Walking in New Orleans, 1

It's very easy to kid yourself that nothing has happened in New Orleans.

Several times a week, I go for a long walk. Each time I step out of the front door into the early-morning sunshine I have to make a fundamental choice.

I can walk for miles east or west, parallel with the Mississippi. Here, the levees didn't break, the city didn't flood, and the only reminder of what happened two years ago is the occasional boarded-up window or painted cross telling us that no one died there. The faces I see are predominantly white, and the homes are all the colours of the rainbow.

Or I can stride boldly northwards towards Gentilly and Lake Pontchartrain, through what looks like the results of a particularly vicious artillery bombardment. I went to Beirut once, just a few years after the civil war, and it looked like this.

I try to go north as often as possible, just to remind myself of my good fortune in living where I do and stop myself from developing a ghetto mentality.

I am usually the only white person around, and many of the people sitting on their ramshackle front steps have defeated looks on their faces. I have to be in the right mood before I venture into this part of town.

If I'm feeling good, I concentrate on all the green shoots, the signs that New Orleans is fighting back. Some of the people at least have got their insurance money and built sparkling new homes amid the heaps of debris that line the streets.

But if it's a muggy, overcast day and I haven't woken up properly and everyone's dog barks at me, I think there's no hope for this place and it just needs to be swept clean by a giant broom so everyone can make a fresh start.

On the positive side, walking in New Orleans is anything but a solitary experience - in the space of an hour I will exchange greetings with perhaps twenty people.

A complex set of unwritten rules governs the whole salutation process, and sometimes I get it wrong - for example, you don't have to say how ya doin' to people with their backs to you, passing cyclists, or on busy main roads - but I prefer to strike preemptively by greeting almost everyone I see.

Each encounter is a pleasant little reminder of our shared humanity, the lazy pace of life here, and the old-fashioned southern courtesy that still prevails in most places. It's one of the reasons why I love it so much.

Another is that although New Orleans is one of the most car-dependent cities in America, with public transportation almost non-existent, it's a very walkable city. I've always said I'd find it difficult to live in the suburban sprawl of places like Phoenix and Los Angeles where you have to drive miles just to buy a newspaper in the morning. So for all its woes, it will do me just fine for now, thanks very much.

There's some scary people out there in cyberspace.

This is a comment I received in response to my remarks about guys walking round with their trousers falling down. The writer hasn't actually bothered to read my posting, so he's completely missed the point.

I've left out the second part of his missive because it was a vicious, hate-filled rant, but here's the first.

people in this country have the right to wear what the fuck they want to.we have already lost too many of our freedoms and the last thing we need is the government telling us what we can and cant wear.you are insulted because you saw his underwear? what do you think when you see a hot chick ina thong on a public beach with kids running around?showing her ass?? huh?double standard there maybe?it ain't your business what people wear and if you dont like it then dont look.