Bourbon Street
I’ve spent plenty of time in New Orleans over the past year, but always gave Bourbon Street a wide berth to avoid the crowds and connect more with less-touristy parts of the city. But, this past weekend, I was on assignment shooting social content of fans during the Saints/Vikings game. There aren’t a ton of sports bars in the French Quarter, but Razoo’s on Bourbon Street turned out to be the only one I popped my head into that didn’t have a jazz band competing for fans’ attention inside.
Growing up in a conservative home, “Bourbon Street” was rarely used to denote the actual place, but was tossed around as a pejorative. “That person/place/thing looks like Bourbon Street.” It was a catch-all term around the house for anything deemed negative or immoral.
Older now, navigating this wide world for myself, I’ve finally had a chance to create my my own opinion of Bourbon Street. Is it crowded, smelly, cheapened by tourist pandering? Yes. Is it dominated by rubes who order alcohol by the yard and spend too much on cover charges for superficial pagan delights? Yes.
But.
It also makes for one hell of a photo.
India, Day 1 - Goodbye is always the hardest part.
This is part one of my recap of my forty-day journey through India. Some entries will be short photo essays, others will be more prosaic, long-form narratives. This first one is more along the lines of the latter. Enjoy.
"So, when do you leave for India again?"
"In about four hours."
Every trip is bookended by goodbyes, first to the people you leave at home, and later to the people you meet while traveling. I hate goodbyes, and this day was to be full of them. I love traveling, but only in the middle.
The night before I left for India, I didn't sleep well. Even though my day's schedule began early, I got up several hours earlier than was necessary, because I simply wasn't resting well, and laying in bed rolling back and forth seemed a greater waste of time than getting up and pacing back and forth on my feet. As there was a marginal possibility that my family would finish construction on our new home in my absence, I rose up and got dressed amidst a landscape of stacked boxes containing all of my worldly goods, which I had packed in anticipation of the possible move. The environment drove home every aspect of the idea of "leaving home," and for a brief moment I felt like I wasn't coming back. Once I had my clothes on, I had nothing left to do. My bag and check box were both packed, double-checked and by the door. Yes, I packed six weeks' worth of clothing in one backpack, my Monsoon Gearslinger. I pack light and travel light. I anticipated the inevitability of my buying gifts or a some new shirts along the way, and a packable duffel bag, reduced to a six-inch disc of fabric when collapsed, dangled from the clip of my backpack. Sadly, my own efficiency had left me with too much time on my hands; the morning dragged on forever. I was also experimenting with intermittent fasting at that time, and as such I didn't even have breakfast to kill a half hour.
I did a lot of pacing until I called my dad to say goodbye. He was out on a business trip to Washington D.C., and I wouldn't see him again until I arrived home. Afterward, I left at 7:00 to meet my friend, Jeff, for coffee and a book swap. He had lent me Lucifer's Hammer, and I wanted to return it and loan him my copy of The Four Hour Body before I left town. We only had about forty-five minutes to chat, a restrictive time for two people with a tendency toward motored-mouthing, but we did the best we could with the time we had. But upon saying goodbye and exiting the Drowsy Poet, my next stop wasn't the airport; far from it, in fact. An associate pastor at my church had passed away that week, and I wasn't about to miss his memorial; international flight be damned.
The loss of Pastor Mike Dekle was a blow to our church and the community at large. Mike wasn't just a gifted administrator, he was a devoted husband and father and a great friend to many people. He and I weren't very close, but I saw all four of my grandparents succumb to terminal illness, and I was very sensitive to Mike's own battle with cancer, and I wanted to support his wife and son during the service. In addition to supporting the family, the service allowed me the unforeseen opportunity to see the members of my church one final time before I left town, as well as a number of other old friends from other churches in the area. The service was a celebration of a well-lived life, and the reception gave me a chance to say a few final goodbyes and pray with friends.
After the service, my mother, sister and I went to one of our favorite restaurants, Siam Thai. It might sound funny, eating Thai food before going to India, but I honestly love Asian cuisine, whichever region it hails from. Siam Thai is also a family favorite, and I wanted one last opportunity to splurge on something familiar and well-loved before leaving home. Several plates of chicken and bamboo shoots later, my mother and I had coffee at a The Bad Ass Coffee Co. while my sister attended her voice lesson. When the lesson was over, we regrouped and the three of us went to the airport together.
