[Recovery Pen has been a column about New Orleans life, from the vantage point of a transplanted northerner with a soft heart and an eye for detail.]

When I was a kid, my mom tried to cheer me up at the end of a fun weekend or family vacation with this old saying: all good things must come to an end. It wasn't much comfort then, and it's not much comfort now. "But why?" I'd ask her. "Why do good things have to end?"

She didn't have an answer for me, and I don't have an answer for you. My fellow bloggers have already said their goodbyes, and now it's my turn. As you've heard, our blog has been cancelled, obviously not because of our writing quality, but because our parent company wants to go in other directions. Bloggingneworleans, and its short-lived predecessor bloggingohio, were to be the vanguard of location-specific sites across the AOL network. But when Bloggingla and bloggingbrooklyn never manifested themselves, well, it didn't come as much of a surprise when we heard they were pulling the plug on us.

Personally, I can say that I received the news with a mixture of sadness and relief. Unlike my fellow bloggers, who plan to set up camp in new spots in the blogosphere, I am looking forward to the old-fashioned pursuit of writing a novel. It's something that I couldn't balance with my full-time job, healthy social life, activist pursuits, and weekly blog, but now I can fit it in. And I'm so grateful for this site which has forced me to sit my butt down and write on a semi-regular basis. Having this practice will help my novelist pursuits immensely.

And yet, and yet... As we recently passed the two-year Katrina anniversary, it saddened me to realize that the city still needs a Recovery Pen, because we're still recovering. And maybe we always will be, the way alcoholics call themselves "recovering" for years after they put down the bottle.

But some rays of light pierce through the thick haze of chaos hanging over our city. We're becoming greener, despite our best efforts to the contrary, with Brad Pitt commissioning Green Spaces down in the Lower 9th, a return to curbside recycling, a bike lane to be installed on St. Claude Avenue, and a long bike path planned for the new, improved City Park. As I write these words, I can feel fall in the air, which always means that the craziness of summer (and the murder rate) will be going down soon. The kids are back in our public schools, which have nowhere to go but up. Next month, we get to exercise our right to put new faces in the governor's mansion, in the state legislature, and on the New Orleans City Council. Thank God this is America, where we can keep electing people until one of those chuckleheads gets it right.

I'm sad that I won't have this forum to comment and read the commentary of my fellow bloggers as the city changes for the better (crossed fingers.) You won't hear our takes on the election outcomes, or on Voodoo Fest 2007. We won't be reporting from this year's Independent Book Fair (on Frenchman Street, Saturday, November 10) or from Thanksgiving opening day at the Fair Grounds Racetrack. You'll have to spend Christmas, and Mardi Gras, and Jazzfest without us. But before I get too sad, I should remind myself that I'll still be writing for www.nolafugees.com when I feel inspired, so please keep a bookmark there!

Let me close this blog by finishing my NOLA alphabet, a project I'd started without realizing I'd have a concrete deadline (today) to finish it. I've been dragging my feet on these last letters, but like all good things, even the alphabet has to end. So thanks for reading, my dear friends and New Orleans well-wishers! Keep coming, keep dreaming, keep believing in the best for our fair city!

W is for Water

Flood Day, September 11,1998. When the rain started, I was working in the English grad student office up at UNO. My fellow grad students were smart to skedaddle out of there. But I, having been raised in a place where people don't fuss about the weather, stayed put until I finished my work. Then I thought it smart to drive to Lakeview to meet friends for a birthday lunch. When I found a closed restaurant with a flooded parking lot and no friends in sight, I realized that maybe I should have gone home sooner.

I got on I-10 to get back to my uptown home, but the police had blocked it off and so I was forced to exit on St. Bernard Avenue. Never will I forget the terror of driving my low-riding Saturn coupe through deep floodwater in one of the worst parts of town. To soothe my frayed nerves, I turned onto Claiborne Avenue under the overpass, so that I could sit in standstill traffic with an ambulance stuck behind me. I don't know why the driver thought having the siren on would help him get through the traffic. No one could move. So we stayed stuck there, listening to the blaring siren echo against the concrete overpass.

Finally I had to abandon my car on the St. Charles neutral ground, right in front of Igor's bar, where I stayed for the rest of the day. The whole episode reinforced a New Orleans lesson that I'm still trying to un-learn: nothing is so terrifying that alcohol can't fix.

