New Orleans has been repeatedly suggested to me from friends, acquaintances, and books alike. From the names of the streets and places to the assumed cultural presence, a remembrance of Europe, like an intoxicated vein in the body, fills the avenues of the French Quarter. It has been described to me as a consented marriage between America and Europe. I can't quote directly, but Henry Miller proclaimed this area as the last hope in the U.S. The only remaining piece of inspired living.
Within me lies a passion for Europe. A dormant longing, wishes to express my human need to stumble drunkenly, although not necessarily from drink, through streets and alleys made with stone, and to absorb a transcendent level of peace sitting in outdoor cafes, enjoying sentences and grammatical acrobatics without grasping the meaning of paragraphs. I want to watch on with awesome laudation as two chess masters battle for the board in the prime of their lives. Europe envelop me. Welter me in common courtesy and let us drink until dawn when the only things left open are the harlots.
My expectations come to a boil and brim through a glassy eyed state of excited pleasure as I take in my first dose of New Orleans. The streets teem with people. I'm drinking a beer as we walk by people already at the threshold of inebriation. Houses and shops line my peripheral vision that help my mind construct a truer picture of France. My elation grows with my belly of beer.
A tinge of distaste is crawling up the dark side of my tongue. A sickness begins to make its way from my heart to my cognitive cogs. As we hack our way further into the Bourbon Street jungle, I notice novelty. A pathetic tourist attraction, like a sibling of wicked Las Vegas. It feels like the French Quarter is in chains, being flogged and forced to birth the product that is expected from many years of advertisement, whether malignant or benign. Nothing can stay pure in America. We choke anything that has any significance. The Grand Canyon has become a quick stop and "ooh-aah" on the way home. Carlsbad Caverns is lined with railings and suggestions colder than the cave itself and a gift shop poisoning its innards. The French Quarter of New Orleans is just a place to make money off the people who want 'the experience.' Everything in our land of liberty is a roadside attraction.
Perhaps this is the basis for the artist's desire for Europe. They've all ran to her. The only thing I can think, like a monkey with a miniature cymbal on the stage of my brain, is if Europe has become like America. I shudder but play it off as a chill from my sweating Perrier so that hope is not jinxed.
I couldn't possibly pick a favorite entry, but this has to be one of the top despite its depressing tone. I worry about America sometimes.
ReplyDeleteThis, in essence, is a complete description of how the capitalist views and actions of the United States have reduced this beautiful land that used to be wild and passionate into something to make a quick dime off of. I appreciate the insight.
ReplyDelete