travel future, travel past
Sep. 4th, 2005 04:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oirantravel (near) future: Semi-unexpectedly, I am going to be in New York from the 8th through the 13th. Just me, no Mr. G. Free ticket, must-use-by, etc., etc. I will be doing location research for my novel (which, at this point, consists of a list of character names and some extremely sketchy ideas in the form of unfinished sentences) in the Village and meatpacking district, spending a day at the Met, and will be trying to find a truly stupendous international newsstand (any recommendations?) among other to-dos. I have been a shitty friend to everyone, including those in NYC, for the past many months, and this trip is very last-minute, so it will be completely understandable if no one has the time or inclination to get together...but if anyone wants to meet up, I'd certainly want to make time for that. Friday or Saturday night?
I am much more fun in person than I am (at least lately) in writing.
travel past: Thank you to everyone posting links re: Katrina. I have broken my personal news ban for I think the second time since the Towers came down because New Orleans is...personal. On my first visit to New Orleans, I felt that I was, on some deep level, returning. I felt at home. It seems that everyone experiences this to some degree. Mr. G had a work thing, so I was free to wander around the city on my own. It was early spring and already too hot, with humidity that ensured my hair, once wet, never dried completely until our return home. The air stank of rot and gasoline. The gutters were oozy with sludge, an urban loam of squashed produce, frat-boy vomit, and carthorse shit, its reeking origin seemingly Bourbon Street. Each shop had a zone, just inside the door, where the hot garbagey stink of the street mixed uncomfortably with ambient scents of fabric sizing, beignet mix, or candle wax. Walking into the aggressively air-conditioned, dimly-lit Saks for a heat reprieve, the forced blend of sticky-soft pavement odors and frigid floriental set me reeling. While brushing mascara onto my lashes, a very gay, very young funeral director trainee explained that the main difference between making over the living and the dead was twitchy eyelids. I found a real coffee shop (i.e., not Cafe du Monde) on Royal and watched tourists more touristy than myself pay a living statue - skin painted shiny silver, wearing a foil suit - for the privilege of taking his picture. I eavesdropped on sexy punk-rock strippers discussing their new costumes ("...lights up in the crack of my ass," one said about her battery-powered G-string). Water poured in curtains from the iron balconies of courtyard buildings as residents tended to their plants. It was three weeks past Mardi Gras, but there were still beads looped on every street sign, shoes and t-shirts and more beads on the power lines, and people were still talking of the need to recover post-celebration. In a tiny, makeshift shop, I found an Alexander McQueen skirt with a floor-dragging fishtail hem that would have been perfect for wearing in sand, leaving a swishy, sinuous track in one's wake, and I blurted this out to the salesclerk, who beamed and gave my shoulder a squeeze, and said that I needed to move to town to keep him entertained. At the zoo, lorikeets flying free in the aviary sat on my hands and shoulders (and, to my delight, only mine) and so I became an accidental docent, explaining the birds' habits and requirements to my fellow zoogoers. I have never felt more welcomed than I did (and do, and will) in New Orleans.
~~~
There are currently about 100 NOLA citizens in a Nashville shelter with more on the way. We've already given money, and we're on offer for time and effort, but so far we're not needed. However, Mr. G has certain nerd skills (ham radio license!!) that make it somewhat likely that he'll be called in to at least let someone take a break. Now that people are coming here, I feel guilty about leaving town, but I do realize that I am possibly the least helpful potential volunteer on the list. When I review my skills, I discover that I can entertain people by writing gay porn, and that's about it.
I am much more fun in person than I am (at least lately) in writing.
travel past: Thank you to everyone posting links re: Katrina. I have broken my personal news ban for I think the second time since the Towers came down because New Orleans is...personal. On my first visit to New Orleans, I felt that I was, on some deep level, returning. I felt at home. It seems that everyone experiences this to some degree. Mr. G had a work thing, so I was free to wander around the city on my own. It was early spring and already too hot, with humidity that ensured my hair, once wet, never dried completely until our return home. The air stank of rot and gasoline. The gutters were oozy with sludge, an urban loam of squashed produce, frat-boy vomit, and carthorse shit, its reeking origin seemingly Bourbon Street. Each shop had a zone, just inside the door, where the hot garbagey stink of the street mixed uncomfortably with ambient scents of fabric sizing, beignet mix, or candle wax. Walking into the aggressively air-conditioned, dimly-lit Saks for a heat reprieve, the forced blend of sticky-soft pavement odors and frigid floriental set me reeling. While brushing mascara onto my lashes, a very gay, very young funeral director trainee explained that the main difference between making over the living and the dead was twitchy eyelids. I found a real coffee shop (i.e., not Cafe du Monde) on Royal and watched tourists more touristy than myself pay a living statue - skin painted shiny silver, wearing a foil suit - for the privilege of taking his picture. I eavesdropped on sexy punk-rock strippers discussing their new costumes ("...lights up in the crack of my ass," one said about her battery-powered G-string). Water poured in curtains from the iron balconies of courtyard buildings as residents tended to their plants. It was three weeks past Mardi Gras, but there were still beads looped on every street sign, shoes and t-shirts and more beads on the power lines, and people were still talking of the need to recover post-celebration. In a tiny, makeshift shop, I found an Alexander McQueen skirt with a floor-dragging fishtail hem that would have been perfect for wearing in sand, leaving a swishy, sinuous track in one's wake, and I blurted this out to the salesclerk, who beamed and gave my shoulder a squeeze, and said that I needed to move to town to keep him entertained. At the zoo, lorikeets flying free in the aviary sat on my hands and shoulders (and, to my delight, only mine) and so I became an accidental docent, explaining the birds' habits and requirements to my fellow zoogoers. I have never felt more welcomed than I did (and do, and will) in New Orleans.
~~~
There are currently about 100 NOLA citizens in a Nashville shelter with more on the way. We've already given money, and we're on offer for time and effort, but so far we're not needed. However, Mr. G has certain nerd skills (ham radio license!!) that make it somewhat likely that he'll be called in to at least let someone take a break. Now that people are coming here, I feel guilty about leaving town, but I do realize that I am possibly the least helpful potential volunteer on the list. When I review my skills, I discover that I can entertain people by writing gay porn, and that's about it.