In the airport restroom, like a scene out of Burn Notice, I changed out of my jacket, trousers and tie and put on a lightweight khaki shirt and a pair of Magellan cargo pants, emerging from the lavatory looking, well, like someone bound for India. India was (and at the time of this writing, is) in the throes of monsoon season, and I had purchased several new athletic shirts and a few pairs of fast-drying pants for trip, all in accordance with a self-imposed rule of "pack no cotton." I would love to travel the world attired like Indiana Jones or Josh Bernstein (I even have the hat), but practicality often dictates otherwise.
Clothes changed, there was still time to kill before I needed to go through security, and I re-entered the limbo of the early morning. I sat with my mother and sister in the terminal, and we passed a few minutes in uneasy silence. There really wasn't much to say. We're an emotional bunch, and I didn't want to cause any unnecessary strain by speaking too much. In the context of a year, seven weeks isn't a terribly long time, but it's still a respectable period of time to be apart from loved ones, especially when I would be making so much of the trip alone. We talked a little bit, here and there, but I was honestly relieved when the time finally came for me to put dignity on hold and pass through security.
The actual goodbye was still hard. I hate leaving people at the airport; it reinforces the separation before it even begins.
After the last hugs and kisses were exchanged, I shouldered my Gearslinger and went forward. The exact protocols of TSA screenings change a little bit each year, but I stay one step ahead by keeping all of my change, toiletry carry-ons and phone in plastic bags in my pockets until I'm through the screening area. It's a practice that saves me the trouble of rummaging around in my backpack while ill-tempered fellow travelers urge me to hurry up. As much as possible, I like to design my circumstances to stay relaxed. It works pretty well, so much so in this case that a female flight attendant, seeing my buzzed hair and single, compact bag, asked me if I was military, because she was unused to seeing any other group of young males be so polite while going through security. Plus one for Southern manners.
Once through security, I boarded the plane.
The plane flew.
The plane landed.
I found myself in Miami International Airport, with a long layover and, again, very little to do. I wandered through the terminal, marveling at the sameness of every shop. I made a few phone calls home, speaking once more to my dad before I crossed the threshold into the realm of international phone charges. My father runs his own business, and with the added pressure of handling a lot of his own contracting in the construction of our new home, he had been unable to see me off at the airport himself, and it was important to me to speak to him one more time.
When dad and I were finished speaking, I hunted down a coffee shop and bought a cup of green tea to chill out with while waiting for my flight. It was a long trek--the international terminal in Miami rambles on interminably. On the way back, I passed a heavyset black man on the concourse, and he hailed me in a thick Caribbean accent. It turned out that he was from Haiti, and was passing through Miami on the way to visit family. He was having trouble finding his gate in the massive terminal. It so happened that I had seen where his gate was located on my way up from my first flight, so I walked with him for a while and took him to where he needed to go. He summed up the airport with a single sentence: "Miami's just too big, man."
Couldn't have said it better myself.
My Haitian friend at his gate, I made the hike back to my own gate (tea still in hand!) and gave Jeff a ring to tie up the loose ends from our abridged conversation of the morning. Jeff has also served in India; that was actually where we first met and became friends, and that left us with plenty to talk about before I left to go back for an extended period. Anyone who has been to India will testify that it is a hard country to adjust to, between the cultural differences and the sheer frenzy resulting from a population of 1.2 billion people, and Jeff and I enjoyed a few good jokes as to the challenges facing me upon my return. As we spoke, the call came over the loudspeaker: it was time for my section to board the plane.
I finished with Jeff, shouldered my bag once again and boarded the plane. It was late.
Next stop: London.
An update from my Italian grandparents -- two people who gave me kindness when I needed it most.
Two years ago, I sat in the Ristorante La Giostra in Florence, Italy. Apart from the single candles that sat on every table, the only light in the room was an omniscient golden glow that descended from Christmas lights strung along the walls and wrapped itself around everyone and everything in the dining room. I sat alone.
Florence was everything I wanted in a city. It was beautiful, diverse and busy--but not so busy that I felt overwhelmed. There was balance, just like the proportions of the Renaissance statues to be found all over the city.
