Nawh-leens

I was in New Orleans 43 days ago. I had such mixed feeling about the Big Easy. I puzzled the fact that a whole southern economy could be based on nudie bars, alcohol, and t-shirts with the F- word, but not sweet tea. I was overwhelmed that so many older people had service jobs, and many of them looked as though they were homeless. And I was surprised that such a huge portion of its population was black, -that says a lot coming from someone who grew up in Flint, MI
While I was so over the heat, and whole Bourbon Street experience, I fell in love with the food, the history, the music, and most of all the people. Heidi and I met or encountered so many people in New Orleans who captured a tiny piece of my heart:
Doc Lewis, the trombone player, who let me "help" him play when The Saints Go Marching In.
Frankie, the street musician, who tried to serenade us with a Pearl Jam song. I paid him to stop.
Anne, the chef who taught us to cook "gumbo and prah-leens" Her theory in life was "Oil is good…lard is better".

Our tour guide from the cemetery tour.
The nameless man on the bike who I'd assumed was homeless, until I saw his I-pod.
The staff at Mothers, who weren't the best at service, but who made a crab po' boy that I can never forget.
The man who sang gospel music for us at the fountain as we soaked our tired feet, -there's something peacefully humbling about a toothless homeless man singing, "God's Been So Good to Me"
Our trolley driver, who entertained himself by telling new passengers that his trolley was full and they'd have to continue to wait in the hot sun for the next one. He'd start to drive off and then suddenly halt and fling the doors open with a laugh! "C'mon y'all. I's just jokin'"
The waiter who served me turtle soup. He dampened my excitement when he told me it was made with veal.
The Russian puppeteer who made his marionettes come to life outside Jackson square. They sang, they whispered, and they danced to James Brown's "Sex Machine"
The beautiful dancing girl on the street corner who tried to lure people into the bar.
The homeless woman in the bright yellow dress and white stocking.
They are all etched into my memory. And now as I watch the news reports of the devastation left by Hurricane Katrina, I have a burden to pray for these people. For me, the victims are not nameless faces, but real people I have shared experiences with. I wonder if they are there, if they made it out early, or made it out alive at all. I wonder who will take care of them; I wonder if I'll ever have answers to my questions.