, where we can drink locally brewed coffee under oak trees and shrug about pot holes, politics, termites, and thick humidity—a unique experience that doesn’t happen anywhere else.

I didn’t expect to feel the same way after leaving New York, the city we both grew up around, a city normally followed by an exclamation point when uttered in any conversation. Haz and I drove more than 1300 miles to get to the New York State and New Jersey, where we visited family and friends for a few weeks. In New York City, in Manhattan, we did touristy things. We took the ferry across the Hudson River as New York’s brilliant skyline daunted us, ate incredible Thai and Italian food, walked with incredible power down Fifth Avenue, and even saw a Broadway show for half price.

At night, as the ferry took us away from the spectacular island of lights, a mild, almost cool wind lapped against our faces. It was an experience you could make a movie out of, but not a film you could watch everyday.

No, we could never live in New York City, be we sure love to visit.

In New York, traffic is so bad that highways become parking lots of slow motion well before rush hour and on-the-spot entrepreneurs walk car-to-car selling cordless phones and bottled water without being hit.

In New York, at pedestrian lights, no one talks or laughs unless they are on a cell phone. In New Orleans, there are no pedestrian lights, and strangers chat, wave, and laugh together all the time. A New Orleanian once told me that when she was in New York, New Yorkers knew instantly that she was from the South, or at least from “somewhere else” because she regularly greeted strangers.

Indeed, this is what first baffled me about New Orleans. In our hotel, where we stayed during my inaugural visit two years ago, just days before Hurricane Katrina, a fellow guest—a stranger—greeted us in the elevator.

“How are y’all doin’?”

I thought Haz must know this man, but he didn’t. He also didn’t know the women behind the front desk who called him “baby” and “sweetie.”

Perhaps it’s not fair to compare New Orleans, a city of just under 300,000 people, to the great metropolises of Washington DC, Dallas, and New York City. After all, the population in the Crescent city could easily fit into a Manhattan neighborhood. Still, these three road trips to other parts of the country, to areas far less devastated, less impoverished and less burdened by crime, really gave me than undeniable feel of knowing what it means. Those areas might have a lot less problems, or different problems, but they sure don’t have all the positive, vivacious qualities of New Orleans, where Armstrong and Shakespeare’s words hold true.

Welcome to New Orleans, where parting is such sweet sorrow.

When Starbucks is a good thing

This Starbucks comes with flood lines

If you frequently watch CNN, read USA Today, or pay attention to just about any American national mainstream media source, you might be surprised to hear that good things are actually happening in New Orleans— good things that have nothing to do with the regularly reported crime, mired education system, or supposedly stable levees.

Good things here just aren’t newsworth— it’s far more compelling to hear about yet another police beating, drug-related murder, or under-funded school than to receive news about:

(gasp)

progress. No, progress is not a profanity in the city that care forgot. Progress is a real, widespread condition far more prevalent than crime and tears.

Here’s a fact: It’s been two years since Hurricane Katrina hit this city and two-thirds of the original population is back. Why is national media not focusing on that? Several new schools are opening this fall to help the current schools cope with the population boom. Many of these schools are sponsored by national and multinational organizations that exist outside of New Orleans— places that dare to invest in what can happen here.

In other widely unreported news: A branch of the New Orleans public library just opened near our Lakeview neighborhood. It’s opening is exclusively due to a $25,000 grant from the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation. Hazim and I went to the library this weekend, got cards, checked out books, and saw countless others— old, young, black, white—doing the same. No one got shot, no one mentioned the word Katrina, and no one lamented the lack of books— we were all too busy beaming with a sense of progress.

Progress slapped us in the face a few days later while driving down Harrison Avenue, Lakeview’s main thoroughfare, once a pocket of commercial prosperity in the form of bars, restaurants, banks, churches, and offices before “the storm.”

The Chase bank was no longer in a trailer.
A furniture shop, boat shop, and shoe store had opened.
A spa was being built.
A STARBUCKS—

“Oh my God, Haz, Starbucks!”
“Wow!"

Starbucks has arrived—in Lakeview, just a few blocks from our apartment, in the middle of a recovering street once under ten feet of levee breech flood water. We pulled into the parking lot. There were benches and tables outside, a familiar mass-produced feel inside from what we could see through the door. The smell of over roasted beans crept into our car.

A painted, purposeful brown line traced the orange, stucco exterior of the building. KATRINA, the line read, in capital letters, in its middle. We got out of the car and stood under it: this was the building’s floodline— no doubt still visible as the building got its Starbucks makeover. The line is at least 10 feet high.