Sitting alone in this luxurious restaurant, the walls near its door covered in snapshots of the celebrities who had previously dined there, it struck me how out of balance I was in this perfectly-balanced city. I wasn't sharing this experience with anyone. Not the city, not the sights, not this meal of goat chops and parmesan-crusted zucchini. It was just me, in my khaki pants and blue shirt. I usually took delight in the freedom of traveling alone. But that night, surrounded by candles and laughter, served by a head waiter descended from the Hapsburg line, a beautiful young woman of my own age dining with her mother at the next table, I was struck by the ridiculousness of my being in La Giostra without a companion. For a brief moment, I saw myself walking with that young woman, laughing and discussing art and history and dreams as we passed the Ponte Vecchio on a walk along the Arno. But my reverie was just a reverie, and I was snapped back to life with the arrival of the secondo.
I enjoyed the food. I paid my bill, complimented the staff and emerged from the restaurant feeling melancholy. I had done what I wanted to do: I was in Italy. I had gotten what I wanted in Florence: a meal at the best restaurant in town. Every day was a learning experience as I moved in and out of museums, churches and palaces. But it was a quiet trip. I would go most of each day without talking much. And that night, it became a fact to me that travel was not always best when the traveler was alone with his thoughts. I might be a modern Hemingway in my own mind, sitting on riverbanks and hilltops inscribing a leather-bound notebook with thoughts and impressions, but to whose benefit was my facade of quiet mystery? I shook my head as I walked and vowed never to eat at La Giostra again unless it was a shared experience.
The melancholy of that night abated, but that moment of clarity was like a bite of Eden's apple--there was no undoing it.
Two weeks later, I was on a train. I had left the Hotel Bonconte that morning singing beneath the weight of my backpack and camera bag because I was on my way to Venice. Venice was the city of dreams. La Bella Venezia, floating like a ghost city in the early morning mists of the Adriatic. The city of Marco Polo, and my final destination in Europe.
I boarded the train with my customary haste, barely clambering into a trailing car before the final bell sounded and the doors hissed shut. I walked the length of the car and settled into the first compartment I found which was unoccupied. It was a weekday, and it took a while to find a space with no commuters reading novels or talking on their phones on the way to work.
It was a pleasant morning outside. I had a pleasant view of the Adriatic shoreline for the first leg of the trip. The rocking of the train and the serene blue of the water relaxed me, and I settled into the well-worn seat to write in my journal. I would enjoy Venice greatly, but I was still alone, and the knowledge that I would be in a guest house with internet that evening gave me the comforting knowledge that I would be able to video chat with my family.
But, in the space of a moment, I wasn't alone any more.
The train had just stopped in Faenza. Some people got aboard, others got off. Two of the people who had just boarded, an older couple, smiled at me through the clear plastic compartment door and entered. I smiled back and they sat down. The old man was bright-eyed, sanguine and cheerful. His wife was missing teeth and bore an inscrutably mischievous expression that hinted both a quiet demeanor and the threat of sharp wit.
The man leaned forward in his seat. His English was serviceable, if spoken with a concentrated effort. "You American?"
"Yes," I said.
He smiled broadly and leaned back in his seat. "Ah! And what do you think of Mr. Obama?"
And thus I met Renato.
Renato and his wife, Lina, lived in Faenza, and he was more than happy to hear my benign opinion of President Obama, and to eagerly tell me about himself and his family in return, as well as to give me a crash course in some basic Italian to prove to me that it was not a hard language to learn. A retired train conductor, Renato and his wife were traveling the train on his lifetime pass, which he told me was one of the perks of twenty years of unbroken work in the industry. They were on the way to Bologna to eat lunch at the Bologna Centrale station cafe, apparently a favorite spot among train personnel for a well-prepared and inexpensive lunch. Would I like to eat with them?
Renato asked me this question in a way that seemed impossibly friendly for someone he had just met. I was instantly wary of some surreptitious scheme that would see me jumped by a confederate at the station and relieved of my cash, camera and passport. But I had an hour to kill before my connecting train to Venice would arrive, and Italian trains on this side of the country were usually late by as much as an hour, so I agreed.
Lunch turned out to be delightful. For the first time, as an American traveling abroad, I was made to feel like a novelty instead of a commodity, and it was both pleasant and humorous. Entering the restaurant, Renato jovially called out to people he knew, greeting them in Italian before gesturing to me and saying "Americano!" I felt like a bullfrog brought home by a young boy with a proud herald of "look what I found!"
