Life, New Orleans Style

My weekend in New Orleans was a welcome break from packing for my move, a much needed respite from dragging bookshelves and chairs and end tables and all sorts of unwanted stuff to the curb and watching out the window to gawk at the folks who take it. I marvel at their apparent joy in discovering my throwaways; I don't get it, but it makes me happy my things will be appreciated. I've never been very good at appreciating "things."

I traveled light to New Orleans, leaving behind whatever embarrassment of riches still remains in my house; I leave New Orleans even less encumbered than when I arrived, but filled with a treasure trove of riches not to be found on any curb. Forced togetherness with friends I see too infrequently, shared joy at the wedding of a girl I've known forever, memories cobbled together by a great mix of people in a place like no other. 

I had no "plus one," and weddings can be daunting when you're flying solo. Or so I thought. Minus a plus one, I found myself plus two hundred or so, concerned about nobody's fun but my own. My feet hurt and my jeans are a bit snug, but it was worth it. 

New Orleans is a hotbed of music and art and food and good fun, not to mention debauchery. And, like no other city, it doesn't sit by idly while it hosts your joy; it participates in it. Our buses left the wedding with a police escort -- a police escort! -- for the twenty minute drive back to the French Quarter. The police closed off a major street -- a major street! -- so that two hundred drunken revelers, led by a jazz band and our newlyweds, could march and whoop their way back to our hotel. Locals far less well-heeled than most of us cheered us along, shared in our celebration. I would consider getting married again, if only to experience that march -- the "second line" -- one more time. Okay, maybe I'll just watch the video. 

I return tonight to what has been my home for five and a half years, and it will be jarring to see all my "things" packed away in boxes in a single room. Tomorrow I will get the keys to my new home, in a neighborhood where I know nobody and know nothing of what to expect. I am struck by the realization that I will no longer be able to see some of my best friends on a whim, at the drop of a text. 

An old friend confessed to me this weekend that he reads my blog, always amused at first (if not a little bit annoyed) that he has no idea where the hell I'm going. I wander, he says, take turns that seem to make no sense. Then he gets to the end, so he can see where I was going, and it makes sense, finally. I assured him it's the same for me; I have no idea where I'm going when I start, or what the point is, or whether there even is a point. Ahh -- could this blog of mine really be a metaphor for life, and not just the ramblings of a middle aged woman trying to find her way? 

The best I can do going forward, I suppose, is let the story unfold.  

Chapter Next

A friend told me recently that he's rarely met a problem he can't solve by throwing money at it.  Or lots of butter. I'd add chocolate. Nothing to lose, anyway, at least with the butter or the chocolate. I've tossed a bunch of it around with my upcoming move, substituting painkillers for money maybe a bit more than I should. 

Twenty-five years ago, almost to the day, I moved to suburbia. With a husband, a couple of kids, and one more kid and a handful of dogs in my future, it seemed the right thing to do. Especially back then, when my inner hypocrite overtook my outwardly bleeding heart and I wouldn't even consider sending my children to a public school in Chicago. It was all about class size, we told ourselves. Sure it was. 

I find myself on a nostalgia tour these days. I drove by the high school the other day, remembered driving by there long ago, unable to imagine my own children that old. I drive by the restaurants, some still there, some long gone but with almost identical replacements, remembering the odd conversation. Even the not so odd conversation. Every place sets off a tiny flicker of recognition -- a celebration, friends who have slipped away, the occasional bad date, the rare good date. 

I had thought this move would be easier, having already gone through the purge of the home we all grew up in, my little family and I. I still had one daughter in tow for this interim move, and though the other two had launched, they seemed still to be finding their way. I clung to the illusion of being on call. This time, it's just me. And the dog, of course. 

Everybody I talk to passes on the current wisdom of tossing, keeping only that which brings you joy. Okay, if I took that literally, I'd just keep the money and the butter and the chocolate and the painkillers. And the dog, of course. 

What of the magnificent dresses I wore on magnificent occasions, the dresses crumpled and faded, the occasions reduced to bound albums I have not opened in years. What of my daughters' prom dresses; what of the miniature tuxedo vest my son wore at his bar mitzvah party? They are just things, really, and things cannot possibly bring joy. Can they? 

I fear there is no room for the stuff in my new apartment downtown, but I am terrified of letting it all go. Without the tangibles, what's left? Except the money and the butter and the chocolate and the painkillers, and all the unknowables of chapter next.