Of body odor and composting toilets

The morning of January 1 we struck out for an ecovillage near San Mateo. Not that telling you it's near San Mateo will give you any indication of where we were; the town only has about 500 residents. But in case you're interested it's about halfway between San Jose and Puntarenas if you go the back way. The bus ride was a good opportunity to see the areas surrounding San Jose (including the Walmart and Dennys) the mountains, pineapple plantations and all variety of four-wheel-drive vehicles. I must take a moment to admit that even recognizing that pineapples are very heavy and it would be anatomically illogical...I thought they grew on trees. The road itself was quite steep and extremely curvy. Some small children were yelling "wheeeeee!" at every curve but even they got silent and motion sick in short order.

We arrived in San Mateo around 1ish to find that the guy who was supposed to meet us had not shown up. He was also not answering his phone. L asked everyone and their mother if they knew this character or if they had any idea where the ecovillage was located. We even asked the one cop and all the little old men hanging in the plaza who were less than helpful; the cop couldn't even figure out how to dial his cellphone. I voted to just go to the only bar in town and just wait and eventually L found a taxi driver who sort of knew where we were headed so we relaxed with a burrito and a few beers before setting out. The town (and the bar) were actually quite charming.

The taxista took us about five miles out of town and up a dirt road for a few miles before determining that his car couldn't handle the terrain....so he dropped us off. Ok. L and A started walking while I guarded the bags and read the Economist until a jeep came and picked me up about five minutes later. The guy driving was actually a local farmer who was going home for the day. He just picked us up out of the goodness of his heart, recognizing that  it would be a loooong walk. Like good little nerds, we talked with him about his citrus crops and asked about the other landholders and the history of the site. And then we arrived. I could tell that the farmer was particularly curious to see what the crazy hippies were doing in the middle of nowhere. I'm not sure what he was expecting, and I'm not even sure what I was expecting but this was....different.

Sure, an ecovillage is an "intentional community with the goal of becoming more socially, economically, and ecologically sustainable." Sure, that indicates some alternative worldviews, a lack of electricity and composting toilets. But this place was a bit less formal. They created a shareholder group with half American and half Costa Ricans to live on the land in the ideals of permaculture....which until this trip I didn't realize included communitarian aspects.

Anyhoo, people lived in half built houses with a communal kitchen. Each hut had a dry compost toilet (that they didn't really dress up much so it was basically "shitting in a bucket"), solar shower (which judging by the smell of certain individuals was not universally used) and a communal kitchen. As I later learned it had been formed by a small group of people who had a camp together at burning man in the early 90s...which should give you an indication of the vibe. Sure I've hugged a few trees in my time and my personal goal is to have a composting toilet in my house...but I'm not much into cleanses and spritituality. I don't believe in the paranormal or indigo children and I'm pretty sure that cutting off a cow's horns does not affect the quality of its digestion. (The last two were actual conversations with residents of the village. long conversations. Mostly one-sided.)

the kitchen

the little girls room complete with New Yorkers to peruse

Our humble abode

I was ridiculously cranky from wasting an entire day traveling and waiting around only to discover that I would be stuck in the middle of nowhere being bitten by ants. I even got angry when I discovered that the dog was named Yaku. (It means water in Quechua and in the recent movie Even the Rain is used as an example of neocolonialism; the foreign characters in the movie are criticized as thinking that they are somehow more enlightened because they know this one word and are therefore more "one with the people.") I didn't say it was rational anger; in fact, I apologized the next day for being so snippy. L responded, "I don't know what snippy is, but I didn't like your tone!"

So A and I immediately began to plot our escape. Jan 2 we got a ride into town to plan our next stop. Like dealings in any "non-Western" nation this involved talking to everyone and their mother to figure out bus schedules and calling lots and lots of hotels that all seemed to be full. After successfully figuring out how to  leave town and reserving a room over the phone, we rewarded ourselves with ice cream and headed back to the hippies.

