A love/hate story

In the fifteen years I lived there, I always had a love/hate relationship with New Orleans--but it was always more love than hate. When I was there last weekend, I was thrilled to see how far the city has come in recent months from its ongoing post-Katrina restoration. Big chunks of the city are still scenes of devastation, but the old lady is starting to look pretty good and a lot of the town looks better than it ever has.

There's so much to love about that amazing town. There's no place else like it.

Its cuisine, formed from a melding of cultures (African, French, Spanish, Italian and Vietnamese, to name a few) and built on a base of abundant fresh seafood, is wonderful and not easily duplicated elsewhere.

In New Orleans, music is an integral part of life. What we know as jazz evolved in New Orleans from the same kind of cross-pollination that brought forth her cuisine. Tourists think of New Orleans music as Dixieland Jazz, but music you hear in the city has always evolved and continues to do so today.

New Orleanians think of nightspots like Preservation Hall where Dixieland is still performed more as museums than music hotbeds. New Orleanians like the old school brass bands, but the modern music scene there is anything but that kind of time capsule.

New Orleans musicians embrace and draw from whatever is in the air. Bonerama (pictured) is a perfect example of a modern New Orleans jazz band. The heart of the group is three trombones, but the band also includes the keyboards, electric bass, electric guitar and drum kit of a modern rock band. They play old-timey New Orleans music occasionally, but they are more likely to blast out something from Jimi Hendrix or Edgar Winter with the amps cranked to eleven.

New Orleans is the best place in the world to get a consistently good cup of strong coffee. Sorry Seattle.

New Orleans is filled with celebrations. Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras are the two biggest, but there are plenty of other excuses to party--the French Quarter Festival, St. Patrick's Day, St. Joseph's Day, The Creole Tomato Festival, Halloween, the Sugar Bowl, the occasional Super Bowl, backyard crawfish boils, because it's Thursday--you don't have to look too hard to find someone organizing a party. It's the only city I know of in the United States where most middle class men own their own tuxedos.

The Big Easy doesn't look like anywhere else in the world. Its architecture is unique and beautiful--it's like Venice or Paris in that way, only more humble than either.

New Orleans may be in the United States, but it's also part of the Caribbean, which makes it simultaneously First World and Third World. You're not always conscious of that, but it's always there.

New Orleans is the most interactive city in the United States. I forget about that when I've been away for a while. People walk places and pass time on their front porches. They know their neighbors. They talk to strangers. And they don't stop talking.

One old lady came off of her front porch last week to remind me to wear my sunscreen. I saw vendors hustling beer and water outside of the Jazz Fest grounds last weekend constantly stopping to engage in long conversations with strangers as hundreds of potential customers walked past. It's nice to make a buck when you can, but the opportunity to tell your story to someone who hasn't heard it a hundred times already is not to be wasted. That's New Orleans.

New Orleans is a crazy bowl of mixed nuts thrown together on what is essentially a small island. Most people who are drawn to the city are at least a little off kilter in one way or another. That makes it charming. And infuriating.

New Orleans is the best place in the world to take a shower. New Orleans tap water comes from the Mississippi River and the pH balance combined with the exfoliating chemicals thoughtfully provided by the petrochemical factories just upriver always leave you feeling fresh and clean. The tap water tastes good too and in August your shower comes to you pre-heated. It's a good thing, because in August you'll need plenty of showers.

I even like New Orleans weather and acclimated easily to the brutal heat and humidity of the Crescent City summers.

Which brings me to the hate part of my relationship with New Orleans. My two favorite t-shirts sold in the French Quarter read "New Orleans: Third World and proud of it" and "It's not the heat, it's the stupidity." It's true, you know. I can feel my IQ drop 20 points every time I cross Lake Ponchartrain entering the city. The stupidity has led to miserable public schools, high crime and other social ills that can make living there challenging.

Something about the city takes away the ability of many of its inhabitants to think critically. A routine task like getting a plumber, paying for a license plate, going to the grocery store or just cashing a check can turn into a nightmare.

A teller at the now defunct Hibernia Bank on St. Charles Avenue was Teri's nemesis. These were the days before direct deposit and electronic banking. Teri moved to New Orleans on our wedding day and neglected to get a Louisiana driver license for over a year. Every two weeks she would deposit her Teri Henley paycheck at the bank and take out some cash and every two weeks the teller would threaten not to complete the transaction because of her Teri Kline license.

One day it came to a head. "Mrs. Henley, you've been doing this for a year now. You need to get your name changed on your license so that I can identify you. This is the last time I'll cash your check," Mrs. Scott said firmly.

Teri tried to point out to Mrs. Scott that she could already identify her by sight and by both last names and she had been cashing and depositing the same paychecks for over a year with no problem. This made the need for further identification unnecessary, Teri reasoned, but Mrs. Scott was having none of it.

Teri once got a ticket for speeding in a school zone from a member of New Orleans' finest who didn't own a watch or a calendar. The cop was grumpy and clearly in the mood to make everyone else as miserable as he was that day. If I remember the story correctly, it was outside of the posted hours and on a day when the school was closed anyway. Teri fought the ticket on principle and won, but it took three trips to court before the judge threw out the charge. Apparently the officer didn't buy a watch or calendar in the interim and kept not showing up for his court dates.

Another time Teri got a speeding ticket she richly deserved, but it "disappeared" after a state trooper friend volunteered to make a phone call. That's also New Orleans.

On Sunday night a bunch of neighbors gathered for an impromptu party at the home of my friend Colleen, my incomparable hostess for Jazz Fest weekend. There were two agenda items.

First we watched the program Treme on HBO. For those of you who haven't seen it, it's about life in New Orleans in the months immediately following Katrina. It's a funny and heart-wrenching and incredibly accurate depiction of the city in that time. New Orleanians and people who know and love the city have embraced this show, partly because of the content and partly because it features people they know personally. In Sunday's episode Joe Krown, the New Orleans keyboard legend, had a small speaking part. That's the same guy who boarded my broken window after Katrina. That's the same guy who I've seen perform live a bunch of times in different venues. That's the same guy who has cooked crawfish for me at a party in Colleen's back yard.

The other excuse for the neighborhood party was to hold a jazz funeral for Mayor C. Ray "Chocolate City" Nagin, who was replaced on Monday. People have high hopes for Mitch Landrieu, his successor, but New Orleans mayors have a way of becoming tarnished in office, so we'll see.

Nagin was loathed by much of the city for his incredible ongoing ineptitude and absenteeism following the storm, so there were plenty of celebrations in the city that night. There was a nasty thunderstorm outside, which ruined our plans to take to the streets for a proper jazz funeral and second line. Instead we all grabbed kazoos and played a couple of verses of "Amazing Grace" in His Honor's honor and popped a bottle of champagne.

I'm not ready to leave my adopted home in Suburbingham and move back to the Crescent City. You make me too crazy for that, New Orleans, but I still love you.