Quotidians

I know I said this blog would be all about New Orleans, but some days living in New Orleans is just like living in any other city. Like today, when I had to do the nasty deed of cleaning out my fridge.

Surprisingly, this is a task that I semi-enjoy. Slightly repulsive, yes, but it's a fairly quick and satisfying cleaning job, as far as chores go. Of course, the repulsiveness and the quickness work in sort of an inverse relationship--the nastier the fridge situation, the longer it takes and the harder it gets to hold back the gag reflex. Tonight's fridge wasn't too bad, but it did prompt some musings.

Thought #1: Is there anything that can traverse the spectrum of tantalizing to disgusting quite as quickly as leftovers in a Tupperware? You cook a delicious dinner one night, and by the next evening it has already lost about half of its appeal. The next day, you only consent to eat it because, a) throwing it away would be a waste, and b) you're too lazy to cook something else when you have basically edible food that is just a quick 60 second microwave trip away from your dinner plate. However, if you forget about it for a few days (or weeks, let's be honest), it will quickly morph into such a horrific-looking and smelling blob of goo that it takes all of your courage and gastrointestinal fortitude to dispose of it.

Who hasn't come across their own personal version of leftover Armageddon hiding, no, LURKING in the back of the fridge, waiting for the time to sprout legs and slowly sludge its way into power, infesting all of your beautiful new groceries with evil and stench? One of the most frightening things to discover is the large white yogurt container sporting an expiration date from sometime around when dinosaurs roamed the Earth. You reach out a hand in trepidation, lest the live cultures in the yogurt (what the hell? live cultures?? that has never sounded good to me) have bloated the plastic beyond its endurance causing it to spontaneously burst at the slightest pressure. Okay, I've never actually had a Tupperware explode on me, but it's still a fear. Anyway, the worst thing about the yogurt containers is that they're made of white, opaque plastic, so you have no idea what situation you're about to uncover until the lid is off and your nose and eyes have been assaulted by 4 month old yogurt. If you've never witnessed the horror that is putrid yogurt, I hope you never have to. It's traumatizing.

I actually stumbled upon one of these terrible yogurt containers a few fridge-cleaning episodes ago. The bad part about living with roommates is that you never know whose leftovers are whose, so you have absolutely no idea how long some things have been living in your fridge. At least when you live alone, you can make some guess as to the origination/identity of leftover blobs. Anyhow, I have this fairly innocent-looking Yoplait container in my hand, with its pretty flowers and purple scripty writing, but I'm not fooled. I've opened enough of these to know to be cautious, so I take it to the sink. I set it down gingerly, and slowly peel off the lid, and

AAARCHGGHRA! What IS THAT???!?

I shriek in horror, drop the container as if it had grown teeth and taken a bite at me, and run off gagging, choking, and flailing my contaminated hands. Whatever I just saw, it was completely liquid, it was the color of urine, and it smelled like a salty dead animal. I've seen some nasty yogurt, but this is nightmare-inducing. After I calm myself down, I gird my loins for a second attempt--I will not be defeated by this. I'm a grown-up, dammit.

Shoulders squared, face averted, breath held: I open the container again and dump it quickly in the sink with the water running full blast. I can't help but take a glance out of the corner of my eye--it's a like a train wreck, you can't not look. And what do I see, but noodles swimming in the sink. Noodles! In yogurt?? What is this abomination? Then I put things together...the liquid, the color, the disturbingly not-yogurt smell: I just dumped out someone's chicken noodle soup.

Thought #2: Why is it such a terrible taboo to admit to leaving something in the fridge until liquid becomes solid, solid becomes liquid, black becomes white, smooth becomes fuzzy? If you've lived with roommates, this is an especially common situation. You're cleaning out the fridge, battling moldy monsters, and all you want is to clear up the mystery of how they took up residence behind that bag of grapes, and how no one noticed that smell until it took over the whole residential block. Somehow, everyone has developed leftover amnesia. No one is responsible. This is worrisome for one of three reasons. 1) one of your roommates is a dirty rotten liar, 2) someone's forgetfulness is so extreme that your fridge has turned into a biohazard and they can't even remember that they put it there, in which case you should worry about that person's ability to live and function alone, 3) some of your leftovers have been in there for so long that they have developed the capacity to reproduce, and the result is this mutant, zombie spawn. I'm not sure which option is the worst.

That's it for tonight's installment of Misadventures in Fridgeland. Hope I haven't permanently ruined anyone's appetite. Maybe I should include a disclaimer at the beginning of this post. Eh, you'll survive.

Nitty-Gritty

The GNO is a prosaic name for a glorious thing--the bridge that spans the Mississippi River and offers commuters a beautiful view of the New Orleans skyline silhouetted against the setting sun. I get to cross the Greater New Orleans Bridge three times a week on my way home from class, and no matter what I'm feeling before I hit that bridge, it all evaporates as I come over the rise and see my city. As lovely as this view is, however, my favorite parts are hidden in the streets and neighborhoods within that larger picture. Some days, I can't wait to get off that bridge and back on the streets. Some days, I wish I could stay on the bridge.

