I’m back in New Orleans. I arrived one week ago with a few boxes, a “new” 42-year old bike, and—for a couple days at least—my dad.
He had offered to drive me down. The plan is that I’ll stay here a few months and keep building up my career as an author. I’ll also be looking for a more permanent residence, so that I’ll have a place to land here every time I come back. It does seem to happen quite often, after all.
I’m, never sure if I’ll still love this city until I get back. During the drive I thought about how slow everything is, how expensive it is, and how bartenders glare at strangers like convicts. I worried it wouldn’t be magical anymore.
But then I stepped out of the car and smelled the clean swamp air; I saw the hanging moss and Creole cottages; we spent some time sitting on a porch, just because. I always love this place just as much as the last time.
The Art Haus
Before I landed I made arrangements with a friend of a friend, which is the best way to get anything done in New Orleans. This particular gent owns an old plantation manor in the Bywater, the Boheaux fantasyland of the city. The house is a wreck, and my friend is doing his best to shake 170 years of decline out of its bones. It looks more like a demolition site than a home.
But, he told me, there is a little private room on the second floor, at the back of the house. It has a loft bed and a private bath. Normally it’s his room, but he’s leaving for a long trip to New York, and he’s happy to rent it.
Sounds like a good place for a writer to write.
The room opens onto a side porch. It’s not as dirty as I feared, nor as finished as you might hope. I could afford somewhere nicer—somewhere that looks respectable—but I’ve done that enough. I don’t feel any more comfortable in the gilded places than I do in the rough ones, as long as I have a silent spot to work. And if I save money, there’ll be more for a down payment on a house.
So we hauled an old writing desk into the room, and I made sure the wi-fi works. Good enough.
Briefly, the first night, I did get apprehensive. The menagerie of unwashed pots in the kitchen, the mosquitoes drifting through the screen on my door; what if I’d made a mistake? But then I heard a violin. I went out on the porch, stared at the moon, and listened to the music drift through the magnolias. I didn’t mind being there at all.
The roommates also sold me. It’s a mansion, so even with five of us we never step on toes. As far as I can tell they’re all artists of one kind or another. Greg, who restores historical homes, lives on the premises in exchange for his labor. Ryan, who has the only finished room, tells me he spends his days reading philosophy—by which I mean actual philosophers, not self-help blogs. He shares the room with his girlfriend Winnie, who almost never speaks. “It’s hard living with such an extrovert,” he told me.
I like being surrounded by these people. Good conversation is on tap when I want it, and creativity begets creativity. As my friend Cole told me, “Some day your biographer is gonna write about about how you all meet at this house, before you were famous.”
I’ve decided to call it the Art Haus.
Praise to the Gods of the Nile
Of course, Hallowe’en is approaching. This is my favorite holiday in New Orleans—more so than even Mardi Gras. Hallowe’en is at the beginning of the festival season, when people are still fresh. The weather is better. And the mood suits me.
As usual, we have a theme. My friend Cole was determined that she would be Cleopatra this year. (Yes, I told her it’s overdone; and yes, she will make it amazing anyway.) I decided to be Horus, the hawk-headed deity of the Egyptian pantheon. Pretty soon Cole’s boyfriend got on the bandwagon. He forsook dressing as Caesar and called dibs on Anubis, the jackal-headed god, instead.
Add in a friend visiting from up north, who will be Isis (the goddess, not the terrorist movement), and we’ve got a pretty neat little pantheon.
We build everything by hand. My Horus mask has several hundred hand cut feathers, and Cole just finished adding real gold leaf to the Anubis mask. I can’t be sure, but we might just outdo our past costumes.
We may also build a mobile pyramid full of beer to follow us, but I’m not certain we’ll have time to finish it.
(Yes, there will be pictures.)
The Next Adventure
Not everything in New Orleans is easy. I liken her to a courtesan, one who knows just what to say but always ends up costing more than agreed. Even that is part of her charm: she’s a city of blues, of Vodou, of letting les bon temps rouler. You take the bad and the good together here, which is part of why I like it.
It will be a few months of writing, saving and house-shopping. Meanwhile, the Giant is safe in Yucatán; new stories are almost ready to share (more on that soon), and the Adventure across the Americas is waiting, whenever I’m ready.
Which leaves me with just one question. What should I name the new bike?