There are many joys to returning home to the Crescent City. For this long-time exile, most of them bring tears to my eyes. Some of it may seem silly or trivial, especially to outsiders, but even the tiniest evocation of what it means to be a New Orleanian chokes me up.
The first time happened the end of the week we were in New Orleans to find a place to live. My husband and I were filling up the van with gas, and noticed that the gas station had a little take-out place. Big Man went in to check out the goods, to see if there was anything we’d want for the road food for our trip back north. He came out with 2 paper bags, which we tore open in the van, to reveal steaming hot fried chicken livers and a plate of homemade spaghetti and sauce. The chicken livers were like butter, melt-in-your -mouth wonderful, perfectly fried, only lightly covered in batter. The spaghetti was old-fashioned comfort food, tasting “just like Mama used to make.” Big Man said to me, “I can’t wait to live here if this is the food you get in gas stations.” I was so proud of my hometown’s culinary excess that I got tears in my eyes – which recurred every time my spouse bragged to someone up North about the fabulous food available in New Orleans gas stations, let alone the restaurants.
Soon after we had settled into our new home in the lower Lower Garden District, we were “making groceries” at the A & P on Magazine Street. We turned into an aisle and were faced with row upon row of different brands of hot sauce, 5 different labels of Cajun-injector, seemingly endless displays of New Orleans and Louisiana spice mixes, and all the Blue Plate mayonnaise you could ever want. I couldn’t help it, I got all teary, and said to my husband, “Look at all this – we never have to have groceries shipped to us again!”
Big Man and I attended a free concert (the city is awash in free concerts) at Washington Square Park in the Marigny, to see our friends the Pfister Sisters perform. The day was warm, with one or two small gray clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. Just before the girls were supposed to go on, it began to rain lightly. The sun was shining brightly, the sky was bright blue, and one tiny little rain cloud decided to unload on us; it was funny, really, and folks in the crowd didn’t even run for cover or break out the umbrellas. We just turned our faces to the shower and let it rain gently on us while the sun shone. Then it stopped, and the Pfisters took the stage, their wonderful harmonies filling the square and our hearts. A group of little kids, aged about 2 or 3, gathered in front of the stage and danced unselfconsciously to the music, waving their chubby arms and twirling. In between songs, Holley Bendtson pointed to the little chorus line and said to the crowd, “Isn’t it great to see children again? Remember after the storm when there were no kids in the city, how awful that was? I love seeing these kids, it means so much to have kids again in New Orleans.” Her voice thickened, and people in the crowd nodded and smiled, and wiped their eyes. I teared up too.
The St. Charles streetcar has not been in operation since the storm, due to damage to the overhead power lines and to the tracks. The RTA has been working on the situation, and occasionally you can see an empty streetcar marked “Not in Service” going down St. Charles, testing the system. Drivers going by beep their car horns and wave to the streetcar driver, who generally waves back. About a week or so ago, all along the tracks, the RTA put up small purple-lettered signs that said, “We’re coming back! Look out for us!” with a little purple streetcar in one corner. I’m so far gone that actually seeing those signs made tears come to my eyes. (Interestingly, the signs began disappearing almost immediately – I suspect streetcar-missing New Orleanians are copping them as keepsakes.)
Another streetcar incident: Big Man and I were at another free concert, this time in Lafayette Square, across from old city hall. While we were grooving to the music of Paul Sanchez, 2 members of Bonerama, and Ivan Neville, a streetcar went by behind the stage. People have gotten used to the RTA testing the tracks, so no one paid any attention. But then a streetcar went by that had about a half a dozen passengers in it, and they were hanging out of the windows and waving like crazy. These were “civilians” too – they weren’t wearing RTA uniforms or anything. The crowd in the square went crazy, roaring with approval, and waving back like mad. Every streetcar that went by after that got a hand from the crowd. (I never did find out how those people got to ride the streetcar when it still wasn’t officially in service, but I sure did envy them.) Seeing a streetcar with actual people in it was touching enough, but the way the folks in the square received it really got me. You gotta love these people.
The thing that really got me, though, happened the first week I came back to my beloved home. One evening in August, as I waited for the Big Man to wrap up the rest of the move back east and get here, I was unloading a carload of stuff that had been stored for us at my sister’s. I pulled up in front of our little Creole cottage, grabbed an armload, climbed out of the air-conditioned car – and was hit in the face by the scent of night-blooming jasmine in the warm dark. My eyes welled up, and I drew in deep, ragged breaths. That seductive, familiar scent meant I was home.
Lots of things in New Orleans make me cry happy tears of homecoming. Night-blooming jasmine is just one.
1 comment:
God, Melanie, stop that, you're making me cry. It's wonderful to have someone say all the things I think... but ya need to tell them about the sweet olive... to die for.
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