I’m not at all a Starbucks fan under normal situations. I hate the taste of the coffee, hate the manufactured feel of their cafe interiors, don’t like their history of bad labor conditions and lack of support for free trade coffee. But Starbucks is slowly trying to change their tune just as New Orleans is trying to change hers.

Having a Starbucks in our neighborhood doesn’t make me a fan—but it does make me happy. Haz and I did have some coffee there— once. It wasn’t very good, but it was coffee, in our neighborhood. Yes, we would be happier if we got a CC’s, Café du Monde, or a PJ’s—three local chains with tasty brews—instead. But we got Starbucks and that’s a lot. This little coffee shop is bringing life to the other buildings for lease on the street and showing potential investors that it can be done: yes, you can believe in New Orleans, it’s ok. Progress can happen here, Anderson Cooper, it’s not all bad.

Finding Fats' house

Fats Domino's house as it looks now
(from http://www.wastedspace.com/blog/mardigras/fats.jpg)

It’s no secret that I’m a huge fan of Fats Domino. At age 79, Fats is one of America’s few living rock and roll legends— and he lives here, in New Orleans.

Despite his fame and fortune, Fats has always chosen to live where he was raised, in the Lower Ninth ward of the city, a traditionally low-income, working-class neighborhood. Devoted to his house and his city, and concerned about his ailing wife, Fats and family decided to stay in their one-of-a-kind shotgun mansion during hurricane Katrina. They were rescued from their rooftop by a rescue boat as the floodwaters rapidly rose.

Since the storm, Fats has lived on the West bank of the Mississippi, outside of city limits. Until recently, it looked like Fats may never return to his own home, which, like most homes in the devastated Lower Ninth, was in need of a costly total renovation.

Haz and I were recently driving through the Lower Ninth ward on our way to St. Bernard Parish, another hurricane devastated area where several of his sisters, cousins, and their families have recently returned to their rebuilt homes. We crossed the Industrial Canal bridge and were driving down one of the Ninth ward’s main thoroughfares, North Claiborne Ave.. In order to connect to St. Bernard Highway, we needed to get to St. Claude Ave., the other main road which runs parallel to Claiborne. We turned right off of Claiborne, down an unmarked street, past many overgrown lawns and abandoned homes still marked by graffiti left by Katrina search and rescue teams. As St. Claude emerged perpendicular to us, all of a sudden a burst of yellow appeared in my passenger window.

“Fats’ house! It’s Fats Domino’s house! Oh my God! Turn around!” I yell at Haz.
“Oh! Wow! Ok!”

Haz turns onto St. Claude, does a U-turn, and turns right onto Caffin Avenue, which just so happens to be the street that Fats Domino once lived on.

News articles later tell us he will soon reside there again soon.

We slow down and look out the window. A large sign tells us that the house is being repaired by the Tipitina’s Foundation. We already know this because Haz and I were fortune enough to see Fats sing and play piano at Tipitina’s in May, a performance rumored to be his last. Despite his age and lifelong stage fright, Fats grinned ear-to-ear while singing lyrics we all know; his fingers jumped all over the piano keys as if automatically programmed to do so.

I have been an even greater fan of Fats Domino since seeing that show, where we were told that some of the proceeds from Fats’ new CD and historic last show would go towards the rebuilding of his home.

Fat’s house is yellow and black, labeled by large black “F D” initials and a neon sign that reads “Fats Domino publishing.” A painted black and yellow iron fence stands in front of the large shotgun home that extends back like a shoebox. The house is, quite literally, a sudden burst of bright light on a vacant, flood-ravaged street.

I have been trying to figure out where Fats lives ever since we saw him perform his probable last live show at Tipitina’s in May. I searched on the Internet, looked on maps, but couldn’t find an address for Fats anywhere. The only thing I knew was that he lived in the Lower Ninth ward.

I was able to find pictures of his house, however, so when it suddenly burst into view that Sunday afternoon, I knew exactly where we were. Like Fats, his house just doesn’t seem real— it looks like it belongs on a movie set or in a museum. Instead, it’s smack in the middle of Katrina ground zero, a simple turn down St. Claude or Claiborne. The house is incredibly unassuming (it’s no Graceland), makes no exceptions for what it is (you know that no aristocrat or scholar lives here), and visions of it just stick in your mind with happy, brilliant energy— just like the man who calls it home.

Renovations on Fats’ house include restoring the back end of a 1959 pink Cadillac (see photo) that once served as a couch in the living area of the home; Fats shared the stage with this restored couch when he performed at Tipitina’s in May. The room where the couch used to lie may be painted its original pink in order to match the Cadillac couch.


