New Orleans

Austin brieftly got boring after a round of heavy socializing and visiting with people whom I hadn't seen for over a year. When it did, I called Eric to get Kelley's number so I could have a drink with her, but after hearing him babble about New Orleans the goal became to drive to New Orleans. Kelley's generally ambitious about maintaining her spontaneity, so we took off that night at 2.45am, and at the peak of Louisiana's sauna-type weather the next day we checked into the volunteer camp in St. Bernard Parish, a gutted elementary school. The school had met its end in its original purpose after being submerged in eight feet of watger and after 95% of the population of St. Bernard had left, but it has since become a center for distributing food and clothes, and for housting Habitat for Humanity and Americorps volunteers, who still spend most of their time gutting houses.
An Americorps volunteer showed us to our cots, but soon Eric came and showed us his miniature kingdom, inherited from a previous volunteer. It was made with bed sheets hung on wires to make walls fastened together with clothes pins, two mattresses and several sleeping bags and books.
Eric introduced us to some interesting likeable people, including people named Turtle, Coyote, Cranberry Juice, and John Booth (after the man who shot Abraham Lincoln), a few of whom gave us tips on how to lure and trap alligators. We went to the end of the road that had been washed out by the hurricane and threw rotten turkey and stale bread at the alligators. They came up to the shore, and while they never made a decision that indicated much intelligence, their strength and the swarming mosquitos outlasted us and we left the bayou.
We spent the days handing out food, church dresses, diapers, and cleaning supplies to the residents of St. Bernard's Parish, and got to know volunteers from every region of the country, drifters, hippies, college kids, locals and other people with good will and free time. We also drove around the area and talked to the people who came through the camp, and while the individual stories of residents rebuilding and reestablishing themselves were inspiring, the totality of the city still reeks of death and obliviation. Most of the houses were still spray-painted on the front with the number of dead found inside, and piles of debris still clutter the fronts of the abandoned businesses and neighborhood sidewalks. The exceptions, like the French quarter, were generally the areas that were never badly damaged in the first place.
Nonetheless I noticed that people in Louisiana are extremely gregarious, as there seems to be not any social barrier that has to be crossed before getting into detailed conversations. It worked to my advantage when a chatty waiter/bartender at a Cajun restaurant hurled trivia questions between taking our orders and was excited enough when I knew that Babe Ruth and Elvis Presley died on the same day that he gave me a free shot tequila, tequila enough that it actually soothed my throat instead of burning a hole through it. At the gas store the next day I filled up Kelley's tank,
"I'd like 25 dolalrs on that car on pump 7 and are these pies any good? I see them around the counter here everywhere."
"Yes, they're very good."
"Oh these these are the best. Which one do you have? Oh, the lemon, that's a good one. You should also get the banana or chocolate, which are best chilled, the chocolate chilled with a scoop of ice cream on the side, or the apple pie, that's best warmed over with a scoop of ice cream. You're not from around here?"
"No, Texas."
"where?
"Austin-"
I was stationed tehre when I was in the military, near Austin, it's a great city, let's see...there's 3rd street, 4th street, 5th street..."
As I walked out a lady who seemed neither desperate nor crazy asked us for a few bucks for gas. (This request was made matter-of-factly and I noticed that I never really saw that when I was in Sweden. Only once did I break down and ask for money from strangers. First I had to get the butterflies out of my stomach and mentally prepare myself to ask for the rough equivalent of one dime (one kronor) and then scanned the audience for the right person. I finally settled on a man who happened to be a Korean businessman who spoke neither English nor Swedish, and I had to to point out in his coin purse which likeness of Karl XVI Gustaf i needed.).
So, the lady got her gas and my banana pie, at at room temperature at the gas pump, was delicious.