I’ve now lived in New Orleans for a week. A total of 7 days. 168 hours if we want to sound dramatic. And 10,080 minutes if we want to be annoying. Significant life belongings still lie in my car suffocating so publicly through Maggie’s fishbowl windows. I don’t want to try and fit in today. I’m not ready to fit in. The streets are out to confuse me. The neighborhoods change every two blocks. There are potholes. And other potholes. And lights. The bad kind too. Stoplights only. Otherwise the blocks are dark. And it’s dirty. It’s confusing and it’s relentlessly tacky. All “go’s” are spelled “geaux,” even on the news channels. It’s French inspired. French isn’t tacky of course, it’s chic. But when you are not French trying to be French…you get tacky, you know? People paint their address on their garbage cans not as a helpful hint when you can’t see the address through the giant, unkept, jungle plant that I’m almost positive grows dirt and not bananas but as a protectant against the theft community. Everywhere is the same. Everywhere is quote on quote dangerous. Stay out of any neighborhood that ends in ward they say. No. Get over the ward hitch, the corner guy says. Gentrification, you guys. I go to all neighborhoods. I do. Purposely naive and unaltered by the stares that holler “girl, you must be lost.” People name drop chefs and then musicians. Two forums where my expertise lies low in fast food chains and contemporary country. So, I guess I don’t fit in. But on the outside you can’t tell. Someone told me I looked cool. I wish that went straight to my head. In any other circumstance I assure you it certainly would. But it only reached the furrow in my brow; I was pissed. Someone here thought I looked cool? I must look tacky. I’m being petty, aren’t I? I want everyone here to know I’m not like them. I’m not one of them. Not because of the complaining above but because I miss home. The humid air gets to me. It’s sweaty during the day and seeps cold into my bones at night. I’m being mean. I’m being ignorant to the effects of Katrina. I don’t care. I don’t want to fit in yet. I’m not ready. The library I intend to make mine doesn’t feel right and the Home Depot certainly doesn’t either. How could it? It doesn’t sell hot dogs on the weekends (they don’t want linger-ers…even though New Orleans in itself is one giant linger). And the attendant asks if you are ready for Mardi Gras. I hardly know what Mardi Gras is. There’s a naked baby hiding in a giant donut involved. I know that. I also know the giant donut doesn’t taste like a donut. I guess I know there are parades as prevalent as the potholes which I’ll go to because there will be people on stilts and one has to wonder if their strides are large enough to avoid these potholes littering the parades. Maybe, I only want my mom. I’m 24 and I want my mom. I also want someone to bring me coffee. I hate making my own coffee. That’s my only requirement for a boy. He has to make my coffee in the morning. I do not want to meet a boy here. But I’ve found New Orleans has one thing in common with Minnesota- everyone has grand ideas in setting you up. The boys here are grungy. So, he can’t be grungy and he has to make me coffee. And he has to back into his parking spaces which will help show he is not grungy. And it also helps people not want to set you up anymore. But that’s neither here nor there, I’m only being mean. I don’t even know who these kids are through their dirty T-shirts and newsies caps. That was descriptive not mean. Feel free to laugh at the newsies caps though. I always do. I’m rambling on because I’m not ready to succumb to the quintessential Buzzfeed list- ending a complaining spree with “but in the end I’d want it no other way” or some stupid crap like that. In the end, I want Home Depot to sell some goddamn hot dogs on the weekends and maybe then I’ll get over the potholes. See you when I see ya.
(For the record. I will like it here, eventually. It takes time, you know?)