That afternoon we had a lovely vegetarian lunch and headed up to the river to swim in the waterfall where L mocked me mercilessly for being so white. On this trip I was even more obsessive than usual about sun exposure and remained yuraq siki (See...my Quechua extends towards racial slurs for white people and their white asses!). The most eventful part (for me) was when I fell on my ass climbing down the rocks. It hurt so bad that my legs went numb for a second. A bruised tailbone right before the day we had a long day of travel planned. oh boy.

L and me

right before falling on my backside

Next up: travel quirks and yelling.

Costa Rica: the good, the bad, the ridiculous

When thinking about this post, I was torn between two different beginnings to describe my recent Costa Rican vacation:
1. A Mexican, and Indian, and an American walk into a bar. It sounds like the start of a bad joke but is instead the beginning of a worse vacation...
2. On several occasions my friends have commented on my propensity for disaster in all travel undertakings. And although many admit that I generally escape unscathed, some have decided to never travel with me again....
Although both seem overly dramatic they are based in truth (ok it was a party not a bar) and my notes from the trip place events squarely into three categories: the good, the bad, and the purely ridiculous.

It is important to note that each day, no matter how ridiculous, had at least one highlight. And I should start with my travel companions: two lovely ladies and classmates L the Mexican and A the Indian. Their company was invaluable and positive, our travel quirks were well balanced, and although towards the end of the trip we made a pact not to talk to each other our first week back...I think our friendship will survive.

Day 1! We arrived in San Jose bright and shiny at 1AM and went directly to bed. L and I had to share a bed which was no easy task. Although I was forewarned about her propensity to toss and turn (and I of course shared that I sometimes cuddle others) the scope of her spreadability was incredible. At some point during each night I woke up to find her taking over 3/4 of the bed. The other seven gazillion times I woke up were due to the noise of cars rushing past...a sound akin to a freight train.

That morning we set out to explore the city. The Rough Guide writes that Ticos who live outside of San Jose describe it as, "a maelstrom of stress junkies, rampant crime, and other urban horrors." They go on to cite "pothole-scarred streets and car dealership architecture," deep open drains, and kamikaze drivers. Determined to make the best of it we took cheesy photos of ourselves at all the parks and markets and made a valiant effort to check out the National Library, the National Museum, and the Gold Museum which were all closed without explanation. We did pee at the swanky Gran Hotel Costa Rica where JFK once stayed. At night we headed to San Pedro to eat hummus and drink with obnoxiously young university students. Someone actually called me senora.

Day 2! The next morning A and I woke up at 6AM to head to Poas Volcano...except we accidentally woke up at 5. I'm not entirely sure what the time difference is between the East Coast and Costa Rica and I didn't bring a watch or cell phone in an effort to enter a state of zen timelessness (which transitioned pretty quickly into stress and asking every five minutes, "What time is it?") but this was a bit extreme. Anyhoo we were on time for our bus! Once inside the Park, A and I walked to the crater where we looked over the wide open expanse....of mist. You could see nothing of the crater, the surrounding mountains, or even the sky. Nothing. We took a picture anyway because I'm thinking of starting a "Lenni in the mist" photo album. (If you'll remember, my experience at Macchu Picchu was similar.)

Mist!

What we could have seen

More mist!

Post-mist we hiked around complaining about how our old knees hurt and avoiding the green squirrels and then checked out the tiny volcano museum, gift shop, and tiny art gallery before realizing that we had two additional hours to kill before the bus headed back to San Jose. We spent this time passing back and forth a three-month old copy of The Economist. Getting back to the city we checked out a few churches before heading back to the hotel to meet a friend (P the Bolivian) for dinner.

Dinner was actually pretty sweet. The food was delicious, the atmosphere local and although our ordering was like a scene out of When Harry Met Sally the Vegetarian with simultaneous translation the staff was very accommodating. Chelles is panelled entirely in a rich mahogany and has an old drug store/soda shop feel to it. A San Jose institution, the restaurant's atmosphere afforded us an unparalleled opportunity to malign the incredibly loud American tourist at the next table. Usually open 24/7, even Chelles closed early for New Years Eve and we moved on making plans with P to meet up later for drinks because A and I needed a rest and L needed to finish work on her grad school application.