The streets are full of life, as well as the myriad of quirks and frustrations that make up daily life in any city. The nitty-gritty, if you will. New Orleans seems to have more than its fair share of this nitty-gritty. Sometimes these quirks are endearing, but sometimes they just piss me off. Take this weekend, for instance. My roommate A and I were trying to install a new showerhead, and we quickly discovered that our new, fancy, eco-friendly showerhead did not fit our old, crappy, sub-standard shower pipe. Not only does the old pipe not fit the new head, it apparently doesn't fit any plumbing converters, adapters, bushings, etc. etc. found in the city of New Orleans. To deepen the mystery, no one that we consulted with had heard of a pipe that didn't fit any other plumbing parts. You know the answer we got? "Well, that's New Orleans for you." Ha. Ha. The quirks are cute and charming until you've got one in your shower.

Sometimes you're on the bridge enjoying the view, and sometimes you're standing in the tub cursing your too-small pipe and resisting the urge to throw the roll of useless Teflon tape at your roommate's face. And somewhere between or within the lofty heights and the nitty-gritty, there's life.

St. Charles

Confession: I have told many of you that St. Charles Ave in New Orleans is the namesake for the St. Charles on the Monopoly board game. That is false. Very sad news since that was one of my staple "interesting facts about New Orleans," but I felt you all deserved the truth. In case you were wondering, St. Charles Place in Monopoly was actually named after a restaurant or something in Atlantic City, New Jersey. And it doesn't even exist anymore--it's now called the Showboat Casino. Laaame. I might just keep telling people that Monopoly got it from our St. Charles...it's better that way. Most of the stories told by tour guides down here are of questionable authenticity anyway; I'll just be in keeping with the local tradition.

Anyway, whether or not our St. Charles is worthy of a Monopoly square, it's still pretty glorious. I think I can safely credit this street for inspiring me to move to New Orleans. For the first month that I lived here, I was constantly holding up traffic as I gawked at the mansions that lined the street, each one more impressive than the last. I've gotten used to the houses now; after strolling innumerable times down the cracked sidewalk and admiring each at my leisure, I've grown to see them as old friends. The beauty of St. Charles for me is now in the trees--I never tire of the way that the sunlight dapples through the oaks along the avenue, shading the streetcars as they clang down the tracks. The oaks are like sentinels, an honor guard over the grandest lane in the city, escorting visitors and locals down St. Charles with quiet, unassuming style. They soften the facade of the mansions, making all that money a little less intimidating, because the oaks are so familiar and approachable. No one is intimidated by oaks.

My other favorite part of St. Charles are the beads. Beads, beads everywhere! Almost more beads than leaves, it seems. Not just during Mardi Gras--all year long. I was driving down St. Charles today and was struck by the number of beads still draped in the trees, along the streetcar line, on the power lines, even hanging on the street signs. Remember, Mardi Gras was in February--these beads are at least 6 months old, if not older. Talk about tenacity! Some might view the beads as a visual blight on the beauty of the street, but for me, the beads are the essence of New Orleans. Even on the most statuesque avenue in the city, there are still traces of a party all year long. You can never forget that you're in New Orleans, because the beads are always there to remind you. What other city can give you that?

Laissez les bon temps rouler!

The lightning is pretty standard here, though maybe perceived as brighter because of the shock you know is coming. Tremendous, sharp thunderclaps followed by a rumble that stampedes over the city till it passes through you and you feel the power of the storm in your knees. The rain is the real difference though; completely soaking, each drop containing enough water to drench you on its own (or so it seems). If you get caught without an umbrella, there's no hope. Of course, an umbrella offers little more than a semblance of protection, because the angle of the rain always sends it cascading upwards in defiance of God and gravity. My theory is that the rain here is somehow wetter than other rains. I'm pretty sure that 10 seconds in my bathroom shower would leave me less soaked than ten seconds in a New Orleans thundershower.

We're proud of our storms though, the way you're proud of the hottest temperatures or heaviest snowstorms in whatever city you call home. New Orleanians are fanatics about their city, even to a degree that impresses me, a native Texan (the state that has perfected geographical egotism). It's a little different here, though; there's also a degree of pride in what the city has endured--akin to the pride in which a soldier wears a battle wound. It's an interesting mix of festivity and fierceness. "Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die." That's half of the attitude in a city living below sea level between a massive river and the ocean (it's crazy! every time I think of it...it's just crazy that we live here!), but the other half of the attitude is, "Restore, Rebuild, Recover." Somewhere between the fatalism and the future, that's where we live.

I've never experienced such a unique place, and there are so many moments I want to share with you. A Picasso doppelganger in pinstriped pants, a carefully buttoned blazer, and clean black Converses strolling down the street past my window seat in a smoky jazz club. The middle-aged man in a motorcycle jacket and a purple tie-dye dress whom I met in the aisle of the local grocery. The beautiful woman sitting across from me at the bar in a red dress (so tight it looks painted on) who turns her head to reveal a pronounced Adam's apple. I'm surrounded by the most interesting collection of people I've ever seen. The city is no less surprising and colorful. I can't wait to tell you about it.