Preamble

"You don't have to be born in New Orleans to live here, New Orleans can be born in you."  

These words drawled out from our dismayingly rotund tour guide whilst a group of us stood  panting in the searing summer heat of the city. It was September 2016 and about as hot and unrelenting a day as you get in the South. As I digested her words, I found  myself thinking of a moment almost six months previously.  

I was at a friend's house party in London in when  abruptly exclaimed, without any prior murmurings, that I was going to move from London to New Orleans by the end of the year. Understandably this was met with a rather deflating mixture of disinterest and general concern for my state of mind. In fact, I was the most confounded person in the room having given no prior thought to this endeavour. It was as though the idea had somehow belly crawled into my mind, buried itself deep in my subconscious and then let itself quietly slip out as if only to amuse only itself.  

There were a few tacitly encouraging voices that night. But mostly I could tell that they were doing their best to humour me and thought I should probably lay off the hooch. For some time the idea quietly fermented in my mind and little more came of it.  

Then in July of that year I was seized by it again in San Sebastian, in northern Spain. I had just run with the bulls at the San Fermin festival in Pamplona and was in something of a frazzled state of mind. By this point in my life I had become almost completely disengaged with my job in a bank and feeling all too aware that life was due for a more seismic change of scenery.  

It made some sense to actually visit the place first so I parked myself in a café and planned a road trip at the end of August that would start in New York and take me to New Orleans and back again. Needless to say, I fell quite hard for NOLA almost as soon as I arrived and began scoping out potential employers once I'd gotten home. Through a good deal of fortune and many hours of trawling LinkedIn on my work PC, I found a company that was helping fund social enterprises in the city and made enquiries.  

I'll fill you in on my work here in future entries but suffice it to say that they were kind enough give me a shot at working with them on a new project. My contact stressed that there was no guaranteed offer of full time employment and that I was likely to be helping them out pro bono initially and then offered a more permanent contract if I turned out to be worth my salt. But this was good enough for me and with little pause, I jauntily handed in my notice.  

I'll never fully understand what it was that spawned the idea in my mind that evening. But I'll be eternally grateful for it. Perhaps our tour guide was right. There is a kind of pull from this city that feels transcendental and unknowable. Either way, I'm here now. So I suppose it's time to roll my sleeves up and get on with it. 

Why America?

America is one of the most visited and written about countries in the world. For someone seeking out a new and more adventurous life, it may not seem like an obvious choice for relocation. Africa, India, Asia and even Australia can offer a great deal more to the intrepid traveler. But the Deep South is a country all unto its own.  

I had gotten a taste for it while driving through Alabama and stopping at a town called Atmore for lunch. It was about a bleak a pace as you can imagine. A downtown of sun faded paint, threadbare pawn shops and decrepit thrift stores. The only real eatery on Main Street was open about three hours a day, and only a few days a week. It was certainly as bleak and depressed as many towns I'd come across in Zimbabwe or Myanmar.   

Atmore

However Atmore, by Alabama standards at least, was only the 10th poorest town in the state with 30% of people living below the poverty line. Although the methodologies for measuring poverty differ between countries, that level is roughly equivalent to the levels experienced by of Cambodia and Gabon. The poorest town in Alabama is Evergreen where an astounding 50% of the populace live below the poverty line. That means that such delights as East Timor, Malawi, South Sudan, Burkina Faso and Chad are more prosperous places to live (at least, by their measures of poverty, which is likely to be lower). 

I know it's not really fair to compare a town to entire countries but it illustrates the point that even the most economically prosperous country in the world plays host to some of it's most downtrodden inhabitants. Louisiana is no different and certainly no less dangerous.

New Orleans clocks in the 4th highest murder rate in the US at 41.44 per 100,000. That places it dead equal to Kingston, Jamaica and above such safe havens as Tijuana (Mexico), Gran Barcelona (Venezuela) and well below Jojannesburg's paltry 30 per 100,000. In fact, New Orleans is the word's 32nd most dangerous city and easily the most dangerous I've been to. Within three days of being here I've already heard about three shootings, including someone shot today by a 22 year old high on cold medicine.  

In the face of all these discomforting statistics, it does at least appear that my new choice of home was a little more adventurous than I'd first imagined, and not necessarily in a good way either.  

The timing of my arrival could not be more prescient. America is a country that is in the throes of one of its deepest identity crises since the founding fathers put pen to paper in the late 18th century. And it's certainly a well founded one. There was a time not so long ago when America could lay claim to being amongst the best countries in the world, if not the best by most measures. Now, it's an altogether more macabre portrait. 

Globally, America is seventh in literacy, twenty-seventh in math, twenty-second in science, forty-ninth in life expectancy, 178th in infant mortality, third in median household income, number four in labor force, and number four in exports. In fact, America only leads the world in three categories: number of incarcerated citizens per capita, number of adults who believe angels are real, and defense spending, where it spends more than the next twenty-six countries combined, twenty-five of whom are allies.  

Many Americans will cite freedom and liberty as a differentiators between their country and the rest of the world. However a quick google will tell you that around 180 of the world's 207 sovereign states enjoy exactly the same freedoms as America.  

During another attempt by Donald Trump to rattle China's cage, they reposted by calling America a 'Shooting star in history.' On the above evidence, one can't help but feel like we are witnessing a turning point for America and its importance on the world stage. Given that China has been the dominant economic power on earth for 18 of the last 20 centuries, they take a pretty long-term view of history and shouldn't be sniffed at.  

The only thought that gives me comfort is that America does have an uncanny ability to reinvent itself and has managed to do so several times in the past. Whether it can pull the rabbit out of the hat again is something we will need to wait and see.  

In any case, New Orleans does not really feel like a truly American city. Its strength and appeal lies in its essential difference. Here, they love nothing more than to say that they are not quite the worst run city in America, but definitely the best run city in the Caribbean. It is a place that ceaselessly captivates, enchants, and delights. On the other end of the spectrum though, it is still a place that bears countless scars of corruption and the destruction wrought by Katrina 10 years ago.  

About 80% of it's roads feel more like a drive through Kolkotta, even in the smartest parts of town. Many areas outside the center feel like the Apocalypse came and went quite some time ago. Drug abuse is rampant and walks hand in hand with some of the worst gang warfare in the country. In spite of all this, the bulk of the city still somehow manages to fill your heart with joy at almost every turn. Many who live here describe themselves of the victims of an addiction to the city and find it impossible to leave. Many others, including myself, are now her adopted children after stopping by for a holiday. In short, there's something completely irresistible about this place. 

I hope this diary serves as a entertaining and informative window into this magnificent city and its many quirks and foibles. It's a place I'm immensely proud to call my adopted home and I hope that I manage to give you a sense of what life is like here over the coming years.  

Katrina

Understanding New Orleans as it exists today is almost impossible without understanding the storm that nearly destroyed her 10 years ago. FEMA (The Federal Emergency Management Agency) described it as "the single most catastrophic natural disaster in US history." the total cost of the storm was estimated to be in the region of $108 billion, also making it the costliest hurricane in US history.

Over 1800 people lost their lives and many, many more lost everything they had ever owned. Private insurance companies paid an eye watering $41.1 billion on 1.7 million different claims for damage to vehicles, homes, and businesses in six states, with 60% of the losses occurring in Louisiana. The National Flood Insurance Program also paid a hefty $13 billion to claims in Louisiana. The more I learnt about the aftermath of the storm from locals, the more apparent it was that those who needed this money the most received the least from the government after the storm.  

More than one million people in the Gulf region were displaced by Katrina. At their peak hurricane relief shelters housed 273,000 people. Later, approximately 114,000 households were housed in FEMA trailers. Unfortunately, just to add further insult to injury, some of these FEMA trailers were contaminated with Formaldehyde, which caused severe irritation to eyes, skin and throats. To make matters worse, all the trailers could be opened by other keys so there was nowhere safe to keep your possessions. So if you were lucky enough to liberate your most prized possessions before the storm, it wasn't very long before they were liberated from you.

80% of the city flooded after levees failed and 70% of New Orleans' occupied housing, 134,000 units, was damaged in the storm. The population of New Orleans fell from 484,674 in April 2000 to 230,172 in July 2006, a decrease of over 50%. Although by 2014, the population had increased to an estimated 384,320, according to the US Census Bureau, putting New Orleans back on the list of the 50 most-populous cities that year, but still a fair distance behind its peak.

The statistics only really tell you part of the story. As soon as I arrived here I began asking people about their personal stories of loss and salvation. Most of the Uber drivers in the city are both black and native to the city. Each had their own tragic version of the horror experienced by people here during the storm.

"I lost everything I owned. My house, my car, furniture. Everything." Said Randy, a gentle and mild mannered man in his 50s.

"By the time the storm came, it was too late for us to get out of the city. So we ended up climbing onto the roof. My family and I waited there for five days and nights for rescue to arrive."

"Did you have any food or water?"

"Not a thayng. I thought we was gonna die up there. By the time a rescue boat come, we was so damn weak we could barely move. I lost damn near 40 pounds."

"Did you get any money back from the government?"

"Barely a thayng."

Not everyone was dealt such an unjust hand by the powers that be. The storm's hardest hit victims were in poor black neighbourhoods, however many of the more educated and better off folks made out like bandits from insurance and FEMA compensation funds. Much of the paperwork to receive compensation was complex, onerous and in many cases required legal assistance. This essentially meant that a disproportionate amount of compensation went to the people who needed it the least. This sense of injustice seemed to provoke little action to remedy it.  There are still thousands of people who lost absolutely everything and received next to nothing from the government to help get their lives back on track.

Unfortunately things didn't get much better for Randy and his family. Once they had been rescued they were taken to the Superdome where 14,000 other people were taking refuge. The scene he described sounded more like Sodom and Gomorrah than a federal rescue shelter. He and his family witnessed gang rapes, suicides, robberies, widespread disease and frequent brawls. There was no water purification equipment on site, nor any chemical toilets, antibiotics, or anti-diarrheals stored for a crisis. There were no designated medical staff at work in the evacuation center, no established sick bays within the Superdome, and very few cots available that hadn't been brought in by evacuees.

"The smell was so bad that people was throwing up all over the place. It was hell on earth."

Unfortunately this was only the beginning of his ordeal and a story echoed by almost every other black person I've spoken to who didn't make it out of the city. But things didn't get much better once his family were evacuated. Families that had been separated were scattered around the South. Some were even loaded on planes where the destination wasn't revealed until the plane had landed.

Unfortunately the cities and towns that took in the one million displaced refugees did not display the same neighborly affection as residents of New Orleans display to one another. You would have thought that these being refugees from the same country (and sometimes state) that people would have reached out to them with open arms and kind hearts. Quite the contrary, refugees were treated like vermin in places like Baton Rouge, Biloxi and all over Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia. Even for those lucky enough to escape before the storm hit, very few had actually expected to be away for more than a week at most, and they had packed accordingly.

"We packed clothes for three days and didn't come back for three years." Said Chuck, who was 14 when the storm hit.

"We was like second class citizens in Baton Rouge. Kids from Norleas was always at the back of the class... local kids used to always be beatin' on us."

Huge riots broke out in Baton Rouge between locals and desperate refugees. The general consensus being that refugees were out to rob, rape and freeload off of the cities that were temporarily housing them. Many refugees ended up in camps as squalid and dangerous as the Superdome. Employment was almost impossible to get hold of and the government was woefully underprepared or unwilling to assist them.

In many ways, the storm helped reinforce the essential difference that locals here feel from the rest of America. It can feel more like a city state all unto it's own here. Even the city's uniquely crescent geography, the weaving Mississippi and the decaying Bayou that surrounds it bestows a mystical and ethereal nature that separates it from the real world around it. 

A quote from Tom Robbin's book Jitterbug Perfume encapsulates this sense almost perfectly.

"If New Orleans is not fully in the mainstream of culture, neither is it fully in the mainstream of time. Lacking a well-defined present, it lives somewhere between its past and its future, as if uncertain whether to advance or to retreat. Perhaps it is its perpetual ambivalence that is its secret charm."

If there can be any silver linings that resulted from Katrina (there are few), it's in the very fact that the city not only survived but was able to rebuild a good deal of what had been completely devastated. FEMA, to their credit, provided more than $15 billion to the four Gulf states for public works projects such as the repair and rebuilding of roads, schools, and buildings, in the 10 years since the storm, and $6.7 billion in recovery aid to more than one million people and households.

A swathe of new and more modern schools built after the storm helped lift the high school graduation rate to 73 percent from 54 percent prior to Katrina. Transportation systems were rebuilt and improved, and job-training programs in industries like high-tech manufacturing were also given much more funding.

In many ways the storm helped catapult the city into the 21st century and forced it to retreat from its past and face up to the ever changing modern world that surrounds it. It was a city that rested too heavily on its laurels and relied too heavily on fickle income from oil and tourism. 

Since Katrina the city has seen an influx of new talent as well as money. According to the FT, New Orleans has the fastest rate of small business growth of any city in America. People to longer turn their noses up at enterprising individuals and the city now attracts rafts of talented young thinkers and leaders, as well as some of the world's most talented artists and musicians.

The airport here is also about to begin two direct flights to Europe (Frankfurt, London). It's a city that is quietly aspiring to become a destination where people invest and to do business while being serenaded by swing bands under white Oaks, merrily gorging on some of the best food that America has to offer. I certainly look forward to being part of the story of a new and more dynamic New Orleans.

I just hope that changes to the city will be well managed well and that it won't lose the charms and people that help make it the most captivating and delighful city on earth.

Hunting for the Homeless

And so it came to pass that the Reverend Dr Cory Sparks and myself met for beers at Cosimo's Bar in The French Quarter. I'd first encountered Cory at his Church, St Mark's United Methodist, towards the edge of the  Quarter. On my first Sunday here my father and I  been on the prowl for a happy clappy choir service. He was visiting for the weekend and we both shared an affinity for a good old fashioned gospel choir and a hearty fire and brimstone sermon. Neither of us profess to being great Christians, preferring instead to believe in the more nebulous concept of spirituality and peace and love unto your fellow human. A bit like hippies but with a little less acid. On whim, we wandered into St Mark's and realised we were in for a very different service altogether.  

St Mark's is quite unlike any church I'd ever been to. Inside were persons of every race, gender, orientation, fortune and creed. This tradition of diversity goes back a long way. In 1973 the church was the only place in the city to hold a memorial service for twenty-five people that died during a fire at a gay bar in the French Quarter. They also throw their doors open to the homeless and provide free meals to them on Sunday. It filled my heart with joy seeing gay and lesbian couples with children at a place of Christian worship, especially in the Deep South. The gathering felt like a perfectly expressed microcosm of the city and America as a whole, minus all the Trump voting rednecks.  

St Marks

After the service I spoke to Cory and we agreed to meet for a beer at one of the church's local bars the following week. Cory, befitting of the unorthodox ministry he leads, did not have a straightforward calling to the church. As it happened, his moment of calling occured while he was standing on top of an abandoned porno theater in Matamoros, Mexico. It was being turned into a medical clinic and church and he was part of the team renovating it. Cory left Mexico with a sense that ministries should bring healing to the whole person—body and soul and eventually found himself as the head of St Mark's.  

He didn't carry himself in the same manner as other minister's I'd met in the past. Originally from Fort Smith Aarkansaas, he spoke out of the side of his mouth in low, dense drawl, with a voice that sounded like warm molasses being bubbled through gravel. He was the sort of Reverend where you could accidently use 'Jesus Christ' and 'Oh my God' in conversation and not feel like you were being quietly condemned to eternal damnation. Under the warm glow of Cosimo's wood panelled walls, we talked about our respective journeys to a life in NOLA and probably had a few too many beers in the process. Realising that we were now late for our orientation meeting, we quickly lined our stomachs with some $2 tacos and staggered out into the night. 

This evening also happened to be during the annual 'Point in Time' homelessness survey in America. Every year, volunteers from around the country take to the streets and give $5 McDonald's gift cards to the homeless in exchange for answers to a comprehensive survey about their living situation (or lack thereof). Cory had mentioned that he was doing the survey with an social services organisation called Unity and I gladly said I'd lend a hand.  

The orientation session gave both of us an opportunity to sober up a little before getting our surveying hats on. The twenty-four question survey was explained to us by a portly lady called Peggy, who was presided over by a man called Ken. Ken did very little except endlessly nodding in mute agreement to just about everything Peggy said.  

Orientation with Peggy and Ken

One of the questions on the survey was to do with their coronary health which seemed a little more than ironic given that we were handing out vouchers to McDonald's as a reward for completing it. But hey, I love Miccy D's as much as the next guy and, as they say, beggars can't be choosers.  

Once orientation was complete, we were herded into the back of a van and drove out into the chilly (by NOLA standard at least) January night. We were on the graveyard shift starting at 8pm and finished around 2am, so we were in for a long one. Our team leader was Clarence, a mild mannered black man in his 50s. He had worked in the Psychiatric ward at Charity Hospital before the storm hit. Having met several people who worked on such wards, I can testify that this is some of the most physically and mentally challenging jobs imaginable. In spite of this, Clarence radiated an aura of pure goodness and light and one couldn’t help but feeling relaxed in his presence. 

The wonderful folks at Unity

The Art Deco structure of Charity Hospital still stood as a vast, dilapidated totem in the center of town. All of the equipment had just been left behind and the effort to clear it out had only just begun. I had cycled by it the other day and can testify to a strong feeling of unease in the building's presence. You only have to look at photos below to see why. Just another victim of a disaster that seems to have left no end of derelict monoliths around the city.  

Homelessness in America is one of the few statistics that actually seems to be improving in the country. The national rate of homelessness in 2015 fell to 17.7 homeless people per 10,000 people in the general population from 18.3 in 2014. In fact, the US only has a homelessness rate of 0.17% of the total population. While that's still only 20th on the world rankings, it's still less than the Netherlands (0.18%), UK (0.20%), France (0.21%), Sweden (0.36%) and Germany (0.47%). Unfortunately for the 565,000 odd Americans without homes, they are often a much more visible and persecuted group than their counterparts in other countries.  

In the van, I asked a lady called Mary Lou whether the homeless situation had improved at all in the city. She'd been documenting homelessness in New Orleans for 23 years and I imagined she'd had a few things to say.  

"It's really a story of constant migration and persecution. People settle in a makeshift camp somewhere. Then the police come along, trash it and confiscate all of their possessions." 

"What do they confiscate?" I asked, slightly baffled.  

"Everything! IDs, photos, clothes, blankets, tents. Anything to dehumanise and degrade them. Once they've settled somewhere else, they just do it again.... You know, in Florida you can be put in jail for feeding the homeless." 

This all seemed abhorrent to me and I sat, quietly dismayed as we neared our first stop of the night. It was a makeshift corrugated shack under the Interstate 90. As we pulled up, several huddled figures sheepishly approached the car. The first to arrive was a toothless, scraggly woman in her 40s who staggered towards the window and began to shout. 

"You want ME to do a survey for a FII DOLLA McDonald voucha. I ain't doing go goddam survey for no FII DOLLA voucha."  

She then let out an ebullient cackle and it became clear that she was just joking around and the tension in the car quickly dissipated. I began talking to a man called Pedro. He was the same age as me and had been sent to prison at the age of 22 for petty unarmed robbery. It's worth remembering that this state has the highest incarceration rate in America. Given that America has the highest rate of incarcerated citizens in the world (even more than North Korea) then this makes Louisiana the most incarcerated region on the planet.   

I tried my best to make the questionnaire seem more like a natural conversation. Orientation Peggy had said we needed to stick to the script 100% but as you can see below, it's an incredibly stilted and potentially offensive piece of writing, in spite of all its good intentions.  

Surprisingly, Pedro actually had a job at Subway down the road. In fact, many of the people I met were also holding down part or even full-time jobs whilst also living on the streets. 

"All I need is some socks and a house man. Dats it."  

He was very measured, patient and calm throughout and bore no obvious psychological scars from his time in jail and the streets. I had been advised by Peggy that more chronic and vulverable cases of homelessness are more likely to help them get a call from Social Services offering temporary accommodation. I quietly passed this tidbit of information on to my new friend Pedro before beginning the survey.  

"How long have you been on the streets Pedro?" 

"Least six months." 

"Sure it's six? Maybe it's over 12 months." I said while winking at him furiously 

"Oh yea, of course, more like eighteen months maybe." 

"Have you suffered any regular physical or psychological abuse on the streets?" 

"Nah man, ain't nobody fucks with me." 

 I sighed and shot him another, pointed look. 

"I mean, yea, like, all the time man. It's brutal out here." 

After the questionnaire was done we exchanged numbers and I promised him some clean socks when I was next in the neighbourhood. Sadly there wasn't a great deal I could do about the house short of the pre-test tip offs, but I hoped at least it would give him a better chance at getting his life back on track.  

I met more people during our clandestine homeless hunt in varying states of mind and demeanour. One man, curiously named Graun Bilbo spoke about his experiences of foster care and heroin addiction. What came out plain as day from my experiences through the night was how the vast majority of people living on the streets were simply the victims of unfortunate circumstances. Born to broken families and abusive parents and never given a real shot at life. The dice was often loaded against them from birth and all they really wanted and needed was a chance to get their lives back on track.

Sadly for many, that just isn’t an option. Any form of criminal record here is essentially a death sentence to any chance of success at life. All through the night I listened in stunned silence to Mary Lou's stories about her experiences of women with small children living in abandoned cars and the various traumas that people experience during their day to day lives.  

By the time the shift was done, we were all pretty emotionally drained and Cory very kindly offered me a lift home. It had certainly been an interesting evening and one that will be hard to forget. There's an unrelenting feeling of hopelessness when you see the sheer number of people who live on the streets here. All you can hope for is that the statistics continue to improve and that the mindset amongst authorities shifts from persecution to rehabilitation.   

Me and Dr Cory Sparks

The Awful Truth

Given the intense controversy raging around The Trump Administration's recent decision to ban entry to the US from seven Muslim majority countries, it makes sense to explore it and separate facts from hysteria.  

Like many others, I find myself trapped in the same Facebook induced news echo chamber of outrage against this violation of human civil rights. I gravitate towards liberal, progressive news sources like The Guardian US and The Washington Post. However, since moving here, I've tried to break out of the echo chamber and get a broader spread of what's really going on here in America by reading Fox News, The National Review and a few other choice outlets. While they're not quite Breitbart, they have helped me understand the broader picture of what's actually going on here.  

First let's get the facts straight. Trump's Executive Order temporarily halts refugee admissions for 120 days to improve the vetting process, then caps refugee admissions at 50,000 per year. This is 20,000 a year less than the 70,000 ceiling that was at the end of the Obama administration. According to The National Review, this means America will admit refugees at close to the average rate of the 15 years before Obama’s dramatic expansion in 2008.  Although the graph below would suggest that this new figure is the lowest it has ever been and well below the average. The National Review cite this graph in their article, so perhaps they are also catching a bad case of the 'alternative facts' bug too. 

The  120 day ban certainly is extreme and the inclusion (initially at least) of Green Card holders was downright ludicrous. It's also worth noting that what he has done is illegal and in direct contradiction of The Geneva Convention. 

Including Iran on the list also seems particularly misguided. I was lucky enough to visit  Iran last year and there is no ally that America could use more in the region than Iran. Especially given that every Iranian I met seemed to have a cousin in America and there is absolutely no evidence that their government is funding Islamic terrorism. In fact, they have also been fighting ISIS at their borders and have been the victims of attacks themselves. In any case, the awful truth is that Trump's move is backed by the American public to an alarming degree.  

According to a recent poll by Rasmussen, 57% of Likely US Voters favor a temporary ban on refugees from Syria, Iraq, Iran, Libya, Somalia, Sudan and Yemen (33% opp). Similarly, 56% favor a temporary block on visas prohibiting residents of Syria, Iraq, Iran, Libya, Somalia, Sudan and Yemen (32% opp). Obama’s 2014 executive amnesty for people in the country illegally was similarly unpopular, with an NBC poll showing that 48 percent disapproved of his approach, and only 38 percent supported it. Polling also shows most Americans favour walking away from the Trans Pacific Partnership and stopping the Syrian refugee programme. Sadly the same also goes for the Keystone XL Pipeline. 

The majority of American people who support the flushing civil liberties and the core principles of the American Constitution down the toilet are not bad people. They are, unfortunately naïve, afraid and easily manipulated by a government that is spreading fear in order to perpetrate a hateful and oppressive agenda.

These people are not necessarily anti-immigration, they are just needlessly afraid of the wrong immigrants coming in. The right wing press is all too happy to play along given the high ratings from news that pertains to a terror threat on American soil. Perhaps if people were more aware of the statistics below, they would reconsider their opinions.  

Trump, according to almost every favorability poll, is currently one of the least popular presidents in history, but his current policies are not. This is the awful truth. That’s why Republicans gained so much ground over the past eight years, earning decisive off-year election victories. Understandably, job creation and safety are the two principal concern of Americans and the Democrats simply didn't realise just how important these were to a majority of them.  

It's also worth noting that the decision by the Trump Administration is by no means unprecedented. After the immigration of 123,000 Chinese in the 1870s, Congress passed the Chinese Exclusion Act in 1882 which targeted a single ethnic group by specifically limiting further Chinese immigration.  

In 1932 President Hoover and the State Department essentially shut down immigration during the Great Depression as immigration went from 236,000 in 1929 to 23,000 in 1933. This was accompanied by voluntary repatriation to Europe and Mexico, and forced repatriation and deportation of between 500,000 and 2 million Mexican Americans, mostly citizens, in the Mexican Repatriation. Total immigration in the decade of 1931 to 1940 was 528,000 averaging less than 53,000 a year.  

Several pieces of legislation signed into law in 1996 marked a turn towards harsher policies for both legal and illegal immigrants. The Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act (AEDPA) and Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act (IIRIRA) vastly increased the categories of criminal activity for which immigrants, including green card holders, can be deported and imposed mandatory detention for certain types of deportation cases. As a result, well over 2 million individuals have been deported since 1996. 

In short, the history of America has also been the history of immigration restriction and subsequent relaxation. History shows us that the tide will turn again. We will not forget all of the wonderful things America has given the world and the many immigrants who made them. Without them we would be bereft of Jeans, cash machines, Google, hot dogs, processed cheese, basketball, telephones, bicycles, hairdryers, radios and automatic cars... to list but a few. And there will be more. America has a ceaseless ability to reinvent itself and I'm almost certain that it will (in the right way). 

We can only hope that people in America are no longer misled by their new government and  the media into believing in a threat that barely exists. There are many more threats in America that pose much greater risks to lives than Islamic terrorism. Muslims are simply the current scapegoat and a lightning rod for fear in the same way that Italians, Japanese, Irish, Chinese and Mexican people have been labelled as past (and sometimes current) threats to the wellbeing of the American people.  

I believe that sanity will prevail here. But we need to stand up and continue to fight for it as long as we have the ability to do so. Fear is a more ready and potent emotion than compassion. In a post-truth world we also need to treasure and promote facts. The truth will ultimately lead the way towards a better, stronger and more open America.   

On the Road - A Modern American Hitchhike

"You want to do WHAT?!?"
This was the standard reaction I got when I told my friends in New Orleans that I was going to hitchhike 900 odd miles to Miami. Most of them thought that I was in the throes of some kind of nervous breakdown and advised that I simply should not do it.

"You do realise that people are going to expect you to give them a blowjob for a lift, right?... It's sort of the rules of hitching here." Was one particularly heartening response.

"Serial killers tend to migrate south for the winter so you'd better watch yourself." Was another, equally inspiring comment.

The purpose of this journey was to meet my great friend Sunny and his fiancé Natalie on an island south of Miami for a three day 'regional Burning Man' festival called Love Burn. It sounded more like an STI but they had promised large helpings of good music, delicious food, art, good company and, above all, fun. How could one possibly resist.

During a bit of research on the festival, I found out that one of the principles of Burning Man was 'Radical Self Reliance.' It seemed to me to be a bit of a no brainer that I should try and make my way there under my own steam. On a more personal level though, I just wanted to see if it was still possible to hitchhike in America. Before the early 80s this country was a hitchhiker's Meccah. Nowadays it's supposed to be an altogether different story.

The golden age of hitchhiking

In this climate of excessive fear and hate, I hoped this would prove whether the spirit of generosity and neighbourly love still existed in America today. I was traveling to a festival that celebrated love in all its forms so this seemed rather apt. And, after all, I was in the South. Fewer regions are as famed for their hospitality so it shouldn't be that tricky to get around surely.

The final reason for going was simply that almost everyone had told me that it was impossible. And this blog is all about trying to remove the stigma around an activity or a country. In truth, I confess to being a tad nervous. This could well be a decision veering on the wrong side of stupid.

I began my journey by taking an Uber at 6am to a Shell station on the outskirts of east New Orleans. It felt like this was cheating a little bit but asking my housemates for a lift at such an unsavoury hour is pretty off colour. Especially in a city which isn't exactly known for its 'early to rise' culture.

I'd done some hitchhiking in Iran and Iceland and found that petrol stations are the most fertile ground for prospecting. The main advantage being that you can visually screen people before you approach them.

Unsurprisingly, I try to avoid lone men and unsavoury looking groups. Although that goes out of the window when one starts getting desperate. Women, old and millennial couples tend to be safest. This doesn't quite guarantee that you avoid a lift with Rose and Fred West but it's safer than waiting by an Interstate ramp.

It was a spectacularly beautiful morning for a day on the road. The sun was an enormous shimmering orange orb, veiled by a thick cobalt blue mist. In the distance were the shrouded skeletons of the Mississippi River's heavy industry. The horizon was an explosion of pastels, with oranges, yellows and reds that were so thick and vibrant that it made my heart ache pleasure as we approached my first hitching spot.

After fourty minutes at the Shell station, my ebullience began to drift towards panic. It had became apparent that this was not a station frequented by people planning on getting on the interstate. This was one of the least safe areas in the city and everyone I propositioned was going somewhere nearby or simply didn't want to have anything to do with me.

I thought I was in luck when a pickup truck full of Mexicans I'd already spoken to beckoned me over. But as I approached I realised that they were offering me money. It was a touching gesture and the first unexpectedly positive moment of the trip but I politely declined. Perhaps I needed to change my look a little.

After nearly an hour I was told by a passer by that I would have more luck at the Walmart down at the next junction. Another quick Uber and I was in the parking lot of a Walmart working on my pitch. But it wasn't going down well. Some people responded with a flat 'NO!' before I'd gotten a word in edgeways. I would try and follow up with another word in but would be shot down swiftly with another 'NO!' and sometimes an outstretched palm of a hand if I was really lucky.

At this point I was really beginning to lose heart. It had been almost two hours and I was about as close to shagging Jennifer Lawrence as I was to getting a ride out of town. Perhaps the doubters were right. Perhaps this was indeed an impossible challenge.

I walked over to another Shell garage feeling defeated and deflated and began looking at the greyhound bus schedule. Flights to Miami were now so expensive that I may as well have flown to London. The only bus I could find cost $120, required two changes and would take 24 hours to get to Miami. Fuck, I thought, I've really cocked this one up.

At that moment, the owner of the Shell station came out and shouted "Hey! YOU! No hitching at this gas station man. GO!"
I decided to stand my ground.
"I have money. I'm not a vagrant sir. I'm just an amateur journalist writing an article about whether people are kind enough to let them get a ride from a stranger in America."
He shook his head disapprovingly and disappeared into the store. I was quite sure he was calling the police.

Just when I was about to give up all hope, a man approached me and asked what I was up to. He was called Saleh and was heavy set, in his early 30s with bright hazel eyes and eyelashes thick as a camel's. He sported a thick, black beard and was an unmistakably Middle Eastern in origin.

"Where are you from?" I enquired.
"Palestine. But we moved to Aarkensaas eight years ago. I ran a tyre shop there."

I told him that I'd been in Palestine last year to run a marathon in Bethlehem. Thankfully I had a few pictures of me there to assure him that I wasn't a complete fantasist. He seemed a little taken aback and said he would gladly give me a lift. I asked him where he was heading and it turned out that he was actually working as a landscaper on the grass at the petrol station.

"But you're working? You really don't have to give me a lift."
"Please. It would be a pleasure my friend!"

I asked him if he could go as far as Slidell, 25 minutes out of town and he said that was fine. Once we were on our way, Saleh and I struck up a conversation.

"Do you get any trouble for being a practicing Muslim in the Deep South?"
"I've been called a terrorist a few times by complete strangers in Aarkensaas. But when they got to know me they became some of my best customers." He said, with an infectious smile.
"Are you married?"
"Not yet. I'm going back to Jerusalem this year to find a wife. In the meantime, I've got four girlfriends here.... It's really less fun than it sounds. Just a big stress man." Throwing his hands in the air.
"Sounds like a nightmare to me Saleh."

My saviour Saleh

The effect that this encounter had on my spirits was immeasurable. We shared a good number of laughs on our short trip and I promised him a few beers when I was back. I began prospecting again with renewed vigour and something of a spring in my step. This next gas station was larger and more likely to be catering to people who were heading onto the interstate, so I was much more confident of a lift.

Fortune soon came in the form of Matt. He had a round, boyish face with a thin ginger beard, wore a trucker cap and drove a red pickup truck the size of an oil tanker. He was the same age as Saleh but just about the opposite in every other respect. Born and raised in Pensacola, Mississippi, he was a tugboat captain on the Mississippi River and was on his way home to his family after a tough job on the water.

Matt's 'car' looked a bit like this

Sadly he wasn't quite as trusting as Saleh and had been infected with the pervading atmosphere of fear that has crept its way into the consciousness of so many Americans.

"I don't maand to give y'all a lift but I need to see what's in your pockets and your bag. I'm sorry to do this but I just can't take no chances."

I duly obliged and once satisfied, we were on our way (on the condition that my bag was left in the back of his truck of course). We soon got talking and it turned out that he wasn't quite your standard, hard nosed Mississippi hick. His wife was from the Philippines which wasn't exactly typical of someone from the Deep South. He had met her while visiting a friend who was living near Manilla.

"How did you propose to her?"
"Unfortunately it ain't just as straightforward as getting down on one knee. See, they pretty old school in The Philippines. You still got ta court a lady there. I hayd to bring gifts to her parents, grandparents and great grandparents before I could even take her out to the movies...All in all I needed to make three trips there to even get close to taking her out properly."

If that's not love then I really don't know what is. He had voted for Trump of course but didn't really like him much personally. He said it was simply because everyone he knows is struggling to find work or was on section 8 (American unemployment benefits). Trump was the only candidate that recognised that this was such a burning issue for so many Americans and capitalised on it. I couldn't blame him at all for his decision.

"There's just no work back home. I have to commute seven hours to get to a job. Life for us folks used to be a good deal easier when I was young."

He also wasn't very religious but occasionally went with his wife to predominantly Asian, Catholic services. He said it was the church that he felt the most comfortable in.

"Did your family accept your marriage to a woman from the Philippines?"
"Oh sure. They think Sophia's great. Never had no trouble from nobody"

I was happy to hear this and genuinely surprised at the level of openness and warmth his family had for his partner.

"Do you own any guns?"
"You mean to say, which guyns don't I own?" He said, shooting me an impish smile.
"Got a tonne of em...Gave my wife Sophia a 9mm Luger for Christmas. She can fire a bull's-eye in the middle of a coke can from 30 yards away. God I love that woman." He said, beaming now and gently let out a sigh.

We got along just fine and said a pleasant goodbye near Pensacola. He kindly went out of his way to take me to a big petrol station with a truck stop. I shuddered when he mentioned the words 'truck stop,' dreading all of the reciprocal blowjobs I'd been warned about.

With a slightly hesitant gait, I anbled along the front of the ranks of parked trucks and quiety sized up which pot bellied teamster was least likely to request oral sexual favours as thanks for his passenger seat. Soon it was apparent that I was barking up the wrong tree.

"I'd love ta take ya son but my truck insurance don't cover passengers." Said one enormous mulleted teamster with what was either a large blood and/or ketchup stain on his string vest.

It turns out that this was an issue for every trucker I propositioned. Those poor bastards, I thought. All those potential blowjobs scuppered by red tape and petty bureaucracy. I can see why they all voted for Trump now.

Sadly truckers can't entice hitchhikers with gifts anymore. Bloody bureaucrats.. 

A little crestfallen, I made my way back to the petrol station in search for a lift from a car.

After fourty minutes I met a man called Rodney who was looking about as forlorn as I was when I bumped into him by a gas pump. He bore a rather striking semblance to an older Johnny Knoxville. Except if Johnny Knoxville had become addicted to crystal meth for some time and lost a good portion of his hair. His skin was grey and sallow and his eyes were a disconcertingly chaotic mixture of amber and green. More worryingly, his truck was so decrepit that even Charles Manson would have probably refused a lift in it. He was, in short, precisely what I intended to avoid when doing this sort of thing.

"Don't suppose you're heading to Florida?" I enquired gingerly, really hoping that he wasn't.
"Sure am. Heading to work at the state fair in Tampa. I run a few game stands there. Only problem is that I've got no money to get there. Just ran out."
I weighed up my options for a moment and decided to throw caution to the wind.
"Well, I'm happy to cover fourty bucks of fuel if I can get a ride."
"You've got yourself a deal man."

With little time to pause for breath, I was rolling towards Florida with my new friend Rodney. I was curious about his profession, having never met a fairground worker before. It turns out the games he worked in were the sort where you attempt to throw hoops over giant teddy bears, shoot balloons with an air rifle and fish for ducks with a magnetic rod. It all sounded very familiar and pleasant.

As he was describing them to me I realised that fairground work was precisely the sort of migratory lifestyle that would appeal to a serial killer. I was reminded of the comments from one of my friends about the migration of serial killers in America. I know from a previous article I'd written on the subject that there are up to 50,000 'active' serial killers in America at any one time. Just wandering around, searching for their next hapless hitchhiker. If they're all in the Deep South then that's a pretty astounding concentration of potentially active murderers in one area.

I asked Rodney if we could listen to some music and he predictably put on a country radio station. The first song on had a chorus that ended with the line 'but I guess I'm just crazy' which Rodney dutifully sang to. I plastered on a smile and nervously joined in.

With all the subtlety of a freight train, I steered the conversation towards my loved ones and a family back home. If he was indeed planning on bathing me in acid then I hoped to hedge my bets and appeal to his better nature. After about half an hour of talking with Rodney, I was reasonably convinced that I wasn't going to end up in nearly separated chunks, adourning his freezer.

Soon we were getting along like gangbusters and I was learning a lot about fairground or 'Carnie' (short for Carnival) life in America. It turns out that Carnie life is a means of existence deserving of its own reality TV show. Drug abuse, for one, is pretty rampant. Especially at smaller fairs. One former colleague of his somehow managed to have a $1000 a day crack habit whilst also being responsible for the management of the fair's most high risk roller coaster. Quite a feat.

As Rodney was speaking I noticed that his inside arm bore a mottled grey scar that was very likely to have been caused by chronic heroin abuse. I was a little concerned but, in spite of his rather frazzled appearance, he seemed to be fairly with it and I really had little choice a this point.

In any case Rodney turned out to be one of the most interesting people I'd met in America so far. He had some very insightful ideas on how to combat drug abuse and homelessness and we agreed on a large number of points during our many chats.

After exhausting most channels of conversation I helped him chose a Royal Caribbean cruise holiday with his girlfriend from a disconcertingly soggy catalogue. Surely even the most mean spirited serial killer wouldn't chop someone up who helped them plan their cruise holiday, I thought.

This activity took up a whole hour of our drive and by the end we had settled on our boat, departure date and even the appropriate food and beverage package. I refrained from telling him that, in my mind at least, a cruise holiday was almost certainly what inspired Dante's vision of the Seventh Circle of Hell.

Despite the slow start, I had made excellent time on the journey thanks to Rodney. I checked in with Sunny and It turned out that Sunny and Natalie were a few hours ahead of me in Florida and very kindly offered to stop and pick me up in Ocala, 'The Horse Capital of America,' according to Wikipedia. 

I met them at a truck stop and said a warm goodbye to Rodney. In spite of being stuck in his car for the better part of seven hours together, we were not quite at eachother's throats yet and he promised me a drink or two when he was next in New Orleans as a thanks for helping him get to the fair in Tampa.

So there you have it. 900 odd miles, four rides and a total of 18 hours on the road. I did cheat a tiny bit at the beginning and the end but this did at least prove that it is still possible to hitchhike in America.

There are a few caveats of course. It's not something that you should do if you're in a rush, shy or a solo female. Women are particularly vulnerable and I wouldn't advise ever doing it without company. American society sadly isn't what it used to be anymore.

Unfortunately the new government isn't helping a great deal. However my time with Matt, Saleh and Rodney was an important reminder that this country is so diverse that it really defies stereotypes at the individual level. True, Matt did think that London and England were the same country. But when you wrap your head around how absurdly big this place is then you begin to see why many of them don't care to educate themselves about the wider world.

America has more than enough diversity to be a world to many living here. And that's OK. Because it's a pretty fabulous one when you look past its more glaring faults. I'm certainly still proud of calling myself a citizen and a resident of this place. There's endless amounts of wonderful things to discover in this country and I'm looking forward to unearthing as much of it as possible during my time here.







 

What on Earth is Mardi Gras?

Since arriving here, the most frequent question asked of me by locals has been "So is this your first Mardi Gras?" To which I've repeatedly replied, a tad bashfully, in the affirmative. After this response I'm usually subjected to a loud guffaw and then "I really wish I could be you right now." I'm not exaggerating when I say this has happened at least ten times.  

In all honesty, I came to this city knowing very little about the history and intricacies of this historic festival. All I really knew was that there were several days of parading and that each parade was run by something called a 'Krewe.' Obviously this wasn't really good enough and so I've sought about educating myself on this festival and it's traditions and shall hopefully enlighten my tiny pool of readers back in the UK & EU.  

Celebrations are concentrated for about two weeks before and through Shrove Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday. Which means that the date of each annual Mardi Gras varies from year to year. Usually there is one major parade each day (weather permitting) and the largest and most elaborate parades take place the last five days of the Mardi Gras season (the last one in 2017 being this Tuesday February 28th).  

The history of these parades in America pre-dates the founding of the city in 1718, with the first known record of it being celebrated in Louisiana was at the mouth of the Mississippi River in what is now lower Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana, on March 2, 1699. The date of the first celebration of the festivities in New Orleans is unknown. A 1730 account by Marc-Antione Caillot describes music and dance, masking and costuming (including cross-dressing). The latter feeling like a distinctly French means of self-expression.  

However it wasn't until the early 19th century that Mardi Gras began to take on its more modern form when Bernard Xavier de Marigny de Mandeville, a rich plantation owner of French descent, raised money to fund an official Mardi Gras celebration.  

James R. Creecy describes, in delightfully decorous detail, the New Orleans Mardi Gras in 1835 (I've shamelessly lifted this quote and quite a lot of this from Wikipedia) 

'Shrove Tuesday is a day to be remembered by strangers in New Orleans, for that is the day for fun, frolic, and comic masquerading. All of the mischief of the city is alive and wide awake in active operation. Men and boys, women and girls, bond and free, white and black, yellow and brown, exert themselves to invent and appear in grotesque, quizzical, diabolic, horrible, strange masks, and disguises. Human bodies are seen with heads of beasts and birds, beasts and birds with human heads; demi-beasts, demi-fishes, snakes' heads and bodies with arms of apes; man-bats from the moon; mermaids; satyrs, beggars, monks, and robbers parade and march on foot, on horseback, in wagons, carts, coaches, cars, &c., in rich confusion, up and down the streets, wildly shouting, singing, laughing, drumming, fiddling, fifeing, and all throwing flour broadcast as they wend their reckless way.' 

As with many other things here, it didn't take long for the Americans to appropriate this form of artistic expression. Punk music, EDM, Hispsters, Jazz and Hip Hop can all lay claim to the same fate.  

The turning point came when, in 1856, six American businessmen gathered at a club room in New Orleans's French Quarter to organize a secret society to observe Mardi Gras with a formal parade. They founded New Orleans' first and oldest krewe, the Mystick Krewe of Comus. According to one historian, "Comus was aggressively English in its celebration of what New Orleans had always considered a French festival. It is hard to think of a clearer assertion than this parade that the lead in the holiday had passed from French-speakers to Anglo-Americans. . . .To a certain extent, Americans 'Americanized' New Orleans and its Creoles. To a certain extent, New Orleans 'creolized' the Americans." 

I like the quote above because it very neatly summarises the very essence of this place. A city with one foot well entrenched in its creole past and another directed towards its ongoing American future. 

Some Krewes are more open for membership than others and the membership fees can vary from a few hundred to several hundred thousand dollars. Mardi Gras and its associated parades are essentially run as a group of separate businesses which is why it has been described as 'The greatest free show on earth' by the cities inhabitants. Relatively little public money is spent to make the show happen, given its enormous scale. Which is probably for the best given the paltry state of the city's purse.    

During parades, the Krewes throw various detritus out to people along the parade route, including beads, doubloons, and stuffed toys. These all encompass varying forms and have their own unique history relating back to the theme and origins of the Krewe. 

The beads, which seem to adorn every tree, house, street lamp, and telegraph pole here, have been thrown since the late 19th century. Originally made from glass and imported from Czechoslovakia, they gradually took on their more prosaic plastic form and production inevitably moved to (you've guessed it) China. In fact, a vast majority of the things thrown out are made there. To combat the economic globalisation of Mardi Gras, many Krewes now personalise and hand make their throws. Procurement of limited edition swag is very much the calling card of a successful parade season here.  

It's worth noting that The traditional colors of the New Orleans Mardi Gras are purple (justice), green (faith), and gold (power).  All three colors were used by the Catholic Church throughout history and thus continued to be used in relation to Mardi Gras which is Catholic in origin. And if you stare at them together for long enough, they actually begin to look reasonably good. But only reasonably.  

Given that I've only experienced a few parades so far, I'm going to describe my more personal experiences of this carnival season in a subsequent post. For now, you can at least digest the much less juicy and salacious history and wait with bated breath for next week's article.  

Mardi Gras - American Carnage

When the dust had settled after Fat Tuesday (the literal translation from the French Mardi Gras) the question I was asked most frequently was 'how was your Mardi Gras?' At first this seemed a bit odd but then it's worth remembering that this is a full month of solid revelry that culminates in a week of pure, unbridled hedonism. There are literally hundreds of different parades, walks, crawfish broils, bloc parties and various other distractions during this period.

Even if you tried your very best, it would be very challenging and ultimately fruitless to try and experience the same Mardi Gras twice. My experience, as someone who has now lived in the place through a full season is that this time should be treated as a personal journey, albeit a journey that involves doing unspeakable damage to just about every facet of one's being.  

To attempt to master and control your Mardi Gras experience is about as foolish as trying to herd clouds. I learned quickly that to fully enjoy the experience you must surrender yourself to it. Never refuse an invitation and always remain curious (within your own levels of tolerance of course). Above all, have fun and ensure that others around you are enjoying themselves to the fullest extent. I also add that everything should be approached with a dollop of common sense. Remember that it's a marathon, not a sprint. Tourists, in particular, really don't seem to get this mentality at all.  

To write about the entire month leading up to Mardi Gras would take up several volumes. So instead this entry just focuses on the week leading up to Fat Tuesday. This is the most intense and well known period during the festival and contains its largest parades as well as its most salacious and outrageous happenings.  

The first night out on this bacchanalian odyssey began, appropriately enough with a party on Wednesday evening called 'Big Tits and Big Dicks.' Unsurprisingly, it served both and in healthy quantities. I was out at a local bar with my flatmates Brian and Sophie, celebrating Brian's departure to Brooklyn the following week. As the evening progressed, we noticed more and more people coming in dressed in an array of outfits that seemed to have shrunk in the wash and been dragged through a pile of glitter. This is by no means an unusual sight here but there sheer volume of people prompted us to ask where they were heading to.  

"Ain't you heard. It's Big Tits and Big Dicks tonight y'all." Said one twinkish chap in a fur waistcoat, pink hot pants and sporting a glittery handbag he'd received in the Nix parade. We hadn't been aware of this little shindig, but decided it was worth a gander and went home to change. It's always worth assuming that costume is mandatory at parties here. Often you won't be allowed into one if you haven't bothered to make the effort. This may seem a bit draconian but the results are quite spectacular at times. In any case, it's rather pointless to tell a New Orleanian not to wear costume. Even a trip to the grocery store can be treated as an exciting opportunity to dress oneself up.   

As an aside, this is the only city I know where the verb 'to costume' is used in everyday conversation. All too often you'll overhear someone say 'Oh, I'd love to hun but I'm costuming tonight.' People here will spend tens, if not hundreds of hours preparing costumes at extraordinary expense. To an outsider it may seem like a collective lunacy. But here, no home is complete without costume boxes, cupboards and, for the more dedicated, rooms. These can be for balls, parades or just for the fuck of it. Asking a local to dress down for an occasion is like asking Trump to stop lying through his teeth.  

Tonight was no exception. After we had gone home for a relatively ad hoc costuming session, we were treated to a line that looked as though it was never going to end. The event was being held at a warehouse a few blocks from our place. The crowd was the usual assortment of sparkling drag queens, vociferous gay men and women, and local Bywater folk tagging along for the ride.  

Ad Hoc Drag

'Oh Jesus honey, it's just like being back in LA' came one exasperated voice from the line. After much patient waiting, I paid my $10 and got in. Thankfully the people watching made the whole thing much more of an activity than your average wait at airport security. We were even treated to a few shows along the way by a man/woman who had thoughtfully provided a speaker and, mercifully, a thong. It was all very jolly and people generally kept their cool despite the preposterous waiting time.  

Inside the warehouse you were bathed in a thick, meaty tang of perspiration. The space was completely unventilated and contained two makeshift bars, a catwalk and a stripper pole. The show had already been underway for some time and the atmosphere was at fever pitch. The current act was a morbidly obese black woman, sporting short blonde hair with texture not unlike the exterior of a scotch egg. She was performing a seriously grimy rap routine and had so much energy that even watching her perform was quite a draining experience.  

The second act was a little less orthodox. An extremely leggy, achingly attractive woman spray painted silver emerged from behind the back curtain. Clothed in nothing but a microscopic blue slip on dress and what appeared to be a makeshift space helmet, she delicately began to have her way with the pole.

No sooner had she started then someone in a full alien costume, replete with tentacles and giant googly eyes appeared and, predictably, began to seduce her. Eventually a man in an leotard and fangs appeared from under the costume. The silver girl naturally greeted him in the traditional fashion that earthlings do and began to suck him off. He didn't have a penis per se but a sort of large plastic truncheon attached to his groin which duly spat out confetti all over her and the audience once he had been given the requisite amount of satiation.  

The same courtesy was given to the girl and she somehow managed to find it in her heart to also fire pink confetti from a device concealed (I hope it was a device) near her groin. There were many more acts in the same vein and all in all it was a thoroughly enjoyable night with some very nice and colourful people. Could hardly recommend it enough. Best to leave the kids at home though.  

The next day I had to drag myself out of bed for a 16 hour pedicab shift. Pedicabs are what we call rickshaws back in blighty. The reasoning for becoming a pedicab driver is something I shall save for another article. But, suffice it to say, it's a world away from being a banker and very much in a good way.  

During my shift I was bequeathed a hand crafted shoe as a tip by one of my customers. They were part of the Krewe of Muses that was parading later that evening. I learnt that being offered one of these is one of the rarest and most valued possession that one can get their hands on during Mardi Gras, save of course for a Nix handbag. People can spend a lifetime attending parades and never receive either. I was deeply honoured by this gesture and added it to the trove of wonderful moments that had happened to me in this place since my arrival.  

Incidentally, there is much more to Mardi Gras throws than meets the eye. At first it all seemed to be the same beads and doubloons. I overheard one tourist say that 'All them parades look alike.' He was lucky a seasoned local wasn't nearby or else he would have been shot. As with many things here, there is an entire subculture dedicated to parade swag that almost has its own language entirely.

Certain floats may have a special throws and collectibles that require secret passwords, holding up special coded signs or simply to be recognised by a passing friend. One person I know was the lucky recipient of a decorated toilet brush. This was very much an honour for him to receive and I have no doubt that it holds pride of place in his home.  

That's the thing I really love about America. It is a country that has truly mastered the ability to take anything and square root its most salient qualities. From cronuts to Turducken (Turkey stuffed with duck, stuffed with chicken obviously), this county excels at excess and has turned it into an art form. There is something so devilishly wasteful about the whole occasion. They even measure the number of attendees each year by the weight of garbage produced. So the more slovenly and wasteful you are, the more successful the Mardi Gras. I know Scandinavians who would literally choke on their herring if they knew about this. But to hell with it. You just have to get with the programme here.  

clean up Krewe

After 16 hours of sweaty, busy Mardi Gras pedicab hustling, I went to a party in a warehouse called The Moon a few blocks from me. The Moon is owned by a chap called Graham Holly, a DJ and all round great bloke. The parties there were organised by a very colourful character called Nick, who I had met at a mini Burning Man in Miami. Given that this was actually someone's home, the whole thing was incredibly well set up - lined with mattresses, psychedelic wall hangings, a proper sound system, projector and even a doorman. Much better, in fact, than just about every club in London. 

This party was still very much a costumed affair but a good deal less nudity than the previous night. There I met a nice Spanish girl called Veronika who offered me some acid in exchange for a few pithy aphorisms about how I came to be in this strange and wonderful place. The rest of the night is something of a blur. It's been two weeks and I still keep bumping into strangers who know me by name and seem happy to see me and I'm fairly convinced I met them there.

I'm thankful to have this journal as a memoir for a time for when I'm likely to not even remember my own name. Certainly feels like it's going that way at this rate. I certainly look forward to my grandchildren reading it aloud during family gatherings. 

The night ended at 9am with a bacon McGriddle and a sunrise chat with my housemate Sophie. No doubt she was slightly alarmed by my state of being but she was getting used to it by now so it was probably less of a shock than it could have been. I was up again by lunchtime and dragging myself back out to drinks in the French Quarter. Ready to do it all over again.   

I was heading off to meet Bobby, one of my new NOLA friends and as excellent a host as one could hope for in a new city. He was an tall, broad jawed Bostonian with a Cheshire Cat grin that was as disarming as it was reassuring. He had taken me under his wing since my arrival here and made sure that my landing here had been as soft as possible. His friend Will was in town from up North and we proceeded to get merrily sloshed.

The French Quarter could, at best, be described as carnage. And it was only Friday. "American Carnage." I quietly whispered under my breath, watching tides of drunken revelers pouring down Bourbon St with the air of people who were not going to be conscious for very much longer. After having our fill, we all bundled into a taxi and headed to the Garden District to party and to watch the evening parades.  

We ended up at a large, beautiful American townhouse a block away from the parade route. I had recognised it from a walking tour of the Garden District because it was near John Goodman's place. And I'm a seriously big fan of his work and most of his films. Sandra Bullock also lives in the nearby but that's a little less exciting. The garden was decorated with an impressive array of bowtied servers and buffet stands ranging from DIY tacos to charbroiled oysters. It was a pillared Eden of tranquility. You would not have the faintest inclination that barely two blocks away was one of the most spectacular and boisterous parades in the world.   

Evening parade

There is something relentless in the way that this city is able to provide free and diverting entertainment. There were three parades that eve. D'Etat, Hermes and Morpheus. Evening parades are particularly exciting because the floats are all led by Flambeaux. These are usually black men carrying large flaming banners, fed by a jar of natural gas. In the 19th century these were often slaves with wooden torches, necessary to illuminate the nighttime parades. Sometimes they were free men of colour if it was a particularly progressive city, like New Orleans. Until surprisingly recently, the Flambeaux were tipped by throwing coins in their general direction, usually as a response to tricks that they were able to pull off using their torches.  

Tipping does still exist in the form of notes and the composition of the Flambeaux is a little more varied than the past but it's certainly a slightly painful and awkward reminder of the skeletons that still darken the cupboards of the Deep South.  

Back in the house, I was filling up my gumbo bowl when I got into a very interesting and engaging discussion with a charming blonde woman in her late 50s. She had a wonderful aura about her and we got along splendidly. During our conversation it transpired that she had been married to John Goodman for 27 years and lived in the house that I had seen on my walking tour here in September. 'What a strange and delightful world' I thought. Not wanting to give myself away as too much of a fan. I did my very best to contain my excitement but almost certainly failed.  

I was buoyed by this encounter and some of the anecdotes she shared. It's a fairly surreal moment when you get to meet the closest person to one of the actors you respect most in the world because you probably get to know them a good deal better than if you would if you met the person themself. By all accounts, John is an extremely modest and retiring fellow, one would go as far as to say shy.

Saturday began with an early breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon at Bobby's in the French Quarter. After sampling them, I concluded that I have met no more eligible a bachelor than Bobby in all my life. Charming, thoughtful and a maker of good breakfasts. I resolved to get him hitched as soon as humanly possible.  

Predictably, it was another day of heavy drinking and parading. The weather had been nothing short of glorious so far and it didn't disappoint on this occasion either. The festivities swirled by in a sunny daze of bead catching, garden parties, house parties and the like. It was utterly glorious and guiltless pleasure. 

That evening I had the great honour of being offered a VIP invite to one of the hottest tickets in town from a good friend in the city called Jennifer. Unfortunately the event is so prestigious and secretive that I've been told that I can't really discuss it in any great detail, despite the microscopic readership of this journal. Suffice it to say, it was a delightful shitshow that involved (you've guessed it) lots of serious dressing up in a venue located in the far flung reaches of the city. Here's a few pics of me getting ready. I went as union Jack and Jill. Thankfully there are no pictures of me in full costume because it involved a pair of red tights and knickers and would potentially endanger my burgeoning political aspirations.  

One highlight of the evening was bumping into the person who ran the pedicab company I worked for. But that's sort of how things go here. I've been in NOLA for 6 weeks and already you bump into people wherever you go. It's very much a big small town. I'm beginning to wonder if that's why everyone is so nice here. You can't really afford to be a dick because everyone will know about it soon enough.

Either way I'm glad for it. Moving to a new city, in the far reaches of another continent is a fairly daunting endeavor. Even with the soft landing I've had, there are always plenty of setbacks. But it makes it a whole lot easier when you've got the help and support of those around you. And, despite only knowing most people here for a few weeks, I sometimes feel like I've been here for years. Or at least my body does at any rate.  

As you can imagine, Sunday was something of a write off. At this rate, I was on a direct collision course with a severe brain aneurysm so I decided to take my foot off the gas a little. Four days of solid partying doth not a healthy person make. And, more pressingly, we weren't at the main event yet. Fat Tuesday was still two days away. It felt like a million years as far as I was concerned. Remember, this was a marathon, not a sprint. Anyone who tried to sprint this would be dead by Monday.  

Monday, incidentally, was much like Friday had been. A day of parades, drinks, parties and a few more drinks. I even had the pleasure of some more banter with the wonderful Mrs Goodman. There is a special kind of energy in this place during Mardi Gras that gives you the strength to keep on going. It rises like steam from a the pavements here after a summer storm and permeates every fiber of your being. You can feel it in your bones and you really need to tap into it in order to survive this onslaught. Curiosity and self-expression will only get you so far, but you really need to keep enough gas in the tank for Fat Tuesday.  

Mardi Gras day began with a home cooked breakfast burrito at Bobby's accompanied by Will and several very strong Mimosas. Fat Tuesday has some of the biggest and well known parades, Rex and Zulu. Fortunately I get to experience those next year as this time we decided to head to a smaller, less official walking parade called St Anne's in Marigny, near the French Quarter.  

Before the onslaught

Finally, I knew what everyone was talking about when they said that they were jealous that I was getting to experience this for the first time. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has to be in costume on Fat Tuesday. The whole sight is something I've not quite seen before. I've been to several music festivals and parades around the world, but this was something quite different. A whole city bathing in the carnage of collective hedonism.  

I ended up joining one of the parades as a bearer of the Audubon float. This was essentially a mobile DJ booth replete with various flora and fauna for decoration. At one point we were in front of the St Louis Cathedral and managed to fill a good chunk of Jackson Square up with our associated revelers. We then moved on to the banks of the Mississippi and continued to do the same thing down there. Soon we had filled up a significant chunk of the riverside. The whole thing was a complete, delectable mess. 

One highlight of the day came when we had to take the DJ booth through the parking barriers. We even paid for the parking, God bless us. The day continued in much the same fashion and I ended up at a party on an abandoned naval base in the East and then back in the French Quarter for a last bite of the cherry. That too, remains something of a haze. And it's probably for the best.  

On Wednesday I woke up replete with a number of very large bruises and a two inch long gash in my foot. There was glitter almost everywhere and my head felt like it had been filled with mercury, By the standards of the last seven days I still consider it to be a lucky escape. A befitting physical souvenir for a series of festivities that very nearly broke me in two.

So that was my Mardi Gras. A journey that was everything I could have hoped for with the added bonus of having missed out enough that I'm very hungry for more next year. But of course, next year is likely to be a different animal altogether. It always is, or so I've been warned..  

Pedal Taxi Driver - Part 1

As some of you know, I came to this great city to work for a company called Propeller. A nonprofit that incubates and accelerates social impact enterprises in the city. The accelerator programme that I wanted to work on didn't really kick off until March and it's worth noting that I had no concrete job offer when I flew here. Just a few very constructive conversations with Rob, their head of partnerships. I'm a great believer that you will never get the most out of life without taking calculated risks, and even some majorly stupid ones too. So I decided to bite the bullet and move here in January. This would give me a chance to settle in, enjoy Mardi Gras and then (hopefully) jump straight into bed with this awesome accelerator project.

I knew that in the interim I would need to get some paid work in order to keep me busy and prevent me from plundering what meager savings I had managed to accumulate. Turns out moving continents is expensive. Who knew? I was no stranger to restaurant and bar work but had promised myself five years ago that I would never put myself through it again. I explained this to my housemate Sophie and she told me that our neighbour, Will, had done something called 'Pedicabbing' and had pretty positive things to say about it. 

At first I assumed Pedicabbing was a public transport service exclusively run for convicted pedophiles but I was thankfully mistaken. Although I wouldn't put something like that beyond the reach of America. Pedicabbing is in fact what we would call Rickshawing back in London. Those three wheeled, heavy duty tricycles usually ridden by a rather defeated looking Albanian in Piccadilly. Strapped for better ideas, I made some inquiries and got hold of someone called PJ, who ran the rather nefariously titled 'Cycle Taxi Unlimited.' We met up the next day and I was given a very clear set of handwritten instructions on how to get the licence. 

Undeterred, I set about the process of acquiring one. Getting the license wasn't exactly a walk in the park. First you needed to brave the bureaucratic labyrinth that is City Hall. A dreary, 1970's mess of a building where a normal process that could be accomplished by a 5 year old in the real world takes about three hours and ten adults here. Once you've filled out the initial paperwork, you then need obtain a medical certificate to prove you're not blind or obese. In addition, you need to pass a drug test for ten different substances. You also need to pass an FBI background check. And finally, you need to pass an exam on the city ordinances and the way a pedicab operates. 

Welcome to hell

Pedicab paperwork (not including the application form I submitted to City Hall)

The Pedicab test contained a few real brain busters like. 'If you start to feel dizzy on a pedicab do you A. drink a beer B. Keep going until you faint C. Shoot your passengers'....and so forth. Suffice it to say, it's the relentless bureaucracy that's going to trip you up if anything. Each of these tedious tasks needed to be completed in separate locations, spread thoughtfully around all corners of the city and at a total cost of about $100. A Grand Tour of bottom feeding industries for a city whose array of bizarre bureaucratic processes would make a Soviet clerk blush with envy. 

Within a week of meeting PJ I was the proud owner of a newly minted licence. After a brief training session, I was left alone with my pedicab and told I could work the rest of the day. Before being completely abandoned,  PJ refreshed me on how I actually made money doing this job.

You pay 30% of what you make for each shift. There are two shifts a day. AM (morning until 6pm) and PM (6pm onwards). You will never give back more than this percentage. However there is something called a 'Drop' for each shift. This is 30% of the average amount you are expected to make per shift. You get to keep everything you make over this amount. e.g. if the drop is $60 then they expect you to make $200 (30% of 200). You won't need to drop off more than $60, even if you make $300 for that shift. The harder your hustle and the better your luck, the more you make. Simple.  

The people who pull in the best money, get the best shifts. A self-reinforcing system that was nakedly and unashamedly capitalist. If you aren't good, you didn't get good shifts and so gradually and with much wailing you begin slide down the totem pole into obscurity. Eventually becoming a 'sub,' or substitute. The Pedicabbing kiss of death. Only America could produce such an unforgiving system. It was sink or swim. And I'm not one for sinking. 

And so I was off on my own. A three wheeled Travis Bickle, peddling my wares around the city. My own little yellow micro business. After a few shifts it became apparent that this was an absolute winner as service jobs go but it also had the capacity to break your heart. A fair chunk of your time is actually idle (unless you're working a busy shift). So you can just sit in the back seat and read a book in a spot with decent footfall and people come to you.

I do a fair amount of this

Every Pedicabber has their own style and their preferred hotspots but I concluded that since this is town stuffed full of hustlers and hawkers then the last thing people really want is another person trying to extract money them. I soon found that the less I looked like I gave a shit, the more people seemed interested in getting a ride. Humans just seem to love what they perceive they can't get. The hustling only begins once they get in the back of the taxi. Then they're all mine. 

I had taken it upon myself to learn a few quirky anecdotes about the history of the city. Once upon a time I had acquired a History degree at university so it made sense to actually put this to some use for once. If a customer isn't in much of a hurry then I can hope to turn an initial 15 minute journey into an hour. According to the city ordinance we are supposed to charge a dollar per person per block. But there isn't really a meter so Pedicabbers can take some artistic license with this if they so wish. I've turned a number of 15 minute journeys into hour long jaunts because of the offer of a free history tour. For an hour one could usually grift between $80 and $100. Americans do love a bit of history. And, by American standards at least, there's plenty of it here to bullshit about. 

On my first ever shift I took home around $120 in cash. Not a record but an excellent start, or so I was told. After that I was pretty hooked. During an average double shift I could read about about a quarter of a book, attempt to tan, get a serious cardio workout, have a few hilarious conversations with drunk tourists and then take home $350 for the privilege. During a busier shift that can rise to round $600. If you work during one of the city's many festivals you can make enough to buy  a decent car in a weekend. Although a bad shift (And we've all had them) can be agonising. I've known people to take home $13 from six hours of work.

The harm to your self-confidence from a bad shift can be immeasurable and I've had to learn to put the bad ones behind me quickly. People have a real knack for sensing desperation. They can smell it on you. And no one wants to take a desperate pedicabber. Especially given how much they can cost. Sadly it wasn't going to make me a millionaire. But as service jobs go, it was just about perfect for what I needed. And it was flexible. I could stop for three months and come back without so much as a grumble. 

In the next part, we delve more into the pedicab community and the actual experiences I've had being a pedicab driver. Look out for the article in a week or so. 

Pedal Taxi Driver - Part 2

Moving to another (supposedly English speaking) continent is by no means a walk in the park. At times it can be frustrating, isolating and occasionally quite thrilling. I'm lucky to have a personality that's fairly comfortable with dislocation and small bouts of isolation. In some ways I'm happiest when I'm out of my comfort zone. The challenge of building another life 4000 miles away from my friends and family fits that bill quite nicely. But it still doesn't mean that I'm immune to missing my loved ones. Who wouldn't be?

Nowhere is this feeling more visceral than when I'm working a night shift as a pedicab driver. Given that hellishly busy spots tend to be where the best cash is made, I'm wedded to them if I want to make a reasonable wedge. The best area for footfall is the notorious thoroughfare of  Bourbon Street. A mile long sluiceway, gilded by neon signs advertising cheap beer, "cocktails" and women. There was a time when this place had vague pretensions to classiness but it was heavily Disneyfied in the late 70s and that's a thing of the past now. 

Quite a few pedicabbers refuse to wait anywhere near Bourbon because of the barbarity and stench of the place. One French driver called Leroy guffawed and spat on the floor when I mentioned that I waited there. "BOURBON! C'est la merde mon vieux!" he spluttered.

He had a point. Rarely can one find a place where you experience equal measures of loneliness and  self-satisf satisfaction. Quietly studying drunken idiots making utter tits of themselves. Stoically watching an obese topless man wrestling a dwarf, and then vomiting on himself. Staring blankly at shuffling herds of overweight businessmen in cheap, baggy suits smoking $3 cigars. All quite convinced that they look like Tony Montana. They don't.

Photo Courtesy of Avery Leigh (https://www.flickr.com/photos/averyleighwhite/)

The three things that do make this job bearable, apart from the exercise are; the money, my colleagues and the people I meet on the streets and in the back of my pedicab. The latter two in particular are ample sources of comfort, amusement and, in most cases, entertainment. This chapter will cover all three. 

Firstly, the money. Anyone who has ever complained that America is an uncharitable nation need to be reminded of a few home truths. America, more than any country I know seems incredibly adept at leaving society to make up the shortfall for failures of its central government to provide requisite services and protections. Since moving here I've been overwhelmed by the small armies of volunteers who give up their time for free in order to give back to the community.

Just the other day, pedicab organisations asked for volunteers to help clear up after the funeral of a woman and her two small children murdered in a triple shooting. They had been well known and loved in the community. The local funeral home simply couldn't cope with the emotional strain of organising the cleanup. Within minutes the volunteer list was full. I've lost count of the number of times that I've heard of people sacrificing their time and money to help others in need here. 

Photo Courtesy of Avery Leigh (https://www.flickr.com/photos/averyleighwhite/)

At no time in American history is this spirit of community and generosity more relevant than now. The Trump Administration, if you can dignify it with such a title, is planning on de-funding just about every Federal organisation under the sun. The impact will be catastrophic and felt all over America, and the wider world. The need for individuals and communities to step up has never been greater. And I certainly hope they do because this country is fucked without it. 

If tipping is anything to go by then I count this as probably the most generous nation on earth. The average tip I receive for a ride is around 40% on top of the fare. And the fare is bloody high. You wouldn't catch me dead in a pedicab. But I'm glad someone takes them. And, as is often the case, the least well off usually give the most, and certainly as a proportion of their net worth.

Occasionally you have to sweat for a good tip. I once got $50 for a 10 minute ride because I won a six pedicab drag race. It's probably the only time I'll ever get paid for committing a traffic infraction. Europeans, by contrast, are a much stingier lot. And don't get me started on sodding Australians (more on that later). 

once in a while, some dimwit will ask me "so why y'all more expensive than an Uber or a cab?" To which I usually say something like:

"Because I'm a human bloody chariot you twat. I'm an affordable luxury experience, like a ostrich egg omelette or those water jetpack things. Do you know what I had to go through to even get a license?"

Actually I don't say that. But I'd really like to one day.

As you'd imagine, the kind of people who work in this business are a fairly eclectic bunch. Many are transplants to the city from all over America and beyond. There is the expected smattering of musicians, photographers, actors teachers and the like. One Franco American rider I met was called Paul and was famously grumpy, even on his best days. I later learnt  he was former war journalist who had done a long tour in Iraq, Afghanistan and Syria. I think it would be hard not to have a short fuse if you'd experienced something as tough as that. 

Photo Courtesy of Avery Leigh (https://www.flickr.com/photos/averyleighwhite/)

Others commuted here for the Winter and Spring festival seasons and moved north in Summer to work as a fisherman, tree planters, landscape artists or other, equally salty enterprises. Some were ex-military and did tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. One had been an engineer on a nuclear submarine. There were a few students, busily preparing for careers ranging from geology to astrophysics. Some had worked in oil and gas or the chemical sector. One of my friends, Brian, had been part of a team that cleaned up major chemical leaks at processing plants. Often playing around with substances that would kill a human in seconds if their skin was exposed  to more than a teaspoon of it. 

There were plenty of girls doing the job too, and they were hard as nails. You really have to be given the amount of sexual harassment meted out to drivers. Even I experienced a small dose of it at the hands of two very sozzled gay men. Thankfully you can blackmail them for the privilege. The going rate is usually $20 a prod. I'd heard of a legendary female pedicabber whose hustle was baiting customers with the promise of future sexual encounters, only to leave them $300 poorer and very, very horny. 

Everyone has their own way to hustle. Mine was chilling on Bourbon. In time, I came to find solace on the murky corners of Bourbon street. I became immune to the fetid stench of old oyster water. I began to enjoy high fiving drunkards and posing for photos with tourists. Sometimes I even got tipped for posing for them. Once by a group of men from Jersey and once by a gay blind man who sat and talked with me for a while. Why a blind man would tip for a photo is beyond me but I was glad for his generosity. 

Photo Courtesy of Avery Leigh (https://www.flickr.com/photos/averyleighwhite/)

The job also allowed me to meet eccentric locals and street performers. One man called Bernardo asked me to pedal him to a bar for a takeaway mimosa (it was 11am) and then to his home to help him up the stairs with his groceries. He was a black man in his 60s sporting a trilby, a brown chalk stripe suit and a pair of wraparound sunglasses that felt like they had been welded to his face. He walked as though he had just been hit on the head with a frying pan. Many years of either self-abuse or a serious health issue had also gifted him the poise of someone constantly holding on to an electric fence. 

Once I was in his flat it dawned on me that Barnardo had quite the career. The whole flat was decorated floor to ceiling in large, framed black and white photographs of exceedingly beautiful nude women. I had, completely by accident, stumbled across the man with the best job in the world. 

"I probably seen mo' pussy than a thousand dudes! Been doin' this fo fouty years and it don't get old" He exclaimed. Given the interior decor of his home, it was hard to disagree. 

Bernado's "work"

As well as local artists and, there were all manner of street performers and vendors that I became friendly with too. There was Rex, the hotdog salesman. An Alabaman ex-military man who was an absolute dead ringer for Ernest Hemingway. There was Jack Working, an 87 year old photographer who had lived in the city since 1950. He was still sharp as a pin liked to tell me stories about his friend who slept in an original civil war submarine that he had somehow managed to stash away in his living room.

There was Joe, the ex crack addict who had found out that he was really good at standing still for long periods of time. He decided to put this skill to use and would stand for hours in various poses on Bourbon street, holding an American football. I was shocked to find out that he earned about as much as someone in a Junior position at a law firm. Except it was tax free. 

"Have you ever had to stop being a human statue against your will Joe?" I inquired.

"Only one time. A lady came up to me on Bourbon and started trying to suck my dick. I kinda drew the line at that one. It was five in the afternoon....There were kids around man."

Other memorable street acts included Pikachu Guy, Disco Darth Vader, Tall Black Man Dressed as Uncle Sam, Pirate Couple, Voodoo Weirdo, and Red Devil Dude. Incidentally Red Devil Dude died of a brain aneurysm two days ago. Disco Darth Vader organised a memorial service for him but the pedicabbers all thought he was a total dick so no one showed up. I only encountered Red Devil Dude once and can attest, with no hesitation, that few will ever mourn for his absence. 

My absolute favourite performer was a man that I have never actually met. Clown Mannequin Guy would dress a mannequin up in clown clothes and a mask and place it on a dustbin in Jackson Square. People would stare, completely aghast at this supposed performer's ability to remain completely still. Presumably with open mouths they would toss their hard earned dollars into a bucket at the clown's feet. Apparently the owner would always sit somewhere in the square, getting totally ballbagged on hooch and giggling to himself as people diligently tipped his mannequin. 

A rare sighting of Clown Mannequin Guy. He cycled past me with the clown sitting on the handlebars.

Aside from the friendship and comfort of those that worked on the street, I also found passengers to be sources of great interest, amusement and disappointment. Mostly they came from quiet little corners of America. Mostly from Ohio, Pennsylvania and other frigid states. By the end of my second month I had nearly covered nearly every state. I could always tell within a few minutes which passengers voted for trump. The various responses as to why good honest people would vote for a lying, philandering, demagogue were as interesting as they were baffling.

The word used most was 'change'. Which seemed deeply ironic given that this was the maxim so often associated with Barack Obama. People here just can't help but go for a Maverick. It's been one of the defining features of the American psyche since the pioneers decided that they would head West until they couldn't get much further. It also didn't help that a huge number of people thought Hillary was a total bitch. I sort of did too. 

Probably my favourite 'Trump' related moment was when a man from Florida told me, in all seriousness.
"If y'all wanna make some money you better get yourself some action on that wall he's building."
I paused for a moment in order to prevent myself from telling him to shove the wall up his arse. he continued.
"He sure is pissin' a lot of folks off." Now that I could certainly agree with.

I'm usually pretty deferential and try to avoid offending my customers. Even the Cro-Magnon skulled Trump fanatics. The closest I ever came to really offending someone in my pedicab was when a black woman was talking to me (incidentally about Trump).

"This is what happens when people vote with their emotions, and not their reason." She said
I'd just watched The People Versus OJ Simpson and very nearly replied
"Yea, like they did wit the OJ case."
Thankfully I was able to check myself.

Most of my customers are good natured, entertaining and interested in having a genial conversation. The one exception to this rule is Australians, namely Australians from Sydney. I generally consider myself to be a pretty liberal and tolerant sort of person but I make a few exceptions for people who really rub me the wrong way. It used to be Germans but they have been completely leapfrogged by Sydnians, thanks to my experiences with them here.

Photo Courtesy of Avery Leigh (https://www.flickr.com/photos/averyleighwhite/)

I've had the displeasure of taking three pairs of Sydnians for rides and can report, without restraint, that all are almost completely devoid of personalities, humour, charm and a general interest in the world around them. I try and engage them in conversation but they act as they would rather wank off a bobcat. Perhaps it's because I have an English accent but I'm pretty convinced it's because they're a bunch of knobs. Oh, and they never tip. Obviously.

It's a shame because Australia itself is such an incredibly beautiful country. But I dare not visit for fear of accidentally strangling someone. I've taken groups of men to strip clubs and watched them slip their wedding rings into their jeans pocket and yet I still hold them in higher regard than all of my Australian passengers.

I think that's enough Aussie hating for now. Suffice it to say the overall pedicabbing experience has been great. So great in fact that I'll probably keep it up alongside my day job. In fact I'm on the clock as I write this last paragraph, sitting by Jackson square under a gentle violet sky. The thick heat of the day is settling down and the air is filled with the distinctive smell of burning charcoal. It's a smell that tells you that spring is finally around the corner. although it was almost 30 degrees today and the leaves still aren't out on most of the trees yet. I can understand why Martin Luther King called it the 'relief of Autumn' now. In any case, I really do love it here and I can't wait for folks to visit and share this wonderful place with me. 
 

On the job/writing this post

Rescuing Ronda

Life would be rather dull if good things were always happening to you. You can only really appreciate the good times when there's some shite in there to gain perspective. From my first day in New Orleans that had been pretty much the case and I was on something of a high. My home and my housemates were fantastic, Mardi Gras had been all I'd hoped it would be and I'd just been offered a job by the company I'd moved here to work with. Things couldn't be rosier. 

One of the biggest sources of my happiness was a possession that I had developed an almost unnatural closeness to, namely my scooter, Ronda. I had bought her for the hearty sum of $500 from a college student on Craigslist. It was about a week's worth of pedicab cash so not an insignificant amount to part with. 

Very soon, we were inseparable. In London I had been a die hard cyclist. But here, the incessant humidity made cycling any long distance a rather soggy affair. Scooters are pretty much the perfect way of getting around in NOLA. Aside from being well ventilated, you can also park anywhere for free. Plus fuel and insurance basically cost nothing. 

In Ronda's case this was literally true as she was apparently sold to the previous owner as a "49cc" scooter and therefore exempt from registration and insurance requirements. 50cc scooters and above are the ones that apparently need official documents and the like. Or so I was told.

"Have you ever had any issues with the police?" I asked my Craigslist friend.

"Nah, they're to concerned with the murder rate here to really bother with checking a scooter's registration. You'd need to be doing donuts and shooting a gun in the air on Canal St for them to really take notice."

Semi-reassured but also smelling some serious BS, I took possession of her and embarked on a series of misadventures around the city. I'd get around to registering her at some point, I thought. It was apparent from the offset that she had bags of personality and the fact that she already had a few battle scars meant that I could throw her around without much care. During Mardi Gras I wound up with a pretty nasty gash on my foot which bled all over her. So we were quite literally bonded by blood. I quickly grew to love every little Chinese made piece of her. 

So you can imagine my reaction when I stepped out on the porch on a sunny Sunday morning only to discover that my beloved Ronda was not where I'd left her. At first I thought that I'd gone a bit soft and left her somewhere. But a check of the house security camera revealed that about 10 minutes after I'd taken out the trash at 10:50pm, two hooded figures approached her and stopped in the middle of the street. After a few deliberative moments they pounced. Unfortunately it was too dark to make out any defining features so they remained painfully anonymous. 

I felt a little sick to my stomach watching the two of them sizing my poor little Ronda up on the recording. One of them stood guard in the middle of the street while the other had his way with her. It was all over in a matter of minutes. A great sadness filled my heart and it dawned on me that there was a high likelihood that she would never be part of my life again. 

I did what anyone would do and called the police and they said they would ring back later. I was beginning to get my first taste of the 'not a single fuck given' attitude police have here to any crime that doesn't involve first degree murder. Eventually they called back but, of course, I didn't have a registration number. I did have the VIN number which is actually more relevant as it's bolted onto the chassis and uniquely identifies all scooters. But this didn't appear on their systems so it was a resounding fuck off. 

Sophie kindly offered to drive around and look for it with our new housemate Jaclyn. This was literally Jaclyn's first day moving here from New York and really not the best of introductions. As they were on foot, it was very likely that the thieves were from St Claude, the slightly dodgier neighbourhood a few blocks away. A few months ago the bins had been stolen from outside the house and had wound up in a pile here. So there was a small chance that she would have suffered a similar fate. 

We spent over an hour circling around, desperately hoping to find her. A small part of me was believed that that I'd see her idly parked on someone's driveway or passing buy. I'd then tell Sophie to give chase and then jump out of the door and do a flying clothesline, landing unharmed and with her thief subdued and only slightly harmed. 

After passing by all of the notable crime hotspots within a few miles, we called off the search. I felt heartbroken. But I resolved to find her one way or another. I began tapping into my very limited rolodex to see if anyone could help. Sophie's mother kindly posted an ad on a local neighbourhood watch app. My friend priscilla got in touch with every chop shop in the city. She was an artist and used them for her supplies. According to Priscilla there were only three places that it could end up if it was being sold for scrap and she knew the owners of all of them. 

I was starting to feel optimistic and decided to head to the local police station to see if a personal appearance would persuade them to give a little more of a shit. I had pictures of me on the scooter, pictures of the VIN number and even a time stamped photo of the two people as they made off with her. I walked up to a female officer at the reception. She had sleeve tattoos on both arms and a 'don't even think about it' haircut. 

"Hi, my scooter was taken from outside my home last night. I have some.."

"What's the registration?" She interrupted. 

"Well...it doesn't have one. But I have a VIN number." She shot me a look as if I'd just stumbled into the police station claiming to have lost my pet rock. 

At that point I knew I was barking up the wrong tree and that it was more likely that Jennifer Lawrence was going to walk into the police station and ask me to marry her than to get a police report filed with the New Orleans Police Department. 

This is very much par for the course in this city. There is something of a Faustian Pact that you make here with the police here. You can own a scooter that is unregistered, uninsured and probably stolen and the police won't give you any grief for it. There's simply too much other crap going on here for them to waste their time on it. Any crime that doesn't begin with the words First Degree won't get a great deal of attention from them. Even the theft of a registered, totally legitimate scooter wouldn't get much of an airing. 

To add insult to injury, I actually saw her a day later when I was in an Uber on the way to lunch. It actually drove right by me. I jumped out of my seat and asked my driver to give chase. Sadly by the time we rounded the corner she had disappeared. Fate it seemed, had ordained it to give me one last painful, tantilising glimpse of her. 

That was the last time I saw Ronda. I was in the doldrums for about a day but quickly resolved that this may have been a sign from Karma that I needed to have a scooter that could be registered and insured. If I were to have ended up in a serious accident, it could have cost me many thousands of dollars so it seemed like the proper course of action. So three days after Ronda's fateful nighttime tryst, I walked into a shop called Scoots and put my credit card to use. Soon I found myself the owner of a licensed and insured replacement who I named Guinevere. 

Ronda's Replacement 

Within a few weeks I had almost forgotten about Ronda. I still keep her keys on me at all times though. Just i case I find her again. It's always good to hold on to hope. In the grander scheme of setbacks it's pretty minuscule though. I'm not quite one of those strange men who love inanimate objects more than other people. And ultimately it is always people who bring me the greatest happiness in life. And I'm eternally grateful for their presence in mine. I mean, what good is a scooter if you don't have anyone to ride on it with you?

Making new memories on Guenevuire 

The Sweat Lodge

On the surface of it, sitting in a windowless oven surrounded by a group of chanting half-naked strangers sounded like my idea of hell. But on the morning of Friday, April 7th, Sophie and I set off on an eight hour road trip to North Georgia in order to do just that. 

We were going to a 'Sweat Lodge,' an ancient Native American healing ceremony that had been practiced for many thousands of years by various native peoples from all over America. Normally I prefer to bathe in ignorance and not prepare at all for such an occasion, but in this instance my curiosity got the better of me. Thanks to a website aptly named barefootsworld.net, I was able to get a better sense of what I was in for. 

When my dear old friend Sunny had invited me up I had incorrectly assumed that this ceremony involved ayahuasca, peyotene or other traditional 'visual aides' to really help you dial into those spirits. The sort of aides that your average drug dealer would laugh you off the phone for asking about. In fact the sweat lodge is very much geared towards repairing the 'damage done to spirits, minds and bodies.' It's often used as a means of helping drug addicts wean themselves off heroin or methamphetamine and even used by US prisons.

The website also mentioned that women should not partake in the ceremony if they are on their 'Moon Time.' This was probably the quaintest way of describing a woman bleeding and cramping for three (or more) days that I'd ever come across. "Go fuck yourself, I'm on my Moon Time."....I could really see it catching on. 

Lodges often vary in the way they are constructed but the general rule of thumb is that they are circular structures between four and five feet in height and ten feet in diameter and contain a pit at the center that is two feet in diameter and up to a foot deep. In the east of America the entrance will face to the west and in the west the opposite is the case. Quite how people know where the middle of America was a thousand years ago is a mystery to me.

Interestingly, gatherings of this nature were illegal until the American religious freedom act of 1978. Even items such as eagle feathers were banned. Before the act was passed you could technically have been imprisoned for attending a ceremony such as this one. 

Building materials vary according to tribal tradition. For example, mobile Plains Indians would build more temporary wooden structures with animal hides for cladding. The lodge we were going to was built as a more permanent stone and wood structure as the tribe that were historically more bedded down.  The ceremony traditionally takes place before and after a 'Vision Quest.' Although I had no such aspirations, the 8 hour drive each way seemed enough to have this covered at both ends. Although Sophie actually did the driving so it probably doesn't count. 

Ideally one should fast for at least a day before the lodge and drink water only. Some folks take this a bit too seriously and fast for a week and may not even bother with water, even during the ceremony. That just seemed plain stupid to me but apparently the closer you get to death, the more powerful and visceral your communion with whichever spirits you happen to be channeling at the time. 

I didn't really want to put this to the test much so Sophie and I spent the whole of Friday stuffing ourselves like Foie Gras geese on the drive down before fasting for the ceremony on Saturday. In one day I managed to polish off two cooked breakfasts, a chicken sandwich meal that weighed more than a the Encyclopedia Britannica, most of a quiche and and a near lethal quantity of miscellaneous snack foods. I had heard of people dying during these ceremonies and damned if I was going to be another statistic.

As it was meant to be a ceremony that removed impurities from the body as well as the spirit, I took this as license to have a very, very heavy night of drinking on Thursday night and to drink quite a few beers on the way up to Georgia as well to take the edge off the hangover. I wanted to get my money's worth at this lodge so there needed to be a fair bit to sweat out at the ceremony. No point in turning up with an empty cup. 

The lodge was run by a the aptly titled Tom Blue Wolf. I had been to visit his place at Emery Creek before in September last year and had promised that I'd return for a lodge one day. He was the direct descendant of Muscogee & Creek Indians and was every inch a man who radiated the wisdom of his ancestry. When he talked, you very much listened to what he had to say. Even in his 60s, (or so I guessed, for he could have been 40) he struck a figure of a man who had just been hewed from the trunk of an oak tree and freshly varnished with several applications of tea tree oil. 

I thoroughly enjoyed to hear him tell stories and he certainly had enough to fill several ordinary lifetimes. 

"My buddy Leonard (Leonard Cohen) recently passed on. We lived together some time ago. One day he decided that he would clear all 15 OT levels of Scientology. When he'd managed to clear them I asked him what it felt like. He said that he'd just paid $30,000 to learn how to smile and mean it."

Aside from sharing a flat with Leonard Cohen, he had also been the consultant to a number to a number of Hollywood's most successful films featuring Native Americans, including Dances With Wolves (a personal favourite). His list of achievements was seemingly endless and can be found here (http://www.mythicjourneys.org/guest_wolf.html) if you're interested.  

Tom had managed to create an estate that was unspeakably beautiful. Nestled in the lush, verdant scenery of the Georgia Blue Ridge Mountains, it was every inch the Sylvan paradise and a welcome escape from the bacchanalian debauchery of NOLA. When we arrived there were already quite few happy clappy folks around. I was very curious to see what kind of person was attracted to this kind of ceremony. Soon we were all gathered in a valley and began the first stage of the process, The Medicine Circle. This was essentially each of the fourty or so participants taking hold of a 'Talking Stick' and telling everyone about your 'Intentions' for the sweat. 

I confess that, to my core, I'm a deeply cynical person and only have so much tolerance for what I perceive to be BS. However it soon dawned on me that this is very much a ceremony that people aim to get out what they bring in. Listening to everyone's stories as we were bathed in rays of sunlight gently sweeping over the forest floor, I was struck by the variety of people and intentions present. Old, young, male female, Black, Asian, French. It was a strange little melting pot and I was happy to be part of it. 

Most people simply wanted to gain better understanding of themselves and use the process to become a better person and to live a better life. Some were coming to terms with the death of a loved one, others were battling an addiction. The more seasoned sweaters seemed to think the Medicine Stick was a lectern and spouted a fair bit of guff about how many times they'd channeled their spirit animal and whatnot. I got the sense that a few people here didn't get much of an audience in the outside world. Even Tom seemed to doze through a good chunk of it.  

In spite of the Medicine Stick bores, it was clear that this was going to be an enlivening experience. Many lodges do not allow people who are unaffiliated with the tribe to participate. Tom's was much more open to muggles and the like. He still screened people beforehand and so it was still very much an honour to be here. 

"In order to survive on this planet we're going to need to realise that we are all children of the universe. We need to be one tribe. Because no one people are going to be able to save the whole human race from itself."

This I could very much get into bed with because it's basically true. On the spiritual side of things there was also some interesting science behind all the Hippie Dippie stuff. It's plain fact the atoms collected in each and every one of our bodies burnt in stars billions of years ago and have travelled billions of light years to become you. A watery bag of flesh that's alive for an almost infinitesimal amount of time in cosmic terms. A blinking, chewing, farting vessel that will very soon vanish and the atoms that were part of you will be redistributed for another billion plus light years and be part of God knows what across the wider universe. We really are children born out of the stars we see above us at night. 

It's a sobering thought but one that should reinforce our connectivity to everything around of us (animal, vegetable, mineral etc) but also remind us that we are the result of a chain of extraordinary circumstances. The very fact that you are sitting here, hopefully still reading this article is a miracle upon miracles. Just read the first chapter of Bill Bryson's 'A Brief History of Nearly Everything' if you're having a bad day. I think it's probably one of the best non-fiction books ever written and I guarantee it will make you feel rather happy just to be around. To paraphrase, a huge number of extraordinary coincidences had to happen and a lot of people had to shag before they died in order for you to be here. You are bloody lucky to just to even be alive. Even for this very brief moment in the universe's history.  

I  do like the idea that you can potentially tap into realms that go beyond our normal understanding of the universe (even if I can't personally do it). In any case, I decided my intentions for this lodge would be to honour all those people who shagged over thousands upon thousands of years so that I can eat pizza, drink beer and be here writing this now. I also promised myself to use my brief time here in order to benefit the lives of as many people as I could, and make sure I was still having fun while doing it, of course. 

Once everyone had their say, we changed into swimming trunks and diligently lined up outside the lodge. 32 people had decided that they wanted to take part so it was going to be a bit of a squeeze. As a newcomer to the experience, I was advised to stick with the outer circle. The inner circle, I was told, was extraordinarily hot and not exactly for the feint of heart. 

The sweat is comprised of four rounds, or (jauntily titled) 'endurances.' Each one is meant to be pretty hard going in its own way. Although I'd been told that the first is usually the longest, but not necessarily the hottest. And they vary from lodge to lodge so there's no real guessing as to how long a session could last or how hot it would be. 

"How hot does the lodge get Tom?" I enquired, a tad nervously 

"They say I do the hottest sweat west of the Mississippi." His eyes narrowed and he grinned slightly.

"Has anyone ever died during a sweat?"

"No one's ever really died at my lodges."

Given Tom's transcendental view of the universe, this answer didn't inspire me with a great deal of optimism for my earthly self. 

After we were individually dusted with sage smoke to ward off the evil spirits, we all diligently crammed inside the lodge. I was completely sandwiched between three men with practically no room to move any of my limbs. When I did try I almost invariably slapped someone on the face or kneed them in the back so I sort of gave up. The air was already very close and electric with anticipation. I was already beginning to feel pretty claustrophobic and the ceremony hadn't even begun. Gingerly, I asked a more seasoned sweater next to me if we were allowed to leave the lodge between endurances. 

"You don't leave until the whole four rounds are complete. No one leaves once they've committed" He paused and noticed the rather panicked expression on my face.

"If you can still form a sentence then you're good to stay in." I gulped a little. 

Soon the stones or 'Grandfathers' were brought in using deer antlers. Each was about the size of a rugby ball and glowing intensely red. We greeted each one as they entered. Occasionally Tom would dust them with a herb or an oil which would fill the lodge with various hearty aromas. I imagine this tradition probably came about rather soon after the first lodge once someone noticed the smell.  

A woman suddenly piped up and said that she was about to have a panic attack. Oh God, I thought, here we go. We all took it in turns to reassure her and soon we just about ready for the ceremony to really get under way. A bucket of water was brought in and then the flap was closed. We were shrouded in complete and utter darkness with only the gentle glow of the stones to illuminate us. