Yesterday was the second anniversary of the day Hurricane Katrina came screaming in from the sea and changed everyone's lives forever.
President Bush was in town to commemorate that terrible day, and he opened a school a couple of miles down the road from here. All morning, helicopters buzzed back and forth above our heads.
I watched him on TV giving a speech in a classroom, surrounded by black children in red uniforms. It was a pathetic performance: rambling, uncharismatic, more of an impromptu chat than an oration.
He had a card in his hand with some statistics on it - billions of dollars spent on rebuilding levees, schools reopened, that kind of thing - and whenever he started running out of ideas, he would glance down and read out another figure. Whatever the reasons he was elected, it wasn't for his oratory.
In the evening, Pam and I went to a candlelit vigil in Jackson Square, in front of the lovely black-and-white Disneyland-style cathedral that dominates the view from the river.
We listened to mayor Ray Nagin, a figure only marginally less unpopular in these parts than President Bush. He was widely criticised for dithering when it came to ordering an evacuation - though if one of the most destructive hurricanes in history was making a beeline for me, I wouldn't hang around for instructions from some politician.
Nagin told us how, on the day after Katrina, he had taken a helicopter for a tour of inspection. He was very keen to emphasise that this was not some cheapskate chartered chopper, but a Black Hawk, a deadly airborne arsenal of the kind used to pacify restless natives in Somalia.
A sign-language interpreter stood beside him, and I was hypnotised by her expressive gestures. Every now and then I could recognise a word. To say 'helicopter', she made a T of her hands, then wiggled her fingers in a semblance of rotors.
'We flew out across the northern suburbs, and saw a terrible trail of destruction,' Nagin told us. 'Then I asked the pilot to swing back here, back towards the cathedral and the Mississippi. I saw Jackson Square gleaming in the sunshine, and it was like a picture postcard.'
He was doing so well, and then, with a few ill-chosen words, he lost all my sympathy and I found it hard to keep a straight face.
'Right there, in that Black Hawk helicopter, I heard the voice of God speaking to me. He said: "Do you see that square and that cathedral? I shall spare them, so that the city of New Orleans may rise again and make a fresh start"'.
I was very taken with this image, a man with such delusions of grandeur that he had a hotline to the Supreme Being from his rotary-winged Noah's Ark. And I couldn't help wondering irreverently why God had decided to spare Bourbon Street, that great den of drink-sodden debauchery just two blocks away.
But all was not lost. Suddenly we were hearing from a string of prominent Southern preachers, including legendary civil rights activist Al Sharpton, and the mood of the crowd changed dramatically. They were electrified, as one voice after another rose in impassioned condemnation of the bedrock of injustice lying just beneath the topsoil of American society until Katrina laid it bare.
The speakers told us to yell out the names of people we knew who had died or been displaced, our hopes for the future of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast, and how we would help to make it a better place. And we did.
Walking sombrely home, we talked about the art of speechmaking. Listening to Bush and Nagin had been a depressing experience: no fire, no passion, precious little sincerity. But it was good to know that in churches and chapels up and down the land, people could still stand up and send shivers down others' spines with a few well-crafted sentences.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
'Foe of baggy pants urges statewide ban', screams a banner headline in today's edition of our endearingly named (and extremely good) local paper, the Times-Picayune.
Local councilman Ronnie Smith has amended the indecent exposure ordinance in his parish (the Louisiana equivalent of a county) to fine anyone exposing their underwear in public. His is the latest of a growing number of communities to introduce such bans amid the vogue for 'low-rider' jeans.
A couple of weeks ago, in a gas station in Tennessee, we saw an example of the kind of person Smith is targeting.
A black teenager shambled across the forecourt towards his car, counting his change with one hand and holding up his beltless trousers with the other. Every so often they would fall to his ankles, and only when he reached a convenient break in his conversation with two friends would he stoop to retrieve them. All the while, his blue-and-green checkered underpants were on prominent display.
