We had been warned by many not to go. "Too depressing", said some. "Too dangerous", said a few. "It's just not the New Orleans we remember", said others. Yet, having never been, we were curious. Much like rubber-neckers passing the scene of a horrific accident on the highway, we were intrigued by what had traspired in this place. On that front, we were not disappointed. In almost every other way imaginable we were very disheartened.Driving from the Florida panhandle we began to see Katrina's path of devastation almost as soon as we crossed into Alabama. For as far as the eye could see were broken tree limbs, shredded billboards and not many signs of life. Crossing lake Pontchartrain on the bridge from Slidell to New Orleans we immediately flashed back to those horrific days in the autumn of 2005. We rembered the news footage we had seen of this very bridge being torn into pieces by Katrina. Its current state is not much improved. Huge sections of the five mile long bridge have been patched with temporary pieces cannibalized from what remained and most of the guardrail is missing, twisted into bent reminders of the power of the floods. Apparently, the federal government has spent about $600 million for a new, six-lane Interstate 10 bridge over Lake Pontchartrain that will replace the existing four-lane twin spans by 2009, a full four years after the obliteration of Katrina. Until then, we'll all have to risk our lives as we traverse the puzzle piece structure masquerading as a bridge. Neither Mike nor I frighten easily, but this was not a bridge we'd like to be crossing on a daily basis.
As we continued westward into the city we began to see what we had read and heard so much about. Entire neighborhoods had been abandoned, their insides left to rot while their exteriors looked almost normal save for the missing windows and water stains. Piles of debris, grim reminders of all that was lost, were on nearly every street corner. How long had they been there? Could these poor people still be digging themselves out nearly three years later? It was truly a sobering sight to see and reminded our family of the feelings of helplessness we had had watching the events on tv back in 2005. It was not one of our prouder moments as a nation and seeing the horror today I felt even more ashamed. How could we have done so little in so many years?
After driving through miles of despair we finally arrived at the French Quarter RV Resort. When your RV park is the nicest real estate in the neighborhood you know there is a problem. A mere two blocks from the French Quarter and surrounded by a low brick wall with miles of razor wire, the resort is entered through a grand wrought iron fence. Inside the resort is a gorgeous tree-lined courtyard replete with bar, pool, jacuzzi and mini movie theater. Meanwhile, across the street in an empty lot behind a chain link fence are occupied FEMA trailers. Still...in 2008. Directly in front of the park is a closed and shuttered Winn Dixie, apparently a bad investment in an area directly impacted by the 100,000+ evacuees who made the decsion not to return to New Orleans. The backdrop of the resort is the infamous Canal St. overpass tent encampment. Hundreds of homeless are living in tents under the bridge in a scene reminiscent of the shanty villages in New Delhi or Bangkok. How could this be in America? How did we let this happen? The homeless population, by many accounts, has more than doubled since Katrina, yet where is the assistance? The irony of this situation screams for attention. In the shadow of the Superdome, where people died waiting for help after Katrina, now sleep hundreds of homeless. The Superdome was completely operational less than a year after Katrina, yet thousands are still without a place to call their own.
The French Quarter, largely untouched by the flooding, still draws hundreds of thousands of party-seekers each year. We were among the many who flock there for the beignets at Cafe Du Monde, oyster po-boys, gumbo and etouffe. We ate well, enjoyed the street performers and admired the architecture. One afternoon the boys and I took refuge from a downpour in the cathedral of St. Louis and lit a candle for those we have lost in our lives. As a family, we stood on Bourbon street, looked left and right and decided to keep walking. Maybe this scene would have appealed to Mike and me at another time in our lives, but this time we were content to just walk and look and listen (and taste).
In the end, we were glad we came, but felt that we would somehow never get to see the real New Orleans. It is probably gone forever. I think when something this catastrophic occurs the spirit of a place is forever changed, yet what remains is both inspirational and demoralizing. New Orleans, in my eyes, is just that-a city of paradoxes. It is a bewildering and frustrating mix of recovery and loss, rebirth and death, joy and sorrow. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
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