We ate and talked, and I asked Renato and Lina to sign an empty page in my journal, as a way of remembering them. Renato went the extra mile by adding their address below. The two of them, with Renato doing most of the talking, were a sweet relief to me on my quiet trip across Italy. After three weeks of entering and exiting places of interest with no more impact than the ghost of an enemy of the Medici, I found myself with a pair of surrogate Italian grandparents; two older companions who were eager to give of their time and share a meal with a traveler who was much lonelier than even he realized at the time. "Hemingway-esque sojourn" be damned, I had finally established a relationship, and it was grand.
After our meal of lasagna and salad, Renato graciously escorted me to the platform for my next train. He consulted every timetable twice to make sure that I made I was on the right line to go on to Venice. I bade him and Lina goodbye a little after noon as they boarded their own train back to Faenza, and I sat on a bench on the platform to continue my journey.
The journal in which Renato and Lina’s names and address were written went on with me to Venice, two trips to India and a college tour of great American cities from Charleston to New York. I never wrote to them. I always meant to. In fact, the memory of them only grew fonder in my mind as I grew older and saw what a blessing our time was together. When swapping travel stories with people, I would always smile and reference my “Italian grandparents in Faenza.” But work, college and several moves always distracted me from writing to them, or anyone else.
Two years later, this year, I heard from my father that there had been a damaging earthquake near Bologna. My first thought was of Renato and Lina. By this time, my own grandparents had all passed away after long illnesses, and I was and am extremely sensitive to the plight of older people under adverse conditions. The idea that they might have been injured in an earthquake sickened me, and I felt guilty for not having ever written to them.
That night, I opened a page of stationary and wrote a letter to them. I pulled my travel journal off of its revered place on my bookshelf and thumbed through it until I found their address, still barely legible in Renato’s unique handwriting. I copied it down as best as I could and posted it the following day. I was not overly hopeful for a reply.
Today, at a moment that I did not expect it at all, I received the following envelope in the mail:
I couldn’t believe it. The letter had reached them. I opened it with trepidation, not sure what I was worried about but worried nonetheless. A smile so big it hurt crossed my face, and I felt a surge of emotion in my throat and behind my eyes as I read the letter’s contents.
This happened several hours ago, and I am still smiling as a write about it. Renato and Lina were okay. Furthermore, they remembered me and still wanted to show me hospitality. What a rare, beautiful thing that spirit is.
It’s easy to write about travel as a marketable subject of interest and quantify human contact into an abstraction. The depth or number of local relationships forged during a trip are used by the pretentious as badges of the nebulously defined “accomplishment” of being a “traveler” instead of being the dreaded “tourist.”
I have no time to engage in these arguments. At the end of the day, a few things are true as facts and the rest is interpretation. And the facts in this case are: I was a young man traveling alone, and I met a wonderful couple that remembered me as long as two years later. I have friends in Italy. They call me Stefano. And it means more than they know.
We could all take a cue from Renato and Lina's unhindered hospitality.
New Photography Hub: "Travel Photography: Practicing close to home for stellar images abroad."
I've been writing about photography on Hubpages again! In this latest article, I return to the subject of travel photography, going over the skills which every good travel photographer needs to have, as well as how they can develop their skills when not abroad. Give it a read and feel free to contribute your own tips and experiences!
Travel Photography: Practicing close to home for stellar images abroad.
Travel photography requires certain skills. A good travel photographer needs those skills to produce the best travel photography possible. This article provides advice and ideas on how to practice skills necessary for travel photography before ever leaving home.
"Make it Count"
Videos and stories like this make me want to abandon all responsibilities and go galavanting around the planet.
An article by Ari Schulman, which I quoted last week, Jack Kerouac's On the Road as an example of the kind of inspirational journey which is increasingly difficult and even impossible to make today. After fifty years of media saturation ruining the thrill of the unknown when making the trek to a hitherto unexplored place, journeys of self-discovery aren't what they used to be.
This video, however, reminds me, and should remind all of us, that spontaneous travel can still yield very, very special results.
For me personally, I'm seeing this at just the right and wrong time. I graduate in two weeks, but I've already applied and been accepted to the only graduate school to which I applied. It's hardly the time to drop everything and go globetrotting...but after seeing this video, I really, really want to.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WxfZkMm3wcg]
Video by Casey Neistat.
Originally seen on Living Superhuman.