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Articles Conference Reviews |
2007GerbenNOLA Description I have a long history of traveling places, swallowing them whole in short periods of time, and then forever offering my impressions as if I were a seasoned resident, reliving the best of times in short, poignant memories. I can sum up entire locations in short descriptions, and back them up with anecdotes and evidence based on the few places I stayed at, drank at, or stopped long enough to take a picture of or read an informational sign about. I can tell you about my trip to Alaska (4 days, Denali, “beautiful, expansive”), Vancouver (1 day, Stanley Park, “clean, cosmopolitan”), or Amsterdam (2 days, Anne Frank House, “lovely, historic”). Of course I stretch these prompts into entire travel-guide worthy tales describing the people, sights, and histories of these often-exotic places. But before you write off my—or anyone’s, really—scant experiences as trite or ill-informed, consider that I’ve lived in cities that so overwhelm me now with nostalgic stories that I find it hard to describe them in any coherent way. I was in San Francisco for over 2 years, but can now only mumble my way through stories of burritos, cold summers, and…well, even now I’m having a hard time finishing this list of three. I could repeat this convolution in regaling you with my less-than-a-year life in New York, where I ate a lot of hot dogs, learned to live among cockroaches, and experienced many scary subway cars at 3 a.m. This is all to say that there’s something wonderful about being able to crystallize an entire experience—whether observed or imagined—in a short amount of time by either running to every possible tourist site within a short radius of my hotel, or merely trying to maintain a daily routine within a new geography that’s not necessarily amicable to it. I suppose I was a little bit of both at this year’s CCCC; and so I submit this review of New Orleans in all its ignorant, rushed, and cliché glory. Obviously we need to start with the casino. Harrah’s Casino is situated directly between the two main hotels of the conference, and so seemed unavoidable. Likewise, once inside, the casino’s ubiquitous slot machines are arranged in concentric circles even Virgil couldn’t lead you out of. That being said, I stayed in New Orleans for 3 nights, and ended every single night (for a variety of reasons) within the friendly confines of this neon palace. Truth be told, it was actually quite a nice casino. Although people smoked, I could still wear the same jeans two days in a row. The drinks were complimentary a la Las Vegas, and all joking aside, it was laid out in a really comfortable and spacious way. Non-Nevada casinos can be pathetic places: the glitz and ridiculousness of Vegas (or even Reno) can often be overshadowed by the sad denizens of misplaced hope. But Harrah’s in NOLA revealed something that—as it turns out—I encountered everywhere I went in the city those few days: an incredible amount of humanity. Not only were the people I encountered nice and gracious, but they were happy (at least to me) to be where they were. There was no trapped sense of isolation or malaise. People were proud and talkative and so sincere I even questioned (briefly) my own anxiousness to change clothes and spend my evening hours on Bourbon St. While crossing the street back to the Hilton one afternoon, I bumped into Cynthia Selfe and Gail Hawisher. Gail told me that even though she had been to New Orleans several times before, this time felt “different.” When I asked her why, she explained how the residents seemed to be taking time to communicate their appreciation more, and how we weren’t necessarily being seen as mere tourists just passing through, but as friends returning after some time away. (Admittedly Gail didn’t speak the latter “friend” part, but what is the protocol for citing a near-celebrity-role-model you happen to bump into while crossing the street?) But she was right, and after realizing this, I permanently unplugged my iPod in order to hear the St. Charles streetcar driver yelling at SUVs that were blocking his intersection, or razzing his daily riders for not pulling the stop cord in advance; I sat at the bar—instead of a solitary table—at a French Quarter restaurant where I ordered a blackened alligator po’boy, drank a delicious Abita Amber, and talked with the bartender about the slow Thursday night traffic; and I readily made myself friends with anyone I met in an elevator, hallway, or sidewalk. And that is where NOLA met CCCC, or the other way around, for me. Nearly everything I did that week was alone: I enjoyed buffer chairs in every panel attended, I ate on the fly when I smelled something good, and I saw sites and took pictures as I ran from recommended place to recommended place. But at the end of the day, whether at the Hilton or Harrah’s, I was able to talk about my day as if it were just another in my long string of days in New Orleans. I met a lot of friends, and a lot of friendly people who will now live on as friends in hindsight. It was incredibly fortunate, for me, that CCCC was in NOLA this year because my brief, descriptive anecdotes that I pass on to all of my friends in Michigan or California or wherever won’t just be about the Hurricanes at Pat O’Briens (I admit, I had 1, “sweet, strong”) or the muffaletta at Central Grocery (1/2, “huge, delicious”), but about the people; the locals, the scholars, the friends. Whether or not I’ll ever return to New Orleans remains to be seen. Even then, whether I’ll encounter the good feeling present that early April week seems hard to imagine. My point, though, seems to be that it doesn’t much matter. I’ve given NOLA a pushpin in my mental map, and when people ask me later what it was like, I’ll have myriad stories that won’t betray my brief three days on the bank of the Mississippi. |