Make Some Big Jumps

Our taxi driver from the airport, born and raised in New Orleans, is soft spoken with that soft lilt that teases the most mundane words into something soothing and seductive. It’s the voice of my grandfather, the voice of a southerner. In a very un-scientific way, he tries to explain what a bayou is and is not (pointing to a 5 foot wide drainage canal that we joke about stopping to take pictures of, his slow laugh joining our higher pitched giggles sends shimmering ripples through the car). “It’s, well, it’s a bod-ay of wat-ah.” When we ask for more detail, he continues “It’s going to b-ay mud-day, may-bay smamp-ay, why my friend, old friend has a camp near-ah a bayou…” And so the stories begin. As we cross from Jefferson Parish to New Orleans, he tells us LA is the only state that uses parishes and not counties – “because it’s ah Catholic influence…” He points to the grim high-water line Katrina had left behind, 6 feet over the highway we traveled on. Beyond it, the Superdome. Jamie and I look at eachother imagining the blocks of old houses submerged, water lapping up against the above-ground graves of the last couple hundred years of death, the highway visible only in places, the city deserted, walking in hope of finding something. “The place ah last reso-arht, why they walked the-rah, and found nothing, no food or wat-ah fo-rah days, it turned them into animals… ” His voice trails.

It’s hard to imagine suffering of such magnitude, later that night, we look through images collected after Katrina. Hopeless tears, despair, destruction, messages of help, a dog covered in sewage, swimming through the refuse to a small boat, a dead body floating face down, another, another, another…

We wind through the blocks of the old Faubourg Marigny neighborhood. It’s like driving through history pages. Each house radiates its own unique charm – ornate wood trim, wrought iron fences, massive patios, shuttered windows and doors that reach from sky to floor, crumbling brick, lush gardens--all painted a warm rainbow of colors. One look down a street block is all at once garish, blinding and alive. You can tell the taxi driver is by now warmed with our admiration, I swear he misses a few turns just to show us another house or two. We all count the houses down to our house, I can’t believe we’re going to stay here.

This was one of those fantastically glorious times where reality overwhelmed any possible expectation. My only desire was to get away, take some time out to reclaim what I’d known of myself but had forgotten, perhaps to discover something new, who knows, but I just wanted to start new and fresh again - live a life that wasn't dogged by the insecurity of what might (or might not) happen anymore, waiting for something-what? I don't know-but now I wanted to just live & be...and as we stopped in front of the lavender house with turquoise shutters with its immense patio and private garden that just breathed tranquility and warmth - I knew it was going to be so much more. It’s funny to travel to a place that instantly feels like home, it’s battered, worn and yet so alive, vibrant and loved, around each corner a new surprise. It hit me then, this is the first time I can remember a vacation where I'm not surfing, biking, hiking -- the adventure is living. Just living.

We settle in to the sound of Emiliana Torrini pixie-voice singing the cutest anthem ever heard , "Oh make some big jumps, big jumps you afraid to break some bones..."