As the nation writhes in turmoil, historian and writer Frank Perez looks through the lens of the past to ponder the French Quarter's future.
- by Frank Perez - photos by Frank Perez and Ellis Anderson Friday, May 29, 2020
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I receive an email from Leo Watermeier. Attached to it is a picture he took of a coyote in Armstrong Park. I think of the coyote spotted in a CBD parking garage at the beginning of the shutdown. My friend, Dr. Jeffrey Darensbourg, informs me that in Native mythology, coyotes were viewed as tricksters, a sign something strange was imminent. |
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Imminent strange was certainly the case on March 7, 1699, when Iberville and Bienville went sailing through Bulbancha and first spotted what would come to be modern day New Orleans. In his journal, Iberville noted three bison laying on the banks of the river in what is now the CBD. Upon seeing the expedition, the bison got up and walked away.
12:00 pm
Lunch is a pork chop with spinach.
1:00 pm
Walk Rupee to the vet. The 15 block walk takes longer than normal because Rupee has to sniff, inspect, and mark half a dozen things on each block. It's okay; we are not in hurry. I had hoped to take a break in Washington Square Park, but it was closed. I pause upriver on Royal and Frenchmen where Bernard de Marigny lived out the latter part of his life.
Before long Rupee and I are at the vet’s office. I’m not allowed in and am told they will call me when he’s ready to be picked up. Ordinarily I would have popped in across the street at the Phoenix. That is not to be. I look at the Starbucks. No. There was a time when a Starbucks in the Marigny, with all its corporate, bourgeois associations, was unthinkable. Times change.
I look at the boarded up Phoenix and remember the first time I visited the bar many moons ago. Then it occurs to me my friends Mike and Guy live around the corner. After a nice visit with them, the vet calls. Rupee is newly vaccinated, and my wallet is a bit lighter.
Before long Rupee and I are at the vet’s office. I’m not allowed in and am told they will call me when he’s ready to be picked up. Ordinarily I would have popped in across the street at the Phoenix. That is not to be. I look at the Starbucks. No. There was a time when a Starbucks in the Marigny, with all its corporate, bourgeois associations, was unthinkable. Times change.
I look at the boarded up Phoenix and remember the first time I visited the bar many moons ago. Then it occurs to me my friends Mike and Guy live around the corner. After a nice visit with them, the vet calls. Rupee is newly vaccinated, and my wallet is a bit lighter.
4:15 pm
News and social media are all Minneapolis. The coverage is repetitive, the story essential. The pundits call racism/slavery our nation’s “original sin.” The charge is true. The effects of our national sin extend to African American and Native communities, the latter of which represent the first enslaved people in Louisiana.
My thoughts turn to dinner.
Pere Antoine’s across the street from me is open, but I decide I’m not in the mood to go out. Not really that hungry, come to think of it.
My thoughts turn to dinner.
Pere Antoine’s across the street from me is open, but I decide I’m not in the mood to go out. Not really that hungry, come to think of it.
7:20 pm
On the couch with Chris and Rupee watching television, a barrage of thoughts. I think about the rioting, about racism, about white privilege. I think about how little things have changed. I think about the righteousness and volatility of anger.
I think about the city, the Quarter, reopening. Will it ever be like it was before? Will tourists return? And if so, in what numbers? And when? Which restaurants will survive, and which will close? How will all my friends in the service industry fare? Can restricting traffic in the Quarter really work? When will tours resume? How long will we have to wear masks in public? Will the bars open next week? How, exactly, does social distancing work in a bar after patrons drink a few cocktails?
I don’t know the answers. All I know is neighborhoods, like lives, inevitably change.
I think about the city, the Quarter, reopening. Will it ever be like it was before? Will tourists return? And if so, in what numbers? And when? Which restaurants will survive, and which will close? How will all my friends in the service industry fare? Can restricting traffic in the Quarter really work? When will tours resume? How long will we have to wear masks in public? Will the bars open next week? How, exactly, does social distancing work in a bar after patrons drink a few cocktails?
I don’t know the answers. All I know is neighborhoods, like lives, inevitably change.
Read Frank's previous entries, return to Hunkering Down blog or French Quarter Journal's home page.
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