JoelNothman.com

For those wondering, I didn’t end up taking the ticket to Alburquerque, so here I am in Louisiana during the hot and sweaty hurricane season. Many Americans along my travels had been a little bit wary about the idea of going to New Orleans, 10 months after hurricane Katrina caused the flooding of its streets, the devastation of its homes, the collapse of its businesses, and the exile of many of its people.

New Orleans is a city known very much for its life, and it certainly hasn’t given up on that image. Home to jazz and Loiuis Armstrong, Creole and voodo, Cafe du Monde and Cajun culture, the southern accent and a large African American community, and formerly one of the wildest Mardi Gras in the USA, even the airport was alive with jazz and swing and gospel and blues, and brightly coloured murals of musicians. Despite its overwhelming culture and hisrtory, the city also had (has?) the potential to be a second Sin City, with its casinos, and numerous gentlemen’s clubs on Bourbon St.

But New Orleans is also in rebirth and constant reconstruction. Many street sidewalks are still cordoned off with yellow-flagged rope as they are being refurbished. Some buildings have wooden boards along their first-level, some businesses still bear shattered window fragments on their floors, some homes have lines metres high where the water stayed some days before subsiding. Parking lots are empty, as are used-car sales lots. Although the tourist areas (in particular the French Quarter) were barely touched by the flooding from the north, they were near one of the main sites of refuge and so were subject to much looting. Many shops are closed in normal weekday hours. After all, as one attendant pointed out, if you had to rebuild your house and your business, which would you choose first?

Now might well be the time to buy property in New Orleans. Much has been left abandoned and only has the potential to grow in demand from here. On the other hand, many residents are still deciding whether they will stay or go, and what they will do next time a warning comes—run, or man the fort with rifle in hand. The tourist population is also very diminished, or so says Saleem (but I believe him), the Pakistani (now Texan) man who offered to show me around town after we met in the hostel, who had experienced the city in all its revelry in March 2005.

We left in the morning (on Thursday) after he offered to give me a ride into town, but then withdrew and decided we’d take the streetcar. After all, since the Hurricane, public transport in New Orleans (streetcars and buses) has been free. For some reason, we first visited the casino, although I tried to make the point that I’d just been to Vegas. Many have pointed out that casinos are good for free drinks—only with a $5 minimum in most machines (which you have to use for a waiter addresses your thirst) and a tip, Saleem ended up spending $12 on an alcohol-free pina colada, and I (for some/no reason) $6 on a glass of Pepsi when I had asked for Coke… So there you go, I had to leave Vegas to have my US gambling experience.

We wandered up to a shopping mall on the CBD’s edge, to find only a handful of shops open. Some seemed closed permanently, while others were stocked, but locked. While he had a vegetarian pizza there for lunch (having the woman serving not use the same tongs) we discussed similarities and differences between Muslim and Jewish food laws. It took a moment to clarify that I wouldn’t eat from such a place. But on the way out of the mall to look for a kosher restaurant I had found on shamash.org, we found a small cafe serving no meat and featuring New Orlean’s famous French doughnut, the beignet. So we got three of these very yummy (oily) buns for a small sum, in a bag filled with icing sugar, and headed out to the street.

It took a few minutes going up and down Chartres before I asked someone in another restaurant whether I’d be able to find Creole Kosher Kitchen if I’d kept searching. It was told that it’d closed. I later found out (on shabbat) that its owner had his house completely destroyed, and with the drop in tourists, it was no longer a worthwhile investment. I finally remembered on Saturday night to remove the entry from Shamash.org’s listing, only to find the entry gone and the page last updated 28th July… Curious!

Most of the remainder of the day I spent making my way around the French Quarter neighbourhood, formerly packed with tourists at this time of year. The area includes some interesting influences of French architecture, and is nice to walk around and see. One street is lined with strip joints, another with cafes, another with art galleries, others further with voodoo objects or beaded mardi gras paraphernalia. Further down there is a farmers’ market and a flea market, but I found that the farmers’ market had a distinct lack of fresh fruit—and the flea market was the same as most, only the t-shirts were themed New Orleans, Louisiana and Katrina.

On my way back home, I was stopped by a guy named Al with a harmonica, who first told me that his wife and kids were Jewish before offering me a song or 3 in exchange for a few dollars. He was very good—a little blues, a little boogie, not that I’m an expert of harmonica—and also a nice guy. (He claimed to be 61 years old but looked younger.) I’m told this is quite common: buskers coming up to tourists in the French quarter offering a short performance; others met a Human Jukebox who sang them some 70s classics. There are lots of “now hiring” signs around, but I guess they don’t appeal to 60-year-old musicians who instead compete for the attention of the few tourists in town.

Thursday night I spent talking with a few people at the hostel. (I also took a lift out with one of them to get some things from the supermarket, including a packet of bagels that are way too sweet and preservatives-filled, but also some kosher packet-soups which will hopefully come in handy.) The hostel itself is very different to the one in San Francisco. While in San Francisco a dorm meant 3-8 people in a room, each with a key to get into the hostel and into their room, here there are no keys. The dormed men just share one big room with lots of bunks. It’s not so uncomfortable, but nor is it so safe. There isn’t such a rigorous and constant cleaning activity as the staff would undertake in the Adelaide, which shows itself in the kitchen, bathrooms and elsewhere. If not in front of the TV, the hang-out place here is outside, on the front steps, by the pool, or at a table with a handful of beers (and a cigarette; a guitar, too, if lucky). In SF I surprisingly found to hand more often books than beers. Here they dispense them at a dollar a pop. More TV-watching too.

