New Orleans Redux No. 1: From my river to your river
Revisiting an off-the-wall "what to do in New Orleans" list, circa 2001.
Romanian poet Andrei Codrescu used to be one of New Orleans’ famous literary citizens. Now he lives in New York City. When he lived here, he wrote an essay collection, New Orleans Mon Amour, which you can spot in pretty much every bookstore in town. That book was my introduction to the New Orleans School for the Imagination, once HQ’d on St. Peter Street. I wrote Mr. Codrescu a letter asking about it, and never heard back. So I dug around for more information. The only trace of NOSI I could find was a mention in a syndicated travel piece by John Bordsen, circa January 2001, where Mr. Codrescu advised visitors on what they should do while in New Orleans.
In his usual trickstery fashion, Codrescu gave Borsden a list of 10 ideas that if followed to the letter could result in embarassment, confusion or possibly arrest by the NOPD. A few required reading AC’s books. Doing all of the things on the list sounded like a lark, but also a way to contrast pre-9/11, pre-Katrina New Orleans with the city we moved to a year ago.
We’ve decided to work our way through the list, posting No. 1 and 2 early to celebrate our one-year anniversary (December 30!) as New Orleans residents.
No. 1: “Bring a bottle of water from your local river and empty it into the Mississippi at the Moonwalk at dawn.”
Bordsen described The Moonwalk as “a slender ribbon of park perched on the levee between the French Quarter and the river,” six feet above current, and with a view that was “not astounding.” Part of the not-astounding view was the Natchez, a “a steamboat that does jazz excursions. Nothing special.” More impressive to his eye: a 855-long Carnival cruise ship gliding into view, which allowed him to making eye contact with the people hanging out on the 10 passenger decks.
“Get closer to the Mississippi, perhaps as would a slow-basking crocodile,” he continued. “Nineteen wooden steps on the Moonwalk lead you down a small, roped-off landing where dark eddies stream 10 feet beyond reach. The river here is mightly enough to be silent and discreet. A glass of tap water from home is insignificant. This is where sprinkler runoff in Montana and retired snow from Minnesota and Pennsylvainia passed into view.
“It is here that the brewery leftovers from St. Louis finally give up the ghost. Clusters of empty 1-liter bottles are wedged among the riprap like stranded seashells.”
In October, we visited St. Louis to attend Artica, and decided to gather some water so we could start tackling this list. On the morning we headed home, we motored down to Laclede’s Landing, one of the only places in town where you can get to the river, carefully skooching down the levee bricks to fill up our container. Just as we turned around to head back, Thomas noticed our car door was wide open, and some jerk on a bike was about to go riffling through our stuff. (You can read Thomas’s account of that sitch here.)
Disaster avoided, we headed home without having to file a police report with the SLPD. With all that extra time on our hands, we made a wide detour to visit Transylvania, Louisiana, both in homage to AC and in the spirit of the season (long live the bat water tower!).
Because we took the long way home, with the river water sloshing around in a plastic container wedged under a hot car seat, it made my eyes water when I finally poured it into the river here. Perhaps undiluted “brewery leftovers,” fermenting in the heat made it so pungent. Anyway, it was the perfect weird-weather day with an outrageously stormy pink and gray sky. It felt right.
We diverged from AC’s instructions just a bit. First: no one in our house gets out of bed at 4:30 a.m. The French Quarter can be off-putting any time of day, and we live closer to Crescent Park (which connects to the Moonwalk, so maybe not so much of a cheat?). Crescent Park didn’t exist in 2001 — it’s a post-Katina project that was seen as “an unprecedented opportunity to reevaluate a languishing stretch of waterfront and to supplement New Orleans’ unique character, unusual street grid, and historic architecture.”
We usually get to the park by walking over the arched bridge and then head straight to the river, where I say “hi” to a very small pine tree growing in the rotting wood of the Piety Street Pier. We listen to the riverboat calliope, and sometimes get the chance to have the very strange experience of making eye contact with people hanging out on cruise ship balconies, like the vacationers on this Norwegian Cruise Lines ship we spotted earlier this year.
When the weather is slightly less rainy and cold — and the Mardi Gras crowds are gone — we plan to walk the whole 1.4-mile length of Crescent Park. Maybe when we go back to St. Louis for a visit, we’ll further the H20 foreign exchange program by dipping into the water at the Moonwalk, then pouring it into the river on the levee at Laclede’s Landing.
Or maybe we’ll jar up another bit of STL water and pour it into the river at the Moowalk after the St. Anne’s Walking Parade on Mardi Gras Day. Or maybe we’ll be too busy ticking off all the other tasks on this insane list.
Thanks, anniversaries, and New Orleans Redux No. 2
Thank you to new subscribers Michelle P., Jess C., John C., Ismailalilou, Hubeth, Ellie L., Kim C., and Scott A. You are appreciated.
Historiola! is about to turn one. Thanks so much for reading this year, and for being so gracious and understanding as I navigated the wobbles and bumps of being a brand-new MFA student.
The first post went up on Twelfth Night 2023. As we approach our second Twelfth Night (and second Joan of Arc parade) in New Orleans, I’ll be working on some changes and improvements to this li’l newsletter. Stay tuned. Till then, look for the next installment of Codrescu’s NOLA list on Sunday, featuring a visit to William Faulkner’s old digs.
We’ll keep working through the rest of the list during the first few months of 2024 … just to warn you: there are a couple of doozies on there!
I took classes at the New Orleans school for the Imagination in 2002! The specific address was 701 Dauphine St, New Orleans, LA 70116, the Gold Mine Saloon. Our teacher was David Brinks (still very active poet) and we would have classes sometimes in his dining room, sometimes the living room, sometimes the Gold Mine bar itself. Those were absolutely irreplaceably incredible days.
I forgot all about Andrei Codrescu. I remember the sound of his voice clearly from when he used to have some regular gig on NPR. I don't remember what the show was, but I do remember that he frequently worked New Orleans into it. Also, the fact that your bottle is a recycled Mod Podge jar really impressed me because I don't think I've ever even come close to getting to the bottom of a jar before it was time to chuck the whole thing out.