The City of New Orleans

Good morning, America, how are you?
Don't you know me I'm your native son.
I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans,
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
-Steve Goodman

This morning NPR was filled with stories of The Big Easy emptying of residents as they fled for higher ground. For those who have not yet escaped the approaching Hurricane Ivan, the exits are closing, and they’d better be stocking up on plywood, liquor, and water wings. Even Amtrak’s celebrated City of New Orleans hauled its last load of human cargo out this morning and will only be going as far south as Jackson, Mississippi for the remainder of the week.

I find it strange to contemplate running away from New Orleans. I have countless wonderful memories made in different parts of the globe throughout my lifetime, but a disproportionate number originated in The Crescent City. It’s a place you go to—and typically depart from only because your vacation or money runs out.I was first exposed to the magic of New Orleans when I was in college, and drove there with a boyfriend. A hick chick from the Texas and Oklahoma Panhandles, I was a bit lost in its vast mystery; but it was like being lost in an enchanted forest. Intimidating perhaps, but still thrilling to discover history, new adventure, and even voodoo darkness around every corner.

Years down the road after I had barely left the ranks of couch spuds, I ran my first 10K there. Yeah, that’s right. Me. I ran it. Incredible! I’d spent most of my life believing only the superhuman could run a whole mile, and I had just run more than six of them in that soft, enveloping Louisiana humidity. It was a life-changing event that broke through all kinds of self-limitations and made me realize that I was capable of so much more than I had ever believed. The Crescent City Classic 10K was a turning point that made me so love the whole idea of running, I became a committed runner for life. (And yes, at times, a runner that should be committed.)

So many fantastic New Orleans experiences. I’ve been to one Mardi Gras. I’ve run two Crescent City Classics. Watched Final Four playoffs there. Delighted in Saints football at the Super Dome where the fans love and support their team regardless of the standings because it's one more chance for a party. Eaten too many sugary beignets to count. Happily awakened with hot cups of chicory coffee after long nights—and early mornings—of dancing and shameless imbibing. Learned to love the colors green, gold, and purple together and buses that have "Cemetery" on their destination marquee. Discovered that my distaste for large milling crowds completely dissipates when it’s the large milling crowd at JazzFest.

There was the time at the Carousel Revolving Bar at the Monteleone Hotel when I'd had a few and decided to interview people about their "revolutionary" experience. One precious blonde chicky drunkenly breathed, "Ah fahnd that if Ah keep one foot on the grow-w-nd, Ah don't fall off."

Ironically I can identify in some ways with the hurricane refugees. There was the one time I departed New Orleans to leave a marriage that had already sustained irreparable damage and for which the climate would never be anything but stormy. New Orleans has never again been my home although I’ve returned to that beloved city many times since. I hope those folks leaving today, contrary to all Thomas Wolfe predictions, can go home. Soon. To clear weather and the inimitable magic of The Big Easy.