October 15, 2005

This is The Ashland Daily Tidings International Café, an online venue where Ashlanders or former Ashlanders abroad can share their thoughts and experiences from around the world through words, pictures, sound recordings or video. Send submissions to Myles Murphy, mmurphy@dailytidings.com.

New Orleans: Up Close and Personal

By Michelle Zundel
For the Tidings

Whether it is built below sea level or vulnerable to wildfires, we are inextricably connected to the place we call home.

I returned to my hometown of New Orleans on Oct. 6 to view the devastation and assist my displaced family. My first impression of the widespread change was the lack of color: The vibrant palette of the region has transformed from lush green and vivid hues to a uniform grayish brown, as though misguided gardeners had planted dead hedges and gray sod in rows of silt. The devastation defies words. We need new terms like ravagescape or horror zone to provide more apt descriptors. Catastrophe is too commonplace.

Driving around the city, my mother and I spoke in whispers, as if at a funeral. Fallen trees revealed too much sky; crushed cars and damaged homes caused disorientation even in familiar neighborhoods. Broken bits of civilization were scattered out of context. Boats with masts akimbo were berthed in trees, abandoned along the interstate and piled like driftwood in the marinas. Traffic lights and street lamps lay like mangled paper clips. We proceeded with caution, knowing that accidents could easily happen and that the safety net had frayed.

Graffiti is now ubiquitous. It’s not gang tags but rather the spray-painted X’s of search-and-rescue teams. Every quadrant of the X contained information: who searched the building, the date, the number of bodies and the number of animals; alongside, the species of the animal was noted and when it was last fed. We made a sport out of deciphering the search teams’ initials: LSP, TFW, USAR.

In the Lakeview neighborhood, where my sister, Laura, and her husband lost their home under 12 feet of water, there were often two sets of X’s at different heights on the same house, depicting the waterline on each date. The rescuers were thorough in their search for life.

I stepped over fallen limbs and silt deposits as I approached my sister’s front door. Search and rescue must have used a sledgehammer to enter the house: The door stood ajar, with the brass knob flattened. It was difficult to recognize this backdrop to so many family gatherings now that the ceiling plaster and drywall had caved in and the black mold had taken hold. A kitchen stool was lodged diagonally across the stairwell like a broken arm hanging limply at an unnatural angle. Abby and Grant’s toys lay in the rubble. Laura and Curtis will return alone to salvage what they can from the second floor — this is no place for children right now. In fact, in two days in the city I didn’t see a single child.

The massive piles of discarded belongings in many neighborhoods bear witness to the toil of local residents. Mattresses, sofas and lamps lie atop mounds of carpeting, drywall and insulation. A common sight were the countless refrigerators at the curbs, bound and gagged with duct tape. One displayed the words, “I love NOLA.com” — that’s the Times Picayune Web site that was such a lifeline to those of us seeking specific information about loved ones and neighborhoods during this crisis. Our favorite refrigerator depicted classic, irreverent New Orleans humor: It bore the spray-painted X of a faux search-and-rescue crew, noting the date and the number of flies found within. On the front of the fridge it simply read, “Feed my maggots.” These appliance casualties smelled too offensive to reclaim.

Much has been written about the odors of New Orleans. The natural humidity hurries decay, so under normal circumstances the city emits a putrid perfume of rot, revelry and gumbo. The new olfactory assault combines sewage, chemicals, musty houses, rotten vegetation, freshly cut lumber, and various indiscernible smells. The nose and the brain struggle to reconcile the stimuli.

Not knowing what to expect, we met the insurance adjuster at Mom’s bed and breakfast in the French Quarter. We were fortunate; the Claiborne Mansion, built in the 1850s, survived another hurricane with only minor damage. By chance, a door to the courtyard had blown open and circulated fresh air during her six-week absence, denying the mold a foothold here. There was a lot of debris to clear on the grounds, and in two rooms the roof leaked and sections of the ceiling collapsed. The pool had devolved into a grotesque swamp of brown sludge and floating vegetation. The Times Picayune reported that a 3-foot alligator has taken up residence in one Lakeview pool. We hope that’s not the case here.

As our path turned toward Jackson Square, two familiar sounds filled the surreal atmosphere: The riverboat calliope played “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and carriage drivers called out, “French Quarter and cemetery tours!” It was a glimpse of normalcy in a sea of anything but. While Pat O’Brien’s remains shuttered, fans of Bourbon Street will be glad to hear that many establishments are open for business. We stopped to speak with a man who worked at Snug Harbor, the premier jazz club in the city. We had seen the club’s owner on CNN. He had stayed at Snug Harbor and formed the Frenchmen Street Posse to provide an anchor in the neighborhood and protect his property. A sign in the window reads, “Fear not, brothers and sisters. Jazz City will swing again.”

There were other signs of success in the recovery effort. The streets were clear of debris, and someone installed stop signs at the intersections without functioning traffic lights. A new plant has sprouted up from the neutral grounds (we don’t call them medians in New Orleans): wire-legged, mass-produced plastic signs advertising myriad services to assist with recovery and rebuilding. House-gutting, tear-out, and “gentle interior removal” are new industries for entrepreneurs along the Gulf Coast. My favorite sign simply asked, “Got Mold?” with the phone number of a cleaning service.

The coughing began as soon as we left the city. Without the enthralling visuals, our bodies acknowledged the grit we had breathed all day long. The particulates clogged our throats and lungs but didn’t last beyond that day.

For a time, wind and water conspired to destroy lives and property, void social contracts, and tear the fabric of the community. The world was turned upside down, and rules did not apply. Strangers spray-painted homes and forcibly entered them, and lone dogs manned boats along flooded interstates. The headlines are now shifting away from the Gulf Coast, as our attention turns to the flood victims in Latin America and the earthquake survivors in South Asia. Interesting times these, when forces of nature are the news.

Ashland resident Michelle Zundel is the principal of Walker School. She has founded the nonprofit organization EvacueeRelief.org to raise funds to assist the victims of Hurricane Katrina who relocate to southern Oregon. The colorful wristbands on the EvacueeRelief.org Web site offer an international symbol of solidarity with all those who have suffered as a result of this natural disaster.