X is the Rescuer's Mark

Two years after Katrina, you can still spot Xs sprayed onto houses where the rescue teams came searching. Marked with the date of the search, the search team's code, and the number of living and dead, this letter lays bare the destruction. As much as we can try to gloss over what happened here, the Xs remind us most viscerally of the depth of this tragedy. I remember when they found a body in my neighborhood nine months after the storm. For all I know, they're still finding bodies in the Ninth Ward.

Y is for YURP

Last month, the Times-Pic did a cover story on the Young Urban Rebuilding Professionals that have flocked to New Orleans to be part of our "renaissance." Architects and educators, urban planners and doctors, these idealists are ready to sacrifice high salaries for the chance to make their mark on a city full of raw possibility. I'd like to send a big thank-you shout-out to all YURPs and URPs of all ages for investing in us. Hopefully our color and charm will keep you here while you realize that affecting change in such a stagnant place can be a bitch. But stick it out - we need you!

For anyone interested in the faces behind this movement, or anyone needing a date for this weekend, check out the new networking website aimed at this demographic: www.nolayurp.com.

Z is for Zapp's

Let me end this alphabet, and my blog, on a wonderfully spicy note. From Cajun Crawtator and Hotter n' Hot Jalapeno to Sour Cream and Creole Onion and Cajun Dill, Zapp's has a chip for all lips. They even offer a no-salt variety for the health-conscious out there. Not that I've tried that flavor, myself. For if I've learned anything from living and blogging in this city, it's that life goes down better with a little bit of spice!

If you want to catch up on the rest of the alphabet, click the letters below:

A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

I guess it was bound to happen. Inevitably, we were doomed from the start. Since I was given the honor more than a year ago of writing for bloggingneworleans, I've shared with you my love for the city. I've tried many times in many ways to tell you just what it is about this city that made me fall in love with her, and that which captivates me still.

Several thousands of words later I still can't quite put my finger on what it is that drew me to her, kept me near her--even in her darkest hour--and what, even now, keeps me somehow inextricably bound to her.

I love New Orleans, Nola, the Crescent City, this big easy, more than I've ever loved a place. I didn't even know it was possible to love a place until I met her. Now that the end of our blog is near, our "retirement," I have time once again to pause and think of the ways I love her, to share with you one last time what it is that makes your city so special to me.

Ours was a love that conquered distance if not time, one that weathered lack of money and the trappings of a normal affair. It was a love borne of a need deep within my soul that was filled only by this city full of the dying, the decaying and the dead. They walked among us as cartoons before in the form of vampires and goblins slinking behind a voodoo priestess' grave. Now they walk among us as our brothers and sisters, souls trapped in a past they did not create, drowning in it if they didn't when the flood hit.

These dead do not whisper quietly to us from their lace-iron balconies. No, they walk among us to remind us of what we lost, what we can never have again except in our dreams. Mine was such a dream, and a place I go back to each time I read yet another account of some actrocity burdening the city, burying her right along with our hope.

Just let her go, many say. But I can't. So let me tell you why, all the reasons why, why, why.

I love it that it's so hot down there I never want to visit again. Until I'm in the airport headed home.

I love it that every person I'v ever met every time I've visited has been nothing but sweet as pie to me. No one knows how to treat you right better than a Nola-ite.

I love it that the first time I went down there I felt like I was in another country. I'd wanted to escape, and I did.

I love it that the pinnacle of some people's day is to find a nice shaded balcony to sit on a sip a drink all night long. Crushed ice, a sprig of mint, perhaps a little sazarec. You know what I'm saying.

I love it that there's a story for every spot, a ghost in every room. Whether or not any of it's true you can feel the time passing in such places, their history soaking into you like the cool breeze wafting over you in a courtyard. It is real, if only in New Orleans.

I love it that there's such a fight over whether to bother with rebuilding the city. Makes the fight all the more worth it.

I love the iced coffee and everything fried--it may just be the same old thing but for some reason it just tastes better when you're eating it in New Orleans, especially if you're doing so with a view of the river.

I love those stupid bead stores run by people who don't speak English and are convinced you're going to steal something or that you're too drunk to steal anything.

I love it that life begins after dark. And it's quite a life.

I love it that when I leave all I ever want to do is go back. And I will be back. I will be back.

I love it that I can sit in the dark in the back of Napoleon House brooding about god knows what for as long as i want without someone hassling me. I could sit there forever contemplating, conniving or convincing myself.

I love it that jazz was born here, and that no matter where you go and no matter what time of day, you can hear a little music floating through the air. It's magic. No, really--it is.

