Happy Birthday, Dear Pothole
[x-posted from my journal]

I'd planned to take it easy and laze around the house today, but when I opened the paper this morning and saw this story, I knew I could not bear to miss the birthday party for a pothole. As soon as I finished my coffee, I pulled myself together and headed out East, where I met a 77-year-old dynamo named Marie McCoy who served me pink birthday cake. Mrs. McCoy is a funny and articulate woman with an opinion about everything. Today she was attended by her grandson Kevin, and a host of neighbors, including Mabel, who got a nice breeze every time she asked the Lord for one; Walter Smith, who radiated kindness -- every once in a while you just see a person and know he is some kind of angel on Earth -- and his wife Marjorie, blind from a stroke and in a wheelchair; and Mama Fanny, who appeared to be roughly two hundred years old and was collecting cans around the neighborhood, but sat down to gum a piece of cake with us. There was also a smattering of news media* and two City Council members, Cynthia Willard-Lewis and Marlin Gusman (who's running for sheriff; since he was kind enough to pose for a picture with me, I'll probably vote for him. In such a manner are dynasties made). The huge, scary pothole was marked with balloons, a Mardi Gras garland, and a big sign that said "Happy Birthday To Our Pothole," and we all sang Happy Birthday to it.

People will say "Only in New Orleans" about any damn thing these days, but I think you can safely file this one in the "Only in New Orleans" drawer. There was apparently great consternation in the Mayor's office when the paper was delivered this morning, and the politicians promise that the pothole will not see a second birthday.

Since I was already out there, I decided to have an out-East day. This is my original hood; my parents were living on Knight Drive when I was born, and we later moved to Morrison Road before my mother and I left New Orleans. I stopped at Dong Phuong for lunch. Last time I ordered the egg noodle soup with duck and fresh bamboo shoots, the waitress tried to warn me away from it, saying the bamboo shoots "smelled strong" (I thought they were delicious). Today they brought it without comment, and it even contained little jellied squares of duck blood, which were not present the first time I had it. They also believed me when I said I wanted a durian bubble tea. (A fun thing to do with bubble tea is position three or four of the tapioca pearls between your teeth and lips, open your mouth just enough to let your dining partner see them, and say, "I'm spawning!" Unfortunately, I was dining alone, so I couldn't.)

After lunch, I walked the Ridge Trail at the Bayou Sauvage Wildlife Refuge. Saw lots of Red-Bellied and Downy Woodpeckers, Northern Parulas, Carolina Chickadees, Snowy Egrets; also skinks, tree frogs, banana spiders, and my old friend the Crablike Spiny Orb Weaver, who spent all of last summer and fall trying to catch me by building webs across my driveway, porch steps, front door, etc.

All of this -- the pothole party, the Vietnamese village, the wildlife refuge -- exists within a few miles, and yet many people in New Orleans dismiss out East as a ghetto, a wasteland. I like the way we identify strongly with our neighborhoods, but sometimes I think it happens at the exclusion of enjoying other parts of the city.


*ADDENDUM: I just saw us on WWL's Evening News. There was a nice shot of me drinking my daiquiri (flavor: Pina Colada). You can see it on the Channel 15 rebroadcast all evening. WDSU was there too, so watch them at 10.