My days so far…

I get up at 6 for coffee and a banana and then a run through my neighborhood, past huge lavish gardens and houses that start at $500,000, even in a nationwide slumping real estate economy.  On my single street, caught between the lush grasses and rows of Audis and Lexus SUVs that line the streets closest to us, a few of our houses still bear Katrina’s X-marks-the-spot insignia.  Some of our houses are still abandoned, weeds and grasses grown as tall as my waist, windows boarded up, bricks and stone crumbling into the jungle of the backyard, signs posted that request information about the owner.  But one street to the left and right of me I run along freshly paved sidewalks and massive columned houses that look as though they were transported somewhere else for the storm.  Surprisingly everyone waves and says hi, no matter which street I am jogging on. 

Two days ago one of my major cross streets was blocked off because a house collapsed of its own weight and free will. The neighbors and I walked down to the corner, some with paper bags in their hands, others with tiny toddlers in expensive, tricycle-like strollers, and we watched as the fire department and city officials stood perplexed and staring at the monstrous instability that might crush all of us at any moment.  We grew bored and restless and wandered home to sit on our porches and talk about how things had changed and how so many things hadn’t.

What have I noticed most since arriving? It’s beautiful here.  The most unique and distinct kind of beauty I’ve ever seen in a city.  It is striking in its limping determination, its deterioration, lovely even in its most derelict and downtrodden parts of the city because the houses are almost all scrolling and cursive and lavish no matter how tiny.  And the banana trees, tropical gardens, palms growing as tall as two story buildings, and tiny lizards scurrying through my backyard all remind me enough of my childhood in Florida to endear to me this place.  To make me feel welcome and home. 

And so I look forward to biking to Whole Foods where I can stare at the cold crispness of the produce there and the isles and isles of glorious vegetarian food that would have been laughed out of Belleville.  And I look forward to the open-air giant farmer’s market Saturdays and Tuesdays, markets that sound comfortingly similar to Soulard in St. Louis.  I look forward to more nights on my front porch with my neighbors, each of us switching and swapping beers and sips of liquor bottles and stories about life before Katrina, life in Houston, life growing up in Catholic school and the projects, and my life back home teaching at a place that feels as remote and far from here as another planet feels from Earth.