I GOT TO ADMIT I’M GETTING BETTER

I slept late that first Sunday back, having rolled in after 3 a.m., but awoke able to breathe. Perhaps the douse of bleach I gave my entire room before leaving had worked. Perhaps it had just been a weird seasonal allergy—something is always blooming in this city. Either way, it felt good to actually feel good.

Since the traces of ground coffee I’d left behind were gone, I walked down the block to my favorite French Quarter coffee shop, Café Envie, and ordered an omelet and coffee to nurse and refill all afternoon as I caught up on email and blogging. The food here is excellent for a coffee shop and the open air atmosphere rustic and quaint. You would think there’d be more coffee shops like this in the French Quarter, but most of the good ones are Uptown like favorite Krewe Du Brew.

THE LONG & WINDING RUSE

It was lunchtime when I arrived and nearly dinner before I heeded the weary stares of the baristas and headed home. Upstairs I ran into Jake for the first time since he’d taken off the night before. I calmly confronted him about my missing groceries, first bringing up the beer. “Man, it gets hot up here [as if water doesn’t work], and, besides, [Read more…]

THE 2^ND OF JULY: EVICTION DAY

Yesterday morning Debra showed up and escorted Jake, the friend she’s let crash here, to the door. She was in a grim mood but told me nothing about what happened. When I made a few timid inquiries the short replies implied it was none of my business, though I felt otherwise—few things being more intimate than where you lay your head. At least it’s made for a good story. And there’s a valuable lesson: If you rent to a writer beware of stirring up drama if you don’t want it going public!

Still, you may be wondering how we got to this point. As I recouped in Florida I had little to write about so was lax in posting, but my few days back in town have been quite eventful so suddenly I have a lot of catching up to do. So let’s jump in the DeLorean with Marty McFly and crank the dial back three weeks.

HAVING FUN EVEN IF IT MAKES YOU MISERABLE

I had always planned to return to Florida in mid-June to visit and retrieve some furniture once I had an idea of what I’d need in my new abode, but a week stretched into two and a half due to illness and preparing my condo for the market. I had been sick and then stressed out, so I left earlier than planned and spent a shameful amount of time in bed catching up on Netflix and DVR (Justified Season 4 was awesome and I am now addicted to American Horror Story!) and eating good (and healthier) food. I still managed to be productive, though, meeting with a real estate attorney and cleaning and rearranging my condo for showing.

Whatever Delta funk had infected me, though, took nearly three weeks to work out of my system (New Orleans biological voodoo is fierce—I’ve spent half my time here getting over something!) and my rattled confidence took just as long to recover. While this town is friendly and welcoming when you’re waving tourist $$$, I’ve found in moving here that it’s, under the welcoming veneer, a very closed southern town much like Charleston or Savannah. I didn’t expect to be an overnight success, but making personal and professional inroads has been more difficult than expected. Blogging about this disconnect prompted one reader to ask if I was giving up on New Orleans. Of course not! I’m in it at least until March 4, 2014 (next Mardi Gras, for those slow on the uptake.)  I just needed a break. This is supposed to be the adventure of a lifetime, after all, so I’m going to have fun even if it makes me miserable!

Besides, no place is perfect, and as my stay in Jacksonville dragged on it was soon clear it was time to move on. An appointment with a realtor pushed my departure back to last Friday and I decided to stay one more night to help a friend celebrate officially reclaiming her maiden name. Finally, Saturday morning, I loaded up the V-8 workhorse and headed west. As my verve and swagger revived those last few days I got on an Aerosmith kick, so to quote those bawdy Bostonians, now I’m Back In The Saddle Again!

WELCOME BACK, BLOGGER

When I went to start my truck that morning, though, my brand new battery was somehow completely dead. After getting it jumped, the skies opened up without warning as I carried my suitcase out. Sometimes I wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something!? Once on the road, though, the drive was uneventful—I’m getting a hang of the one stop journey—and it was still daylight when I pulled onto Decatur Street. Someone called my name and I looked up to see Jake waving from the balcony. I waved back and then he went inside and closed the door.

To avoid exposing myself to French Quarter pillaging, I always move stuff into the building first and then worry about getting it up the long and winding staircase later. Both the cab and bed of my truck was packed, and Jake never poked his head out to help with the furniture although I’d asked before leaving town. I was already drenched in sweat as I moved the first load up the stairs. When I arrived at the top landing, he was waiting for me: “Dude, I only ask one thing,” he said before I could even set anything down, “that you don’t write about me in the blog.”

It was an uncomfortable arrival. I figured Debra had been reading but doubted he would bother. I know the portrait I’ve painted hasn’t been flattering, but it has been honest and I had decided that, considering I’d asked for none of this and she knew going in I was here to write about my experiences, it was all fair game. Now, though, I felt a twinge of guilt.

Granted, I had to ask repeatedly for him to quit eating my food, to clean up after himself when dishes would linger in the sink for days, to not smoke with the doors open and a breeze carrying through the place, etc. On the other hand, I’d made fun of his story of the 19-year-old girl he’d met before going to Africa, though the telling had been innocent enough. He did try to be friendly and, although I  worried I may return to find the guitar I left behind in a pawn shop, I never felt physically threatened. He’d even insisted on cooking me breakfast the morning I’d left for Florida, although he admitted to ‘lifting’ the bacon he went to the store for!

Thus I didn’t feel completely in the wrong, but I did feel guilty. I fumbled an explanation and apologized if I offended him, saying I’d avoid mentioning things as much as possible, though explained that the whole point of my being here was to write about it. He nodded and took off as I finished unpacking.

FEED JAKE

My guilt was short-lived. Once I had all but the heavy items  upstairs, I went to the refrigerator, drenched in sweat, for some water. The back of my neck instantly turned red. All the beer I’d left was gone.