It's a magical place, like being in a snowglobe with sparkles--or beads--instead of snow. It's my imagination come alive, my internal monologue sung back to me, the friend I never knew I had or needed, the one thing I can't live without.

Is New Orleans a thing? It's a place, for now. It's a state of mind. It's not necessarily where I'm form, but it's where I belong. And I will be back. I will be back.

Until that time you can find me on the internet. I'll be starting my own blog--and I will be writing about New Orleans. I can't not do it. I can also be found on AOL's ParentDish and That's Fit sites. Who knows where I'll turn up next, but you can rest assured that I'll be found wearing glitter when I do.

Thank you, for sharing in my love for this city. I hope we can save it.

Well, I let you know about the sad news of our site's retirement last week I said I'd tell you more about the future and then... well I dropped off the face of the planet. Before I tell you about the future one last story... Tuesday afternoon(September 11th, ugh) the a rain the dusted the city was the final staw for the roof of the building my apartment is in and water started to pour (and I do me pour) into my bedroom. My poor extremely pregnant better half was home and managed to move the last of our future offspring's future out of the room before the ceiling started to come down around her. So now I'm in a bad situation with an apartment that needs to be emptied and a new one that needs to be found (and now you know why the podcast was late). I have some options and the help of our families is going to help a lot, but I had to cut off my blogging for the week and only just now could get to you... so on to the future... I think my future includes a break for blogging. I loved being able to post my thoughts on the state of the city in this space, but I think I need to take a step back. The tracking of some of the underbelly of the recovery can be really upsetting and I am finding the stress of the country looking at us as the ugly step-sisters of the nation extremely hard. Sometimes you just want to be a techwriter who fauns over the latest websites instead of dealing with hard realities of the recovery.

Maybe I'm just a little tired (as are many in the city). Maybe I'm just a little to angry. Maybe I just need a break.

Wow, that was a little depressing. On a high note, we must end. Thanks for reading my rants. Thanks for commenting on my podcasts. Thanks for sending in your ideas. Thanks for saying hey. Thanks for everything.

I loved covering Jazz Fest for you. I loved getting to know my city again for you. I loved getting politically angry for you. I loved posting for you.

Thank you.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans , as well as the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.]

U is for Under

When considering the letter "U," this preposition popped into mind first, although after yesterday's weather, I could have easily gone with "umbrella." Yet I feel like "under" says pretty much all you need to know about New Orleans, America's underdog, the steamy underbelly of our Puritan Union. It's also one of the few places - outside of San Francisco - where you can go out wearing your underwear and people don't even blink. Although I prefer a robe.

V is for Vampire

Although tourists flock to New Orleans to tour vampire author Anne Rice's house, hoping to come across a vampire in the evening shadows, they'd find more bloodsuckers out at our construction sites. Ask anyone who's had work done on their home - including our own Kelly Leahy - and you'll get an earful about dishonest contractors who either bled them dry or sucked the life out of them with postponements and switchbacks until the homeowner finally ended up in the fetal position. Now I know there are some good, honest contractors out there - and really, the three of you should form a club.

On the subject of vampires, I could go into detail about some of the gentlemen who have taught me valuable lessons during my time in New Orleans, but this isn't that kind of blog. Besides, you boys know who you are.

• Welcome
• Good byes and the reasons for the delay
• the interview with my dad
• The future of New Orleans
• The Levees
• Lakeview, Gentilly and the Ninth Ward
• Katrina and Rita's effect on the Ninth Ward
• Politics
• Sports
• A bright future with new engineering projects and lots of jobs
• Thanks

Thanks for listening to the last 35 episodes of this podcast. Its been great telling you my thoughts every week and talking about the city.

Update: there was an error in the filename of the podcast, fixed now.

SUBSCRIBE to the Blogging New Orleans podcast in iTunes
LISTEN to the podcast now
ADD the Blogging New Orleans podcast feed to your RSS aggregator

At least they waited until after the second anniversary of Katrina. The powers-that-be behind this website have decided to pull the plug on it this month (the preferred term is "retired") for business reasons. The market giveth, the market taketh away. I regret that the site will be retired, but that's the way the praline crumbles.

I've had a great time writing for bloggingneworleans.com. There have been times when writing for this blog has helped keep me sane. I've blown off a lot of steam about the various impediments and potholes in the road of post-Katrina New Orleans. Documenting what's been going on around town has been a blast, and despite the 'early retirement' of a great site dedicated to a great city, I'll still be writing.