I wish I could say we finished strong and that our New Years Eve in the tropical nation was one for the books but unfortunately we are surprisingly lame. On our hike A had mentioned that one of our young professors had an open Facebook page that had several shirtless photos so we perused those before watching the ball drop on tv. Keeping in mind the time zone issue, we may have accidentally fallen asleep at 11PM Tico time.

Photos to come!

Next up: dirty hippies and compost toilets.

The skates that changed the world

Part 1: The purchase.

This Fall my Grandma gave me $20 to put towards a purchase of new hockey skates. Even though I've been on the ice since before I could walk (which honestly hasn't helped me develop any great level of skill), I can only remember once receiving a brand new pair of skates. So this seemingly age-inappropriate gift was surprisingly sweet.

Starry-eyed I set off to make "the purchase." The salesman, or more accurately the saleskid, was named Vladimir or Olaf or Gordon or some other name associated with cold weather countries whose citizens hold innate knowledge of skate craftsmanship. As such, he explained that skates come in a variety of stiffnesses that support the skater in his her speed and acrobatics. He also explained that although junior skates would be infinitely more comfortable, flexible and perhaps most importantly cheaper, they would not be really usable after they had broken in (too too flexible). However, unless I planned to skate all day every day or gain 100 pounds this was unlikely to happen. After an hour and twenty pairs of skates, Vlaimir-Olaf-Gordon began to doubt my true commitment to providing him with a sales commision and pawned me off to an even more junior associate. This guy handed me a 21st pair which I immediately bought. (Shameless plug: Paragon Sports offers free skate sharpening for life with purchase.)

I brought my skates home and put them on display in a place of prominence so that I could gaze at them and admire them every day. So excited was I that later that week I actually invited a guy back to my apartment to "meet my skates." Luckily he knew me well enough to realize that 1) I was a smidge intoxicated and 2) I was totally serious. "Meet my skates" was unfortunately not some footwear related euphemism like "knocking boots." (He declined by the way.)

As we all know, $20 does not buy a pair of skates...or even one-fifth of a pair so I swore to make them worth every penny and set the goal of skating in every rink in New York City.
Queens: Flushing Meadows and City Ice Pavillion
Manhattan: Wollman, Lasker, Bryant Park, Chelsea Piers, and Rockefeller Center
Brooklyn: Abe Stark
Staten Island: Clove Lakes, Ice Skating Pavillion

Paying to skate may not seem the most reasonable way to offset a big purchase but it provided a uniquie adventure that allowed me to experience a wide swathe of NYC with my friends.

First up: City Ice Pavillion!

dating dilemma

Like all modern urban women of a certain age, I have tried the online dating thing. Since I generally judge people on the their grammar and wit, the idea of scoping people out through a written profile and email exhange (plus carefully choreographed photos) appeals to me. I meet well-read, politically literate guys who are awesome people and spiffy dressers...and we have one date.

 

Moving away from that sad fact, one prospective boytoy recently posed the question "Who would you rather date, James Bond or Indiana Jones?" Never one to make an uninformed decision, I immediately began to draft a pro-con list:

 

James Bond

 

Pro

 

• Athletic
• Snappy dresser
• Likes to travel – even been to Bolivia!
• Good with gadgets – could probably program VCR! (I still hold this as the gold-standard of gadget mastery.)
• Variety – in the literal sense you almost never get the same Bond.
• Sophisticated – he owns his own tux!
• Sexy accent – what girl doesn't go for an accent?
• Intelligent
• EU citizenship – better healthcare and education system just in case we marry
• Well paid and well connected
• Tan suavecito – por Dios!
• Superduper hot – especially Daniel Craig
• Can defy laws of physics

Con

 

• Brits not known for sexual prowess
• Emotionally distant
• High maintenance
• Ladies’ man – must have the herp by now
• Questionable morals
• No sense of humor
• High risk profession

 Indiana Jones

 

 

 Pro

 

•  Athletic
• Boy Scout
• Likes to travel
• Low maintenance
• Quick thinker
• Close to family – you could have a charming inlaw
• Self-deprecating wit
• Good with whips – if you like that sort of thing
• Dog person
• Intelligent – reads dead languages (siiiiigh)
• Looks good in a bow tie – honestly that is hard to pull off!

Con

 

• Emotionally distant
• In love with Marion
• Gruff (could be super sexy pro)
• Somewhat naïve
• Afraid of snakes and rats
• Bad temper

 

 It all comes down to this astute observation from my friend Christian, "Would you rather die a horrible death in a foreign country on the adventure of a lifetime or would you rather die a horrible death in a foreign country on the adventure of a lifetime with an std? On the other hand James Bond comes with the new-every-two plan."

I'm not sure it really matters. I'll always be a Lloyd Dobbler girl.

 

 

How Peace Corps made me insufferably pretentious

My college asked me to write a short essay on my experiences in Peace Corps. They didn't give me any direction beyond that so hopefully they have a sense of humor because here goes:

How Peace Corps Made Me Insufferably Pretentious

Pretentious, defined by my big, heavy and expensive Webster New English Dictionary as "a showy display, as of wealth or knowledge," describes many a Peace Corps volunteers. I can see the shadow of doubt crossing your face so allow me to explain.

First, please take a moment to think of all the loathsome behaviors of those who continually try to impress with their greater knowledge, experience and cultural savvy. Now think of your average returned Peace Corps volunteer. Using me as an example (Bolivia '07-08), let's see how they compare...

Listen to world music: Peace Corps Bolivia introduced me to new instruments (the charrango, the tarka) and new music (the chacarera, the copla, the ever so sexy saya), some of which I loved and some of which I hope never to hear again...and many of which have made it onto my next generation iPod.
Greet everyone with a kiss on the cheek: due to depth perception and personal space issues this culturally acceptable greeting took a lot of getting used to. Now that I’m used to it I find that it keeps my pressed suits from wrinkling.
Use the word ciao: in much of South America they say "chao" to say goodbye. It's less final then "adios" and makes me seem so cultured.
Use foreign words in every day conversation, particularly from obscure third language: heck, Peace Corps taught me to speak Quechua. Where else will I use it if not at cocktail parties?
Stock your refrigerator with exotic foods: at first I did not really enjoy squeaky cheese, dehydrated potatoes, or purple corn but I will admit that I now have an unhealthy addiction to all of them. Ok I lie. I will never ever enjoy dehydrated potatoes but I am pleased that my supermarket carries them just in case I should experience a conversion. I will serves papas a la huancaina or sopa de mani with pride at my next fine china dinner party.
Pronounce foreign country names in their original language (eg, Mexico = May-hee-co): I was mocked mercilessly during my Peace Corps career for mispronouncing Chile. It won't happen again. And now I sound intelligent and word traveled.
Use the phrase "pencil you in": things don't always go as planned in Peace Corps. Meetings that you agreed to and confirmed several times may not actually happen generally due to circumstances beyond your control or cultural issues that will never fully be explained to you. It is best not to be too firm in your scheduling. It is also common to...
...arrive fashionably late: I had Bolivian friends who would invite me to parties saying "It starts at 8. You should arrive at 10." After a few months it was no longer necessary to advise me on the proper (late) arrival time, an attitude that I find has stuck. Either way I am much too busy and important to show up on time.
Name drop: by some unfortunate quirk of familiarity, most people refer to Bolivia's President Juan Evo Morales Ayma as simply Evo. Examples would include: "Evo has a really large head. Quite enormous in fact." or "Evo is the first indigenous president of Bolivia." which brings me to my next point...
Make obscure references to politics, world leaders, geographic locations, etc: I might say, in casual conversation, "Last Spring, Evo sponsored a conference in Tiquipaya on global climate change inviting environmental crusaders from all over the world." You will be impressed by how I keep my finger on the pulse of Latin American politics (and I'll never tell that I am updated by my Bolivian Facebook friends).
Say things like, "when I lived in South America...": Well I did live there! I learned a lot, met wonderful people, and started listening to chacarera, eating humintas and referring to the President by his first name. You too can become insufferably pretentious. Consider Peace Corps.

Lenni (‘03) served as an environmental education volunteer in Bolivia ('07-'08). She set up schoolyard tree nurseries and a couple of community gardens maintained faithfully by the kindergarten. She worked with the middle school to host an environmental radio show and tried desperately to get the high school interested in recycling. She was an insufferable American, eating exotic cheeses and reading English books.

Road Trip From Hell

My heroes at CarTalk recently put out the call for Road Trip Stories. I shared mine with them and will now bless you all with it too:

Sometimes road trips (and breakdowns) let you see the good (and the less good) in the world. In July 2004, I moved back to Washington, DC from St. Paul, MN stopping along the way to visit various relatives. My 1995 Dodge Intrepid (white, named Moby) was packed to the gills and equipped with a few days worth of snacks and the same mix tape that had been stuck in the tape deck for the past six months. First stop: Fond du Lac, Wisconsin.

Correction. First stop: somewhere in the wilds of Wisconsin. Moby, with impeccable timing, overheated on a stretch of country road where cell service was unavailable and no buildings were evident. In a characteristic belief that all will go well, I abandoned my car and started walking. Soon I came across a small housing subdivision and started knocking on doors. (What was I thinking?) At one house, a young couple (just married they said!) invited me in to cool down before setting out to cool down my car. Instead of just handing me a phone book to call a tow truck they grabbed a jug of coolant and drove me back to my car. They refilled the radiator and accompanied me to the nearest gas station…still miles away from a garage. The couple waited for a tow truck with me and the gas station attendant even let me recharge my cellphone.

Not the end of the story! I made it to my aunt’s house in Fond du Lac and after a short visit and a surprisingly long mechanic bill I set off to pick up my brother-in-law in Gary, IN. In a complete highway-driving haze (or perhaps I was distracted by the vitriol of Indiana’s conservative talk radio) I drove right past the exit and wound up going an hour out of the way. When I finally made it back, my brother-in-law nicely offered to take over driving. Instead of enjoying the ride and napping I found myself cringing when he started to drift a bit into the shoulder with increasing frequency. He was falling asleep at the wheel! I offered to take the driving responsibility back but he declined...at which point I yelled “PULL THE HELL OVER AND GET OUT OF THE CAR!” I am nothing if not subtle.

The road trip still held a little more excitement. I had to make a desperate pit stop for “lady products” and explain to my brother-in-law why exactly I needed to borrow 50 cents. AND after dropping him off in Pittsburgh, my car broke down again a half an hour outside of DC. Resigned to my fate, I packed an overnight bag, left the rest of my worldly belongings (and my car) at the mechanic, and hopped on a bus to a friend’s house. Not quite home safe: he had forgotten I was to arrive and wasn’t home. I slept on his back porch braving the 900 degree heat and a swarm of eagle-sized mosquitos.

No exaggeration. Except for maybe that last part.

Lenni grows up!

So I just signed a lease on a one bedroom in which I will live all by my lonesome. and although I'm a little concerned that it might take even longer to discover my body if I die I am mostly thinking of all the wonderful things that living alone provides:

• working out in the living room without my roommates watching
• having a big worm (compost) bin without grossing out my roommates
• closet space! mine! all mine!
• refrigerator space
• peeing with the door open
• sleeping with the door open
  
• letting the yellow mellow
• being able to leave my stuff in the living room or kitchen or anywhere
• feeling slightly less guilty about not doing my dishes
• naked time!
• having all my books in one place
• sleepovers
• decorating all living space (including the refrigerator) with MY photos and artwork
  

I do however have cold flashes when I consider other things about living alone

• as previously mentioned, longer time needed to discover that I've died (if I happen to die)
  
• I have no living room furniture! or appliances!
• I have to pay the whole utility bill all by my lonesome
• My spectacular roommate won't be there to buy toilet paper when I forget to...or dish soap, or paper towels, or cleaning supplies
  
• No one to help me open hard-to-open jars or reach hard-to-reach shelves

So I suppose if you, loyal reader, have a couch, coffee table, book shelves, armchair, microwave, cleaning supplies, can opener, bottle opener, tool kit, air conditioner, nightstand, tv, dvd player or area rugs you know to whom to donate them.

Me.

last day in the Crescent City

I should probably clarify that I'm not one of those live blogging types. I am not currently in New Orleans but back in my apartment chomping on some late night chocolate chip cookies. So let's flash back together....

Friday morning we all dragged ourselves out of bed, climbed in the cars and drove out to East New Orleans without saying a word. The morning continued in silence as nursing hangovers and sleep deprived we continued to build houses. I moved on from painting things blue to painting things gray and then cutting J channels for vinyl siding. I don't mean to sound like Ms. Dudley can't-Do-Right but it involved geometry skills that I lack, or rather that I have to work super hard at. The day picked up when our fellow workers from a church outside Philly bought enough ice cream pops for everyone. Appropriately refreshed we took one last group photo and skedaddled into the sunset.

As much as I love people I am a big believer in me-time so that evening I splintered from the main group with Laura, a colleague from Parks, to seek out Mexican food. It was an interesting experience if only because they sold the nacho cheese and salsa separate from the chips. My face expressed a confusion evidently previously unseen in New Orleans when asked "You want chips with that?" I was tempted to respond, "No, just a spoon will be fine."

Switching gears we walked along the ole' Miss and stopped in at Cafe du Monde to sample beignets. They're open 24 hours a day! I would guess that the French donuts (fried dough smothered in powdered sugar) are one of the more unhealthy foods of the world but Cafe du Monde was opened in 1862 before the advent of cholesterol. Tradition calls for blowing the sugar onto a friend but Laura politely declined.

The next morning (day 6!) I decided to take full advantage of the day and go on a bus tour of the entire city. We stopped at St. Louis Cemetery. Built over an old leper graveyard (heck yeah, I'm composing the all-singing all-dancing leper musical in my head now) it is built with walls of niches. The bodies are laid there, do their thing, and then are transferred to ossuary buildings. During yellow fever, graves couldn't be reopened until a year and one day after the bodies were interred. I would love to share more fascinating information about the cemetery and new Orleans but I fell asleep on the bus waking up only to note where the Ann Rice lived and the Manning family lives.

Ok, I'm less than inspired tonight...blame the chocolate so I shall end with the flight home. It was the bumpiest, scariest landing I have ever endured and I did think that death was a possibility. Compounding my anxiety, there was a woman on my flight who was super afraid of flying...to the point that up until the minute we took off she kept asking her companion if perhaps they could drive. I am a super low key flyer but it was a rough landing.

Crescent City

Day 3: Hump day! Wednesday was the first clue that I might not make it through the whole week unscathed. Bright and shiny we met at Bayou Rebirth's nursery to be led into the wild blue yonder of a real live bayou. Unfortunately their truck wasn't quite in working repair. While the men folk tinkered with the engine (and by tinker I mean remove large parts of the engine that I'm pretty sure are necessary to its proper functioning) we occupied ourselves by devising a hockey-type game with broom sticks. But sun exhaustion and a twisted knee and a replacement truck conspired to cut the game short.

Driving to the site, we passed endless waterways and several oil refineries to arrive at a newly built waterfront park. On site we dug through the bucket o' waders to find boots in a size approximating our own and then headed into the water to plant the marsh grasses that we had lovingly repotted the day before. This was more complicated than you might imagine as mucking through two feet of water (and a foot of mud) in incorrectly sized boots leads to imbalance and wet pants.
After lunch crossed the water to plant cane. The boat ride would have been much nicer if waders in direct sunlight didn't conduct so much heat but it was a nice opportunity to see the innards of a bayou. I may or may not have seen an alligator and some of the girls swear to having spotted a dinosaur. We did positively identify several nesting kildeer.
Night 3: Anyhoo, at the end of the day we were glad to peel off four feet of rubber and make our way towards Lafayette Square for Wednesday at the Square, "a free, 12-week concert series with food and drink for sale to benefit the Young Leadership Council." Of course we benefited the Council by purchasing Mar-GO-ritas, the adult version of a Capri sun and then went to soak up the alcohol at Deanie's Seafood because "you haven’t done New Orleans, until you’ve done Deanie’s." After doing Deanie's (and boy did we do Deanie's) we walked off all the fried, steamed, and boiled fish-y goodness on the way to d.b.a.

According to their website, d.b.a.'s "building dates back to the 1880's, and musicians say the all cypress wood music room is one of the warmest sounding rooms in New Orleans." The website also says that it's located it one of the hippest neighborhoods in the country besides perhaps Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I maintain that Frenchmen Street and its live music venues and Creole mansions is way super cooler than the hipster haven. After drinking, dancing and feeding Philip (as in fill-up the tip jar) we caught a cab back to our plush bunk beds to dream of marsh grass and levees set to a blues soundtrack.

Let's just move right on to Day 4: Switching gears we began work with Habitat for Humanity. Although our crew leaders were total hotties and I could forgive them most anything I would have appreciated more of a welcome to the work day than "We have a lot of injuries each year. Please don't cut your fingers off or get hit on the head with a two by four." But besides the admonition not to rest tools on top of ladders that was about it; we were broken into teams and set to work hanging Tyvek sheets.


I immediately admitted to my team my complete inability to stand on ladders and do anything but stand. I was not blessed with a surplus of balance, if any, and was so relegated to the post of "ladder- holder and hammerer of low things" for the morning. At one point a two by four fell on my head. Seriously. Anyhoo, it was not an ideal job for any of us as there was no shade and boy is Tyvek reflective. We did take a brief break to construct a fort out of extra boards to provide a refuge from the blinding rays of the sun but I realized early on that any more time in the sun might cause my arms to fall off so after lunch I bribed someone with an inside job to take my place.

I spent the afternoon cowering in the shade and happily painting things blue. My arms, unfortunately had already started to blister a little (I'm allergic to the sun. neat huh?) which prompted a rational fear of what Friday might bring. But I didn't concern myself overly because of what Night 4 had in store.
Night 4: The leader of the gang (the fearless Brian, Lousiana native) had prepared a crawfish boil for us. We arrived to his house to be greeted by the spectre of 60 pounds of dead crustaceans on a table, with more in a large vat stirred with an oar. Also on the menu were corn on the cob, boiled potatoes and artichokes all smothered in cayenne pepper (which incidentally stings quite a bit when it comes into contact with your eyeballs) and a healthy selection of Abita, the local brew.

We spent the evening schmoozing and competition story-telling before Brian's neighbor hit on the bright idea of dragging us all to Rock and Bowl. Evidently this woman had an in so we paid a $5 cover and were treated to free shoes, $1 socks (bleached to germ free perfection), and an hour of bowling... to the sultry tunes of live zydeco. There was even a man with a washboard. It was perhaps the hippest bowling experience I've ever had. The lanes were new and pristine and the building featured a huge bar and dance floor.

In some fluke of lane assignments, I got a whole lane to myself and played against myself in five different positions. I impressed by bowling pretty much continuously for an entire hour and scoring higher than 60 for each spot. Sober with a tired arm I was in that first car to skedaddle home at 2am. We closed that place DOWN.

Does our hero survive Friday with only four hours of sleep and facing the threat of sun poisoning? Stay tuned for the next installment...

The Big Easy

Before I enlighten you on Day 2, I should probably give you a brief tutorial about wetlands restoration in general and in New Orleans in particular. Please keep in mind that I am by no means an expert. Any information that I hope to impart comes from an undergraduate degree in biology, several web searches, and three all-too-short days working with City Park and Bayou Rebirth.

Wetlands, as the name implies, is an area of land that is covered in shallow water all or part of the year. Think bogs, marshes, swamps, bayous. They are considered the most biologically diverse systems in the world.