But the people are generally friendly. A surprising number of Americans (some staying for a while), but also the usual Brits and other assorted Europeans. On some of their suggestions I went to the New Orleans Museum of Art on Friday, where they are featuring an exhibition titled “Katrina Exposed”, and free entry for Louisiana residents (which it turns out I’m not). The gallery consists of photos and other works made by the people of New Orleans in the aftermath of the hurricane which cover the walls of the gallery. Also on exhibit is the work of Ansell Adams who is known for his breathtaking photography of America’s national parks. The regular collections showcased the art of different cultures (Asian, African, Oceanian, native-American, etc), a little look into a 19th-century Louisianan home, and some spectacular jewellery by Peter Carl Fabergé. But the Katrina exhibition was what most came to see, many locals reminiscing and shedding a tear when seeing some of the photos, which ranged from flooded streets, to corpses, to rallies, to musicians as the city vowed to live on.

Getting somewhere to stay for Shabbat had been surprisingly difficult after none of my phonecalls were answered on Thursday. So I followed them up with emails three Thursday night, and received three replies by phone on Thursday morning. The first was Rabbi Schiff of Beth Israel (which had been highgly damaged in the Lakeview-area flooding) who informed me he was no longer in New Orleans, but that he might be able to try sort something out. The second was a voicemail from Chabad in Meiterie (not so close). The third was made while I was speaking to Rabbi Schiff, so came up as a number on my phone. Calling it back I got a little confused, but realised that it was the most hassle-free option. So I spent Shabbat with the family that runs Chabad in Uptown New Orleans, right behind Tulane University.

It is Rabbi and Mrs Rivkin’s home, with a son and two daughters (out of nine) still at home. Or rather their son, also Rabbi Rivkin, had moved back in with his wife and five children when forced to by Katrina. Under their noisy feet (especially early Saturday morning) I stayed sharing a room with Wyatt from Mississippi who also came to spend the weekend here. This 16-year-old comes to New Orleans once a month as it is the closest Orthodox synagogue. He was friendly company to stay with. I enjoyed the opportunity to rest, to play a little with the kids, read/learn a little, and to have large meals (which I’ve sort of been cutting down on a little for logistical reasons). Both Rabbis father and son had spent time in Australia and so I spent a while being queried about people in the community. It was a nice relaxing weekend overall (although it meant I missed out on the Friday night Cowboys and Pirates party at the hostel).

On one hand, the people I stayed with are sick of Katrina, on the other hand it is constantly on their mind—thinking of friends that are no longer in town, or packing emergency kits for future evacuations and power outages. To get me away from Katrina sight-seeing, Rebbetzin Rivkin (senior) suggested a nice place to visit would be the D-Day Museum, now known as the National World War II Museum. Most of my WW2 education has been in the context of Holocaust studies, and if not, in a very brief background of Australian participation or a general war outline. The museum focusses on American involvement in the war, with a focus on the workforce and population in the war’s build-up, D-Day in Europe and the battles of the Pacific Front. In its introductory section it shows how the whole civilian population was involved in the war effort—at first in its refusal to fight a war that was not its own, then to build munitions so that others could fight without sending America’s people, then in the conversion of American industry into a war machine, and the involvement of the citizens by donating their tyres, tin cans, and spare fats to produce armaments and razors. And the eventual inclusion of blacks and women. It was yet another interesting museum, although this time a little different from all the art I’ve been seeing. One of the guys who welcomed me in tells me the museum will be expanding over the next two blocks of land—I guess land is cheap at the moment and attractions are needed.

So what’s it all got to do with Katyushas? Well obviously they’ve been on the news a little lately (plus this new missile), and I’ve in fact been surprised at how little it’s come up here (at least outside of Jewish groups). At the Adelaide, more intellectual as it was, they actually watched the news and did end up discussing the situation a fair bit. It’s a little bit upsetting and a little bit tricky, and I often have to say “and then I’ll be going to Israel, which will hopefully be a whole lot more calm, for six weeks…”

But Katrina and Katyusha are both diminutive forms of the name “Katherine” or “Kate” (the one through Gaellic tongue and the other through Russian). This has caused some people to compare the two with or without further religious/political symbolism. Both create enormous destruction and havoc. Both send people into shelter and exile beyond their control. One comes in short unexpected bursts, the other takes a big swoop. One is thrown by man’s reckless decision, the other by nature’s whim. One can be responded to with retaliation, both with tears, hate and blame. The WWII museum closed its exhibition (as was the war) with the A-bomb, which fuses aspects of both terrors. Marvelling at the photos of the damage in Hiroshima and Nagasaki was only heightened by an understandings of the meaning of destruction and its effect on every part of life, that had been brought to me by Katyushas, and by Katrina.