I sat there gaping until Pam admonished me. 'It's a free country,' she pointed out. 'If he wants to look stupid, that's his right.'
I couldn't agree with her more, and human rights groups across the country are up in arms, saying the rules are a violation of the constitutional entitlement to free expression.
Ronnie Smith's ban was modelled on one already imposed by Lafourche parish, where councilman Lindel Toups somewhat confusingly contends: 'We're not telling (people) how to dress, just how to wear their clothes'.
I'm not sure which is the greater human folly: a young man's belief that walking around in his boxers makes him anything but a laughing stock, or a lawmaker's hubris in assuming that he has any right to intervene.
Of course all this is a storm in a teacup, a positively picayune matter. Which brings me to the question: why would one of the country's most respected newspapers want to describe itself as 'small and of little importance', which is how Webster's online dictionary defines this word?
Well, when the paper was launched in 1837, its price was one picayune - a Spanish-American coin equivalent to a sixteenth of a dollar and derived from the Louisiana French picaillon.
The paper also publishes a weekly listings supplement called Lagniappe, a word I'd never seen before I came here, though with my semi-autistic Scrabble-player mentality I immediately spotted that it was an anagram of 'appealing'.
Once again, my wife-to-be enlightened me. 'It's a little extra gift, like when you buy a dozen beignets and the guy throws in one more for free,' she said. Lagniappe (lan-yap) is another Louisiana French word, this time from the American Spanish la ñapa, and most people round here are familiar with it.
Local councilman Ronnie Smith has amended the indecent exposure ordinance in his parish (the Louisiana equivalent of a county) to fine anyone exposing their underwear in public. His is the latest of a growing number of communities to introduce such bans amid the vogue for 'low-rider' jeans.
A couple of weeks ago, in a gas station in Tennessee, we saw an example of the kind of person Smith is targeting.
A black teenager shambled across the forecourt towards his car, counting his change with one hand and holding up his beltless trousers with the other. Every so often they would fall to his ankles, and only when he reached a convenient break in his conversation with two friends would he stoop to retrieve them. All the while, his blue-and-green checkered underpants were on prominent display.
I sat there gaping until Pam admonished me. 'It's a free country,' she pointed out. 'If he wants to look stupid, that's his right.'
I couldn't agree with her more, and human rights groups across the country are up in arms, saying the rules are a violation of the constitutional entitlement to free expression.
Ronnie Smith's ban was modelled on one already imposed by Lafourche parish, where councilman Lindel Toups somewhat confusingly contends: 'We're not telling (people) how to dress, just how to wear their clothes'.
I'm not sure which is the greater human folly: a young man's belief that walking around in his boxers makes him anything but a laughing stock, or a lawmaker's hubris in assuming that he has any right to intervene.
Of course all this is a storm in a teacup, a positively picayune matter. Which brings me to the question: why would one of the country's most respected newspapers want to describe itself as 'small and of little importance', which is how Webster's online dictionary defines this word?
Well, when the paper was launched in 1837, its price was one picayune - a Spanish-American coin equivalent to a sixteenth of a dollar and derived from the Louisiana French picaillon.
The paper also publishes a weekly listings supplement called Lagniappe, a word I'd never seen before I came here, though with my semi-autistic Scrabble-player mentality I immediately spotted that it was an anagram of 'appealing'.
Once again, my wife-to-be enlightened me. 'It's a little extra gift, like when you buy a dozen beignets and the guy throws in one more for free,' she said. Lagniappe (lan-yap) is another Louisiana French word, this time from the American Spanish la ñapa, and most people round here are familiar with it.
Monday, August 20, 2007
You know you live in New Orleans when...
-- You have FEMA's number on your speed dial.
-- You have more than 300 C and D batteries in your kitchen drawer.
-- Your pantry contains more than 20 cans of spaghetti.
-- You are thinking of repainting your house to match the plywood covering your windows.
-- You keep an ax in your attic and you know why.
-- When describing your house to a prospective buyer, you say it has 3 bedrooms, 2 baths and a safe hallway.
-- Your social security number isn't a secret, it's written in magic marker on your arms.
-- You are on a first-name basis with the cashier at Home Depot.
-- You are delighted to pay only $3.50 for a gallon of regular unleaded.
-- The road leading to your house has been declared a no-wake zone.
-- You decide that your patio furniture looks better at the bottom of the pool.
-- You own more than three large coolers.
-- Three months ago you couldn't hang a shower curtain; now you can assemble a portable generator by candlelight
-- You catch a 13-pound redfish in your driveway.
-- You can recite from memory whole portions of your homeowner's and flood insurance policies.
-- At cocktail parties, women are attracted to the guy with the biggest chainsaw.
-- You have had tuna fish more than 5 days in a row.
-- There is a roll of tar paper in your garage (if you still have a garage).
-- You can rattle off the names of the meteorologists who work for the Weather Channel and you want to name your next child after that guy.
-- Someone comes to your door to tell you they found your roof.
-- Your "drive-thru" meal consists of MREs and bottled water.
-- You spend more time on your roof than in your living room.
-- You've been laughed at over the phone by a roofer, fence builder or tree worker.
-- A battery-powered TV is considered a home entertainment center.
-- You don't have to worry about relatives wanting to visit during the summer.
-- Having a tree in your living room does not necessarily mean it's Christmas.
-- You know the difference between the "good side" of a hurricane and the "bad side."
-- You still think it's normal to live below sea level.
-- You have more than 300 C and D batteries in your kitchen drawer.
-- Your pantry contains more than 20 cans of spaghetti.
-- You are thinking of repainting your house to match the plywood covering your windows.
-- You keep an ax in your attic and you know why.
-- When describing your house to a prospective buyer, you say it has 3 bedrooms, 2 baths and a safe hallway.
-- Your social security number isn't a secret, it's written in magic marker on your arms.
-- You are on a first-name basis with the cashier at Home Depot.
-- You are delighted to pay only $3.50 for a gallon of regular unleaded.
-- The road leading to your house has been declared a no-wake zone.
-- You decide that your patio furniture looks better at the bottom of the pool.
-- You own more than three large coolers.
-- Three months ago you couldn't hang a shower curtain; now you can assemble a portable generator by candlelight
-- You catch a 13-pound redfish in your driveway.
-- You can recite from memory whole portions of your homeowner's and flood insurance policies.
-- At cocktail parties, women are attracted to the guy with the biggest chainsaw.
-- You have had tuna fish more than 5 days in a row.
-- There is a roll of tar paper in your garage (if you still have a garage).
-- You can rattle off the names of the meteorologists who work for the Weather Channel and you want to name your next child after that guy.
-- Someone comes to your door to tell you they found your roof.
-- Your "drive-thru" meal consists of MREs and bottled water.
-- You spend more time on your roof than in your living room.
-- You've been laughed at over the phone by a roofer, fence builder or tree worker.
-- A battery-powered TV is considered a home entertainment center.
-- You don't have to worry about relatives wanting to visit during the summer.
-- Having a tree in your living room does not necessarily mean it's Christmas.
-- You know the difference between the "good side" of a hurricane and the "bad side."
-- You still think it's normal to live below sea level.
Friday, August 17, 2007
New Orleans is an extremely friendly city. This is partly because it's America; partly because it's the South, and some of it is also a camaraderie borne of shared adversity during Katrina and Rita.
So you're never alone when you're sitting outside on our veranda. There's a dog park just down the street, so dozens of dog walkers parade by at every hour of day and night, and almost no one passes without a brief conversation.
On Tuesday night we were out on the steps with two of the neighbours, beer bottles piling up on the sidewalk as we tried vainly to combat the stifling heat, discussing the latest in an endless sequence of Louisiana bribery scandals.
A guy walked past with his dog, and we exchanged greetings. A minute later two cyclists pedalled silently past and into the darkness.
New Orleans is also an extremely crime-ridden city. It's the murder capital of the United States, and police have just announced that violent crime is up 31 percent over the past year.
Fifty yards down the road the cyclists pulled over, waved an unidentified object at the dog walker, told him it was a gun, and ordered him to hand over everything he had. Fortunately he was travelling light - all he had was a phone, which he gave them. We continued our noisy conversation, oblivious of the drama being acted out a long stone's throw away.
Only later, still badly shaken, did the victim tell us what had happened. We had experienced the best and worst of New Orleans in the same evening.
In other news, Louisiana governor Kathleen Blanco has declared a state of emergency as the first major hurricane of the season heads our way. The latest forecasts suggest it may make landfall well to the west, in Texas.
In the meantime, Pam has achieved the rare distinction of having two hurricanes named after her. The first was fictional: Pam was the name given in 2004 to a very realistic simulation of a hurricane, used to test the state's preparedness. But this time it's for real: my fiancée's last name is Dean.
So you're never alone when you're sitting outside on our veranda. There's a dog park just down the street, so dozens of dog walkers parade by at every hour of day and night, and almost no one passes without a brief conversation.
On Tuesday night we were out on the steps with two of the neighbours, beer bottles piling up on the sidewalk as we tried vainly to combat the stifling heat, discussing the latest in an endless sequence of Louisiana bribery scandals.
A guy walked past with his dog, and we exchanged greetings. A minute later two cyclists pedalled silently past and into the darkness.
New Orleans is also an extremely crime-ridden city. It's the murder capital of the United States, and police have just announced that violent crime is up 31 percent over the past year.
Fifty yards down the road the cyclists pulled over, waved an unidentified object at the dog walker, told him it was a gun, and ordered him to hand over everything he had. Fortunately he was travelling light - all he had was a phone, which he gave them. We continued our noisy conversation, oblivious of the drama being acted out a long stone's throw away.
Only later, still badly shaken, did the victim tell us what had happened. We had experienced the best and worst of New Orleans in the same evening.
In other news, Louisiana governor Kathleen Blanco has declared a state of emergency as the first major hurricane of the season heads our way. The latest forecasts suggest it may make landfall well to the west, in Texas.
In the meantime, Pam has achieved the rare distinction of having two hurricanes named after her. The first was fictional: Pam was the name given in 2004 to a very realistic simulation of a hurricane, used to test the state's preparedness. But this time it's for real: my fiancée's last name is Dean.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Even by the steambath standards of a southern summer, this has been a hot one.
Today the temperature at Audubon Park, which houses the city's zoo, hit a record-breaking 102F (39C). As I write this at 11 pm the mercury is still hovering around 90F (32C), and when I venture gingerly outside the front door of our airconditioned home, I have an inkling of how a chicken leg feels when it's taken out of the freezer and placed on the top shelf of the oven.
Weather is a dominant topic of conversation here at the best of times - we're just approaching the height of the hurricane season and the second anniversary of Katrina, and people are jittery - but the two words on everyone's lips at the moment are 'heat index'. My oven analogy was possibly not wholly appropriate: Arizona may be an oven, but here in the dripping swamps of Louisiana the 60 percent humidity means that on days like today, the temperature feels more like 115F (46C).
'The oppressive heat and humidity make the summer months a misery', opines Lonely Planet's guide to New Orleans. Well, I beg to differ.
When Pam and I went to Paris last month, we had to don sweaters and buy umbrellas - neither of which we'd expected to need in midsummer. Now that's what I call misery.
I like the way the heat here envelops me in its sensual embrace. I like the way it slows everything down, and forces me to allow extra time to leave for appointments so I don't arrive dripping with sweat - though even if I do, no one seems to mind, because they're dripping with sweat too. And I like the fact that the sun never stops shining for very long, and we can grow bananas in our garden.
So there.
Today the temperature at Audubon Park, which houses the city's zoo, hit a record-breaking 102F (39C). As I write this at 11 pm the mercury is still hovering around 90F (32C), and when I venture gingerly outside the front door of our airconditioned home, I have an inkling of how a chicken leg feels when it's taken out of the freezer and placed on the top shelf of the oven.
Weather is a dominant topic of conversation here at the best of times - we're just approaching the height of the hurricane season and the second anniversary of Katrina, and people are jittery - but the two words on everyone's lips at the moment are 'heat index'. My oven analogy was possibly not wholly appropriate: Arizona may be an oven, but here in the dripping swamps of Louisiana the 60 percent humidity means that on days like today, the temperature feels more like 115F (46C).
'The oppressive heat and humidity make the summer months a misery', opines Lonely Planet's guide to New Orleans. Well, I beg to differ.
When Pam and I went to Paris last month, we had to don sweaters and buy umbrellas - neither of which we'd expected to need in midsummer. Now that's what I call misery.
I like the way the heat here envelops me in its sensual embrace. I like the way it slows everything down, and forces me to allow extra time to leave for appointments so I don't arrive dripping with sweat - though even if I do, no one seems to mind, because they're dripping with sweat too. And I like the fact that the sun never stops shining for very long, and we can grow bananas in our garden.
So there.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
New Orleans
I hope no employees of the department of homeland security are reading this, because I'm about to be rather uncomplimentary about one of their number.
We're back home after several weeks of me introducing Pam to family and friends in England, where she appears to passed their intense scrutiny with flying colours, sunning ourselves on the beach in France, and Pam introducing me to her family in Tennessee (of which more anon).
I've always been aware of the enormous privilege my 18-month, multiple-entry visa represents - most people only get six months, and I never take this generosity for granted. But this time, I only got back into the country by the skin of my teeth.
A recent report prepared for the commerce department found that the United States' share of the world tourism market fell by 20% in the six years to 2006, despite the dollar plummeting to record lows. It said part of the reason for the fall was the hostile reception - long queues, photographs, fingerprints and general rudeness - awaiting many foreign visitors to the US.
Geoff Freeman, executive director of the Discover America Partnership, a coalition of businesses seeking to boost America's image around the globe, said: ‘People find that experience to be awful. They believe they are treated like criminals. The system is an inefficient and unfriendly process. We’re talking about staffing and basic customer service.’
Why am I telling you this? Because I experienced it at first hand when Pam and I arrived on the flight from London.
'How long are you planning to stay?' asked the immigration official when I finally reached the front of the usual interminable queue.
'Until my visa expires in November, hopefully,' I told him. He raised an eyebrow, spent a long time tapping away at his computer, and then said: 'I want you to go to the secondary screening office over there to your right, and answer a few questions.'
My heart sank, and I felt rather as though Winston Smith must have done when he was packed off to room 101. I'd already had an encounter with secondary screening the last time I arrived, to do my walk across America, and I still had the bruises from that occasion.
It was half an hour before I was called forward to stand in front of the desk like some petty offender cowering in the dock.
The officer wasted no time launching into his tirade. 'It says here you want to stay till the end of your visa,'he snapped. 'What makes you think you're entitled to do that? And who gave you an eighteen-month visa, anyway? The maximum is six months.'
I told him that there had been special circumstances involved because I'd been walking across America.
'That makes it even worse,' he persisted angrily. 'You know you're not allowed to work.'
No, walking, I said, making a little gesture with my hand by way of demonstration, two fingers trotting across the desk. He ignored me.
'Just because it says multiple entry doesn't mean you can come in as many times as you like,' he said, inexplicably. 'I'm going to have to send you home, but I can't do anything for now because our system has crashed. Go and sit over there.'
By now Pam had come to find me, and we sat despondently for another half hour or more, discussing what we'd do if I had to leave the country. Then my nemesis summoned me to the bench again to deliver his verdict.
'We've decided to let you in for three months,' he told me. That was a month short of the date my visa expired, but it was better than nothing.
I pushed my luck and pleaded for an extra month, but he was unmoved, still unable to fathom why anyone should want to walk from New York to Los Angeles.
Then Pam had a bright idea. She pulled out a Daily Mirror article about how we'd met, and just as she did so a supervisor strolled over. He took the piece of paper from his colleague, scanned it briefly, and said: 'Give him till November'.
It was an exact replay of the previous time, when they'd made me feel about as welcome as Osama bin Laden, refusing to give me any more than six months until I virtually got down on bended knees in front of the supervisor's supervisor.
I wondered whether it was some kind of choreographed bad-cop-good-cop routine, designed to prevent people from being complacent about being allowed into the country, or whether my oppressor simply failed all the exams at charm school.
We're back home after several weeks of me introducing Pam to family and friends in England, where she appears to passed their intense scrutiny with flying colours, sunning ourselves on the beach in France, and Pam introducing me to her family in Tennessee (of which more anon).
I've always been aware of the enormous privilege my 18-month, multiple-entry visa represents - most people only get six months, and I never take this generosity for granted. But this time, I only got back into the country by the skin of my teeth.
A recent report prepared for the commerce department found that the United States' share of the world tourism market fell by 20% in the six years to 2006, despite the dollar plummeting to record lows. It said part of the reason for the fall was the hostile reception - long queues, photographs, fingerprints and general rudeness - awaiting many foreign visitors to the US.
Geoff Freeman, executive director of the Discover America Partnership, a coalition of businesses seeking to boost America's image around the globe, said: ‘People find that experience to be awful. They believe they are treated like criminals. The system is an inefficient and unfriendly process. We’re talking about staffing and basic customer service.’
Why am I telling you this? Because I experienced it at first hand when Pam and I arrived on the flight from London.
'How long are you planning to stay?' asked the immigration official when I finally reached the front of the usual interminable queue.
'Until my visa expires in November, hopefully,' I told him. He raised an eyebrow, spent a long time tapping away at his computer, and then said: 'I want you to go to the secondary screening office over there to your right, and answer a few questions.'
My heart sank, and I felt rather as though Winston Smith must have done when he was packed off to room 101. I'd already had an encounter with secondary screening the last time I arrived, to do my walk across America, and I still had the bruises from that occasion.
It was half an hour before I was called forward to stand in front of the desk like some petty offender cowering in the dock.
The officer wasted no time launching into his tirade. 'It says here you want to stay till the end of your visa,'he snapped. 'What makes you think you're entitled to do that? And who gave you an eighteen-month visa, anyway? The maximum is six months.'
I told him that there had been special circumstances involved because I'd been walking across America.
'That makes it even worse,' he persisted angrily. 'You know you're not allowed to work.'
No, walking, I said, making a little gesture with my hand by way of demonstration, two fingers trotting across the desk. He ignored me.
'Just because it says multiple entry doesn't mean you can come in as many times as you like,' he said, inexplicably. 'I'm going to have to send you home, but I can't do anything for now because our system has crashed. Go and sit over there.'
By now Pam had come to find me, and we sat despondently for another half hour or more, discussing what we'd do if I had to leave the country. Then my nemesis summoned me to the bench again to deliver his verdict.
'We've decided to let you in for three months,' he told me. That was a month short of the date my visa expired, but it was better than nothing.
I pushed my luck and pleaded for an extra month, but he was unmoved, still unable to fathom why anyone should want to walk from New York to Los Angeles.
Then Pam had a bright idea. She pulled out a Daily Mirror article about how we'd met, and just as she did so a supervisor strolled over. He took the piece of paper from his colleague, scanned it briefly, and said: 'Give him till November'.
It was an exact replay of the previous time, when they'd made me feel about as welcome as Osama bin Laden, refusing to give me any more than six months until I virtually got down on bended knees in front of the supervisor's supervisor.
I wondered whether it was some kind of choreographed bad-cop-good-cop routine, designed to prevent people from being complacent about being allowed into the country, or whether my oppressor simply failed all the exams at charm school.
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