As we drive down St. Claude, which quickly turns into St. Bernard Highway, I am filled with awe and a huge, unabashed love for this city of New Orleans, a city where the people raise funds so that musicians can return to their colorful homes filled with quirky furniture and a million unforgettable, non-floodable memories. New Orleanians sure can’t count on the State and Federal government to help them out, but they sure can help each other. The Tipitina’s Foundation, with its projects to restore Fats’ house, build a musician’s village, and start a fund to bring musical instruments to city public schools, is doing just that.

On a sudden island

Gentilly Boulevard in New Orleans
Photo by Eliot Kamenitz (The Times-Picayune)

Heavy rains saturate a shaken city

By the time I leave school around 3:15 on Wednesday, May 23, the rain had almost completely stopped. Heavy rain and wind pounded the roof of the modular trailer where I teach preschool in St. Bernard Parish for hours. The severe weather was loud enough to wake-up some of the young children napping, children who have a reason to fear storms. Rain flooded the sidewalks surrounding the trailers, turned the outside play area into the swamp it once was, and led most of the teachers to believe that bus departure would once again, be late.

But everything at the end of the school day happens on time, including my departure. I expect roads around the school to be flooded with as much as a few inches, but as I drive I see nothing. I definitely anticipate having trouble getting out of St. Bernard, which borders the Lower Ninth ward of Orleans Parish, connected to the rest of the city by the rusted, disturbingly bouncy Industrial Canal bridge, but all I see are some deep puddles lining the sides of Judge Perez Drive, which turns into North Claiborne at the Parish line.

I am surprised, then, by the sudden traffic jam on the bridge. Maybe there is an accident or some construction ahead? Maybe the National Guard, which patrols the area, is attempting to make an arrest or deal with a threat? There are certainly no ships attempting to cross the Canal, a situation in which the drawbridge opens its mouth wide in an extended yawn, backing up automobile traffic forced to wait at the edge of its lips for extended periods of time.

As the wheels of my white 2002 Saturn SL2 slither across the corrugated metal mouth of the bridge, I look around me at what was once Hurricane Katrina Ground Zero, the Canal where a barge famously slammed into the flimsy levee wall of the Lower Ninth ward, inundating the area with flood waters and waves not unlike a tsunami. In my rear view mirror, I can see the western part of the levee where the barge hit, and the former neighborhood next it, now a flattened green space, comprised of empty lots, foundations with stairs to nowhere, and the crumbling remains of former homes. Everyday, in my commute to and from St. Bernard, I pass through the Katrina flood zone— first through the Parish towns of Chalmette and Arabic, then through the New Orleans neighborhoods of the Ninth Ward, Gentilly, and Lakeview, all in different stages of recovery almost two years after what locals call "the storm."

Ground Zero slowly leaves my rear view mirror as my car crosses the mouth of the bridge, which curves over the Canal like a giant frown. The rain returns. Suddenly I see something completely unexpected in front of me.

Flood waters and waves— lapping against the outer lips of the bridge where it meets Poland Avenue, running parallel to the east side of the levee. Water consumes sidewalks, the median New Orleanians call "neutral ground," and all of Poland Ave. The current runs against cars struggling to cross this sudden unwanted river.

The scene rivals what I saw in videos and photographs of the Katrina levee breeches, which happened right here, and though those breeches brought unfathomable heights of water into these neighborhoods, this flood water, which looks to be just short of a foot, is quite unlike anything I’ve ever had to drive through.

I am suddenly very aware of my car’s close proximity to the ground. SUVs, vans, and even a tour bus—which no doubt came to the area to show tourists the Katrina damage—are struggling to navigate this Poland River. There are no shoulders to pull up on, no higher ground anywhere in sight. I have little choice but to try to cross the water or come to a complete stop on the narrow bridge and risk an accident.

I call Hazim in a mild panic. It’s now 3:40pm, and I know he still has classes at his school, located Uptown, on higher ground, much closer to the Mississippi. I leave a voice mail telling him that I don’t know if my car is going to make it across the sudden river ahead. Just as I hang up, the water comes.

I expect the water to come into the car, to make my wheels spin out, to have trouble steering, to float away with the current, but none of this happens. I press my foot lightly on the gas, clutch the steering wheel tightly, and follow the car ahead of me in a slow passage through the waves. Once I pass Poland, I’m back on North Claiborne, one of the main thoroughfares of the city, which is also very flooded on this side of the bridge. Water laps against the front steps of the Katrina-devastated homes which line the road, houses still marked by spray-painted body counts on their facades. Parked cars along the narrow road make it impossible to pull over, and the flooding is actually worse along the sides. I follow traffic down the middle of the one-way road, through several inches of floodwater. Suddenly everything is pretty much dry as we reach a street called Desire.