I went through all the cabinets and boxes of cereal had been opened and nearly finished, a whole container of sugar had been drained  dry, snacks were gone, and a liter of Gatorade missing. As I walked downstairs I spied my laundry detergent tossed aside empty in the trash. Basically, anything that didn’t require cooking (because effort required was the only safeguard) had been finished or nearly so. My guilt turned to fury. I’d asked multiple times for him to ask before taking food, yet always felt bad and gave in when he asked. In my absence, though, it had all been fair game. Taking food when your hungry is somewhat forgiveable. Taking beer, hardly necessary to sustain life, just showed blatant disregard.

It’s hard to think clear when you’re upset, so I called a friend back in Jax and took some time to relax before finally taking an inventory of my room. If any possession were gone I was ready to pack up and drive away. Jake did seem to operate by some sort of moral code and left my ‘stuff’ alone, but it was an uncomfortable position to be in, having to have faith in where he may draw that line.

DRAW THE LINE

My mind was now mulling over Jake’s request not to mention him. I didn’t want to escalate the situation, yet my experiences are mine to share and his pilfering of groceries had zapped my sympathy. Besides, it certainly is an interesting story. Every writer must figure out where to draw that line as to how much they share and live with the disapproval of those who don’t like the results.

It was all too much to figure out after a nine-hour drive and unpacking. I needed a drink. Since there was no beer in the refrigerator, I tossed on a fresh t-shirt, grabbed a ball cap, and headed out not caring how I looked or smelled. It was New Orleans, after all. Someone in the bar would surely be skuzzier!

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WHERE’S WALDO?: BATTERED PICKUP TRUCK EDITION

Since moving into the French Quarter a week prior, my short and fitful spurts of sleep had been punctuated with restless dreams of my truck being towed. I was sure I’d sooner or later forget about Tuesday and Thursdays street cleaning, earning a hefty towing bill. Because of this paranoia I had circled my truck twice Thursday night and returned Friday morning to ensure I wasn’t in violation of street signs or painted boundaries; thus, as I stood Sunday night around midnight looking at another car parked where I’d left my truck, neither option made sense—towing my legally parked vehicle or stealing my old and battered truck.

THIS LITTLE LIGHT OF MINE: WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS EDITION

I was certain of where I had parked but suspected police would question my memory, so I decided to canvas nearby streets on my bike. I raced home, sweating profusely and frantically muttering to myself, and quickly Googled the nearest police station (the other end of Royal) before taking off on two wheels. [Read more…]

HAVE FRIENDS, WILL TRAVEL

Despite my frequent misadventures, my time in New Orleans has been amazing—at times transcendent and at times trying but never boring and always providing opportunities to grow. Besides, embracing the unexpected and insane isn’t in the fine print when you move to New Orleans—it’s in bold print italics and double underlined! Thus, the bizarre housing hunt, sketchy characters, and failed expectations merely enhance the story and add a little humor. The one true challenge, however, has been attempting to start over socially. In the ten years I lived in Jacksonville I developed a rich and diverse collection of funny, intelligent, kind and supportive friends. Such connections can’t simply be replaced, yet the biggest challenge of living in north Florida was maintaining my connections with not only family but friends from high school, college, OT school, and camp I’d left behind in the mid-Atlantic triangle of West Virginia/Virginia/Maryland, not to mention a sister that lives in Massachusetts and a best friend in Wisconsin. So in moving to New Orleans, I’ve compounded this difficult distance once again.

I am outgoing and unafraid to strike up a conversation, so I have met literally thousands of people since moving to town. Still, I don’t ‘fall in’ with groups easily. I can hold a superficial conversation with nearly anyone, yet don’t instantly sync with whoever is in the vicinity like some people seem to. It takes me time to find well-rounded people I ‘click’ with, and thus the hardest part of this move has been [Read more…]

HOUND DOG SWAN SONG

I skipped coffee and breakfast Saturday morning—my groceries were still packed up!—but didn’t want to show up before 10:00 since Debra bartended until 3a.m., so instead pulled out my acoustic guitar and sat on the porch serenading John Fohl’s dogs one last time (though they had eventually tired of howling at me). Monday night I had stopped by Dos Jefes Uptown Cigar Bar to watch John perform while I still lived nearby. He stopped by to chat before the set and caught me again a few days later as I was getting in my truck. When I asked him about that gig, he revealed he’s held it down since moving to town over a decade and a half ago. Impressive! Felling ballsy, I asked him about his solo career after parting ways with Dr. John—he’s busy gigging with other artists—and we fell into a conversation about the quirkiness and difficulty of musicians. A few years ago I had formed a ‘living room band’ with a close friend. I was fully aware of our limited talent and potential, so was shocked when egos tore us apart. Perplexed and depressed by the experience, I fell in with a small blues and R&B band where I could hide from sight and sound on rhythm guitar yet again egos and musician flakiness took their toll. I commented that if egos could be strong in such extremely amateur settings, I couldn’t imagine dealing with truly talented professionals. John just shook his head and laughed as if to say, “If you only knew…” He seems to be that rare person who is as nice as he is talented and I’m embarrassed that he’s heard me so many times on the porch fumbling on guitar; hopefully he was asleep as I serenaded his dogs one last time.

ONE MORE ABODE ON MY LONG & WINDING ROAD

Even though Debra had said any time after 10:00 would work, I was determined to be right on time. Thus I was fully packed by a quarter after 9, having sheepishly asked a neighbor’s roofer to help me load my futon. Thinking yesterday was my last day, I had already completed my final errand by asking Nancy the meaning of a painting hanging above the toilet that had perplexed me for months every time I went to urinate: [Read more…]