I've been impressed by the quality of comments on our posts. To be sure, there are a few wingnuts out there on every side of the political spectrum, but for the most part our commenters have been thoughtful and civil. I have always enjoyed hearing from folks, especially those who take issue with my opinions or disagree with my points. To all you commenters, I have appreciated your words, and the time you took to comment. Your comments have helped me rethink some of my arguments, and similarly I hope you have found my words to be informative, too.

We gain the most insight into our own opinions when they are challenged by the opinions of others, and despite the fact that our greater political structure is criminally dysfunctional in this regard, we, the people of this great city (and country) understand that it's not always about winning or losing, it's about creating a better world for ourselves and for those yet to come. The kind of scorched-earth, winner-take-all politics that we have seen for years in DC and throughout the land is what has hurt New Orleans since Katrina and long before. This type of politics is filled with hot air, trite slogans, and vapid ideologies. Having seen many examples of blogs and discussion boards that begin on point, but devolve into puerile mud-slinging, I have been most appreciative of the quality of comments (and posts, my fellow bloggingneworleans writers). I will miss this forum.

We've amassed quite a record in our coverage of the happenings in this city-in-recovery. There has never been a shortage of subjects to write about, only a shortage of time in which to write about them. But of course, there's never enough time for doing everything you want.

As for me, I've made inquiries for freelance work at the local alternative newsweekly, and I'll be writing some on the new DIY Life website. I'm making a series of "how to build a bike" entries, which may not be as compelling journalistically as I have tried to make my BNO posts, but should still be pretty entertaining.

In the meantime, you'll find me cruising around the city on my newly rebuilt bike, doing research at the libraries or the courthouse, sipping an iced coffee at Flora's, or having a beer and shooting pool at Markey's.

I guess that's it. Stay well, good people. And thanks for checking out Blogging New Orleans. Peace...

I found this plaque embedded in the bricks outside the Oil & Gas Building, on the corner of Common and Rampart in the CBD. It reads "One hundred years after Col. Drake [?] completed the nation's first successful oil well in Titusville, Pennsylvania, the New Orleans Oil Centennial Committee deposited historical documents here to commemorate the occasion."

A celebration of oil's first century, eh? Hope they enjoyed the party, 'cos according to some geologists, we are approaching the end of the "peak oil" era. Some estimate that global oil supplies will begin to decline in mid-century, and that by 2050 the decline in production rates -- from having used up this limited resource -- will be precipitous.

In a hundred years, if that plaque is still there, it might seem like more of a tombstone than a time-capsule.

[Apologies for the off-set photo cropping ... it couldn't be avoided.]

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

Well, if I hadn't read it with my own eyes I would not have believed it (not that we should believe everything we read). Looks like there is to be a second Camellia Grill, this one in Destin, Florida, beloved by teenagers on spring break everywhere.

As I said to Kelly Leahy, co-blogger here at bloggingneworleans, there can be only one. Even if the reopened version in Nola is doing well enough, the new owner is messing with some pretty serious karma to try and duplicate his success outside of the Crescent City. It was a miracle the Camellia Grill reopened at all given the devastation and destruction left in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Why tempt fate?

But, that said, if you're going to tempt fate, you might as well do it in the pan handle. If a greasy spoon operation is going to make it anywhere, it can make it in Destin. Not that Destin is lacking in diners--to the contrary, they're everywhere.

In fact, one of my favorites (besides the Camellia Grill, of course) is the Donut Hole. There are two locations of this fine dining establishment, and I can pretty much guarantee you both will be getting a run for their money once the new CG opens.

As much as I eschew the idea of taking something native to Nola out of it and trying to achieve success with it elsewhere, I can't help but hope the venture is a successful one. If the new outpost is a hit then surely there will be enough money to sustain New Orlean's (dare I say it?) favorite diner.

Either that or the new establishment will be a total money pit that will be the financial ruin of the owner which will lead the original Camellia Grill to ruin.

The thing is, either way, you simply can't recreate the Grill. Everybody knows it's not the food that people really go for. You can get eggs and a side of bacon anywhere--especially in Destin, Florida. It's the people at the Camellia Grill that make it the special place that it is. And I can assure you they won't be popping up in Florida any time soon to make you an omelet.

I don't know off the top of my head how many of the original staff returned to the, uhm, original Camellia Grill. From what I heard some had returned, others declined, and some, of course, we just never heard from again. Who knows what happened to them. Perhaps, just perhaps, fate will bring them to Destin.

My concern is that the owner will turn his attention away from the original CG and spend too much time (and money) worrying about the new outpost. It's a thin line everyone in Nola walks these days given the shaky economy, the lack of people to do the work, oh, and why not--the crime. To step over that line--oh, I shudder to even think about it.