Desire is a cross street which runs parallel to Poland, a few blocks closer to the center of New Orleans, away from the levee. Here, traffic resumes to a pretty normal state. I feel relief, turn up the volume on my stereo (which happens to be playing Arcade Fire’s melancholic “Neon Bible” album) and contemplate which way I should take to get on the highway home, unsure if there is flooding elsewhere.

I take a right on Franklin Ave., thinking that in my experience, this road to the highway tends to retain less rain in sudden storms. I’m right for awhile. Even as the rain starts to really slam down on my car, this road, which takes me through the neighborhood of Gentilly, is nothing like North Claiborne or the Poland River I just passed. I smile and think about the panicked message Haz is going to hear on his phone. All is well until I creep closer to the I-610 ramp in the left turn lane.

A small lake, full of lapping waves sits at the bottom of the ramp I’m poised to turn left into. I see a Ford Explorer struggle to drive through the lake and up the ramp; this water is at least as deep as the Poland River. I do a U-turn instead of driving into baby Pontchartrain and pull over on the side of the road.

Suddenly I'm keenly aware of how most of the city is below sea level, and how hard it is to find so-called higher ground. How the hell am I going to get on the highway without a boat?

I call Haz repeatedly. It’s now 4:00. He should be done with school by now. I breathe quickly and feel my hands, still clutching the wheel, get a little shaky. I turn off Arcade Fire.

I go back down Franklin, away from the highway, and turn back on Claiborne, this time turning right on Elysian Fields Ave., which I expect to see flooded. It's not. Once again, it’s fine until the highway ramp, where a miniature lake at least as deep as Franklin’s baby Pontchartrain has formed. This time, instead of turning around, I plow straight ahead, past Humanity Street and towards the University of New Orleans (UNO) on the real Lake Ponchartrain.

UNO isn’t far from our apartment in Lakeview, so I figure I can potentially get around the floodwaters, avoid the highway, and take local roads home. Traffic is moving slow. So far there is no flooding on my side of the road, but a river with a steady current is forming on the other side of the neutral ground.

New Orleanians never refer to neutral grounds as medians. The term "neutral ground" is just as historic as jazz, Mardi Gras, and good food. The phrase was coined on Canal Street, with the median that marked the "neutral ground" (safe zone) between the historic French and American parts of the city, where Rue Royal in the French Quarter turned into Camp Street, for example. Neutral grounds are actually less divisive today; they tend to be very wide, well-manicured patches of grass, often big enough to function as yards or parks.

I contemplate pulling onto the neutral ground to get out of the water, which suddenly surges at me and the other crawling cars around the Gentilly Boulevard intersection. The rain is rapidly tap dancing on the car again, just as Haz calls me. He can hardly hear me in the rain. My voice is shaking. I scream as a large truck passes, dunking my car in water for a few brief seconds. On the side of the road, water rises above the tires of a parked Land Cruiser.

Pull over, Haz says. You’re going to damage the car. Calm down, pull over.

Stubbornly I try to proceed past Gentilly, but the water is getting higher, the current stronger, and as the Filmore intersection approaches, I decide I have had my fill of flash flooding. I pull up on the curb of the neutral ground, which might as well be the sandy banks of an island oasis. There are one or two other cars here on this sudden island; the drivers talking on their cell phones, looking anything but frazzled. I park next to these cars, facing the opposite side of the road, where water has swallowed half of a fire hydrant.

I keep talking to Haz in the tap dancing rain, suddenly relieved and a little giddy. I turn on WWOZ, New Orleans’ publicly funded jazz radio station, and feel like I’ve somehow survived yet another New Orleanian initiation ritual. This experience brings new meaning to those bumper stickers everyone has on their cars post-Katrina: New Orleans. Proud to Swim Home.

Haz and I swim home through much shallower waters about an hour later, when he meets me on my island in the middle of Gentilly with our much higher Saturn SUV. By the time he reaches me, much of the water on what was the worst side of Elysian Fields Ave. has drained. I follow him home in my little white boat of a car through dry roads of City Park. The rains start to stampede on us just as we reach our apartment.

The news later tells us that 8 inches of rain fell on Gentilly and the Lower Ninth ward that day. The flash flooding wasn’t an issue with faulty pumps, clogged drains, or bad levees (though those certainly exist) so much as it was an issue with a dark rain cloud that hung over the area for hours, lacking the initiative or know-how to move elsewhere.

I can’t really blame that cloud. I don’t want to leave here either, even if I do occasionally have convert my car into a makeshift boat and swim home.