New Orleans is basically one giant wetland. Bounded to the north by Lake Pontchartrain, to the south by Mississippi River and to the East by miles and miles of canals, most of the city is below sea level. It wasn't always that way though. The River, like all rivers, used to flood periodically depositing silt and sediment and building up the land mass of the city. After a particularly destructive flood, levees were built to control the flow of the river with the unfortunate effect of funneling all the dirt into the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Additionally, channels were excavated to facilitate the transport of petroleum and ship traffic. The excavation increases the surface area of land exposed to erosion. So without new dirt provided by the river and with channels dug everywhere, New Orleans is slowly sinking. (National Geographic's feature "Gone with the Water" also points to overpopulation of nutria as a problem. Evidently those little suckers chomp wetland plants like no other. But not to worry, they're edible and soon they'll be as integral to Nawlins cuisine as jambalaya.)

Everyone we talked to in New Orleans also pointed towards the destructive influence of Mr. Go. Not a supervillian of extraordinary powers but the Mississippi River-Gulf Outlet, Mr. Go was dredged to serve as a 500-ft wide shipping shortcut. Unused, it has eroded to three times it's planned size and in Hurricane Katrina provided a direct route for storm surge to reach the city.

Storm surge, by the way, is the wave created by hurricanes in open water. But for every two to four miles of wetlands the wave's height is reduced by 1ft. This would be good news if the wetlands of New Orleans were untouched by levees, shipping channels and Mr. Go. (I have to say, it was remarkable how bitter NOLA citizens were about Mr. Go. Even the average joe seemed to be consumed by vitriol at its mere mention.)

Obviously people aren't just sitting around watching the wetlands disappear. There a number of groups doing phenomenal (albeit sometimes scattershot) work to restore the wetlands.

On Day 2 we got to work with such a group: Bayou Rebirth. "Founded in 2007 partly in response to the environmental and community needs present in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, Bayou Rebirth envisions a revitalized and restored city through local and visiting citizens’ connection to the ecology of the coastal wetlands. Bayou Rebirth is offering local residents and visiting volunteers a way to get involved in solutions now."

Hidden in a parking lot behind an abandoned kitchen fixture store Bayou Rebirth has a nursery of wetland plants. There we stepped up marsh grasses, drained pools, weeded and cleaned up bags and bags of styrofoam in the unfortunately direct sunlight.

Night 2: After work, we ventured over to the lower ninth ward, the neighborhood of New Orleans that sustained the most damage and casualties in Hurricane Katrina. As it turns out, the levees built to control flooding were found to be in complete disrepair, or rather they were built in a manner that was since found to be completely negligent. Disregarding the settling and sinking of the land and using outdated methods the levees were not built to standard. In some areas, the walls were filled with crumpled newspaper and sand instead of dirt and cement. The citizens of New Orleans filed suit against the Army Corps of Engineers and in a historic settlement were awarded damages.

The levees were rebuilt twice as high but only 60% of NOLA citizens returned after the hurricane and houses remain abandoned. They retain the water line and markings indicating FEMA searches. The juxtaposition with modern new houses built by Brad Pitt's Make it Right is especially eerie.

After a dirty day in the hot sun, and the depressing spectre of a devastated neighborhood, we recovered our spirits with frosty daiquiris at the drive-thru.

Coming off the high of a craw-gator frozen drink we went to Mandina's a "Creole-Italian" restaurant near our house. I didn't notice anything remotely close to Italian food (except for perhaps mufaletta sandwich which is a glorified sub) but they did have several varieties of traditional NOLA sandwiches including a French-fry po'boy. Really.

Then we rested for a hot minute before going to the Maple Leaf Bar to check out the Rebirth Brass Band. The bar hosts live music seven days a week....and it was packed to the gills. With good reason. The Band, which plays there every Tuesday, has been a "New Orleans institution" since 1983. I suppose they could be classified as funk, solid gold brass funk. Oh and Tim Robbins was there! He's tall!

You most definitely should download some Rebirth Brass Band tunes before reading the next installment of the NOLA files. Consider it homework.

a New York interlude

Today, while I was walking in midtown (the lights! the bustle!) my iPod got into the spirit and started playing songs from the great white way (Broadway). It took all I had to not burst into song. I know that most anything is acceptable in the big bad city but I still think people would frown upon me belting "Seasons of Love." And yes I am that trite.