What's even more concerning is that the opening of the new CG is really just a metaphor for what's happening all over New Orleans: everyone is turning their attention elsewhere and setting up show somewhere, anywhere else.

After two years all I can offer you is my exasperation. And, sadly, in a way, my compliance in this matter. When and if I'm ever in Florida again, I know I'll visit the new Camellia Grill. And I'll complain that it's not the original and it's not the same--and it won't ever be the same. And maybe that's the point.

I'll eat the food and hark back to days long, long past when I was basically just a kid eating with some friends after a wild night (or two). I'll remember a time when I actually had the time to just hang out, to relax, to have a good time, without having to think about the future of New Orleans and then feeling bad about the whole thing to the point where I didn't even want to eat my meal anymore. It just felt wrong.

And it will feel so very, very wrong at the CG in frickin' Destin, Florida. But, on a positive note, if I can get myself to the CG in Destin, then I can get myself to the real deal in New Orleans. Hopefully others will feel the same way.

Thanks to Ashley Morris for the head's up.

Photo of omelet (not from Camellia Grill) by nickgraywfu.

Recently spotted on the West Bank, this fixer-upper mere blocks from the Mississippi River. Priced to sell; act fast before the termites get in.

Well, it's probably too late for that. Nice holes in the wall, eh?

Well, we're just about at the end of the road for Blogging New Orleans. As you may know, Friday the 14th is our last day as a live website. Into every life a little rain must fall, or so it's said, and this is just another example of that truism.

Speaking of rain, it's also said that it never rains unless it pours. This week, New Orleans is being drenched by wandering downpours that soak parts of the city while other parts stay dry. The photo was taken on Tuesday from the railroad tracks at Burgundy and Press Street in the Bywater, those dark columns are sheets of rain falling over the remoter reaches of the Upper 9th Ward, and as you can see, the rest of the area had sunny skies.

Weather here is pretty chaotic sometimes. Rain can fall on you from a seemingly clear blue sky. It can hit like a fist in some neighborhoods while others nearby don't get so much as a sprinkle. I think it's incredible; the idiosyncratic weather is one of the charms of New Orleans, in my opinion. Hyper-localized micro-cloudbursts, my term for these wandering small scale showers, keep things interesting around here.

Sudden, unexpected, and violent, they offer a handy metaphor for life these days. Lately, things for me personally have been substantially rainy (metaphorically), like some kind of existential storm has taken up a position over my head, sending watery sheets of questionable luck down upon me. I won't dwell overmuch on any of this, but since mid-July, I have dealt with a string of misfortunes that make me rethink my skepticism towards voodoo, particularly hexes.

Just a brief rundown: My computer (upon which I rely to write) had a fatal motherboard crash in late July. (It has since been repaired with a new motherboard, and a big THANK YOU goes to Ted C. at Common Ground tech support for his invaluable assistance in this matter.)

Then my bicycle was stolen in the middle of the day from the main branch of the New Orleans Public Library while I was inside. The "security" dude told me there are bike thefts every day there. My question to him should have been, "So then why the hell are you in here instead of out there?"

My housemates were roughhousing one night in late August and hit a table where my digital camera was. It fell and broke, and only the persistence born of my desperation brought it back to life.

Just when I was recovering from my computer and camera woes, my favorite outlet for my writing -- this very site -- was selected for retirement. I'll keep writing, of course, but will lament the loss of this space for community dialogue.

My car's brakes then started going bad, and now the car sits in a shop with an estimated $440 worth of repairs due.

And last night, my cell phone died with finality, taking the phone numbers of hundreds of friends with it. [Note: if you are a friend of mine and you are reading this, give me a call. Same number for me, but brand new phone-MR]

I begin to wonder if someone put a curse on me. New Orleans is, after all, the birthplace of American Voudoun.

I must note that these misfortunes are only manifesting themselves in the material plane; my relationships with friends, family, co-workers, and neighbors are generally wonderful, and it's a rare day that I don't randomly run into a friend or acquaintance whom I might not have seen in a while. Not to mention meeting new people just about every day, too. I am very lucky in ways that the misfortunes of the material world can not dim.

Speaking of dim, the light bulb in my bedroom just popped. I hope there's still a step ladder in the house, 'cos that bulb is 14 feet off the ground.

Last Saturday, the Common Ground Health Clinic in Algiers Point celebrated its second year of providing free health services to thousands of New Orleanians since its formation in the week after Katrina struck. Clinic supporters organized a block party at the corner of Teche and Socrates where the Clinic is located, serving up a barbecue and music and offering tours of the recently refurbished clinic (see photo below).

In a city with an international reputation for low-quality health care post-Katrina, the two Common Ground-sponsorerd free clinics -- the first in Algiers, the second on St. Claude St. in the Lower 9th Ward -- are much-needed community institutions that have served thousands of people since opening. Ancillary programs like the Latino Health Outreach Program, a spinoff project that serves the needs of non-English speaking residents and workers, also spread the tattered net of social services in New Orleans a little wider.

A staff member at the Algiers Clinic informed me that the Algiers Clinic sees between 20 and 50 people per day of operation; due to limited resources and red tape, the clinic is open on a limited schedule four days out of the week (Monday through Wednesday at various hours, and Saturday 12 - 3 pm). Despite ongoing shortages of medical services in the area, and despite the tremendous need for basic health care in the city, the Common Ground Clinics have had to fight for everything they have.

Judging by the state of medical services here two years after the traumatic events of 2005, it looks like their struggle to provide free, basic health care to neglected or impoverished populations will remain an uphill battle. But the anniversary party demonstrated that the community still needs and supports the services they offer.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

S is for Savoring

It's no coincidence that I've learned how to meditate while living in New Orleans. Nor is it a coincidence that I've learned about the Slow Food movement and taken up gardening. If my northern family thought I was slow before, they think I'm downright sluggish now, after ten years of New Orleans life. And that's fine with me: living slowly allows me to contentedly follow my own muse, and screw the rest.

People ask how we can deal with the heat down here, and it's simple (but not always easy): slow down. Don't run anywhere; take your time and just relax. Sit and have some water. Take a nap. Watch the sunset. Savor your life before it passes you by.

T is for Traditions

Because we take life so slow around here, we make the time to hold onto our dear traditions. From red beans on Monday to grillades on Sunday, our heritage finds its way into our daily lives. If you take the streetcar downtown, or go to the racetrack on Thanksgiving, or eat king cake on Twelfth Night, or fix black-eyed peas and cabbage for the new year, or go to Galatoire's every Friday, or drive in the Mardi Gras truck parade, or start Jazzfest in the Gospel tent, you know what I mean.

I could go on and on with these standard traditions, but there are plenty of good ones dreamed up by our creative population. Grilling out on the neutral ground for Lundi Gras. Making waffles for brunch on Super Sunday. Spending Halloween in the graveyard. Rereading Gone With the Wind to cope with an Ash Wednesday hangover.

If you've got a juicy tradition to share, please leave a comment - you know we New Orleanians are always hungry for new ways to pass a good time!

This may not look like much, but it's scenes like this that make me adore this town. Here's a humble shotgun, could be almost anywhere in town, reasonably well-kept on the outside, with a sweet motorcycle out front. Homes like this may or may not survive the waves of rebuilding and gentrification that are beginning to sweep our area, but I for one would be happy as a clam in a house like this one.

Put a bicycle out front for me, though.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

This was a hard lesson to swallow. Let me tell you this: when you grow up surrounded by people with your own skin color, it's easy to pretend that you're not a racist. So easy to love people from afar, when you've never met any of them. You think you love these people, but you're actually in love with the idea of them.

New Orleans can be a training ground for racism. Here in the Deep South, people don't swallow their feelings like my northern cohorts. Since I've moved here, I've heard plenty of nastiness, and had my own nasty thoughts. When I've had stuff stolen. When I've had to wait at a slow register. Or when I've heard someone screaming at her kids. I've thought things that completely shocked the good person I considered myself to be.

It's hard, because racism can become a self-fulfilling prophecy: you think I'm lazy and violent? I'll show you lazy and violent! You think I'm timid and submissive? Okay, I'll be timid and submissive. It's a crucial, sad truth of human nature: people tend to live up to what's expected of them. So if we want change, we have to expect change, and we start with our own selves.

Today I can be honest with myself when I have racist thoughts, and I call myself on it much more quickly. Not only have I grown comfortable living among people of colors, but I've felt a change: when I go back north to the white suburbs, I become a little nervous. Where's the color? I ask myself, scanning the pale crowd. Where is everybody? And as I wonder what this change is about, I consider that it could be reverse racism, or it could just be that I'm missing the good folks from home.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

I propose a toast to New Orleans, where every man is king, and every woman - and some of the men - a queen!

Cheers!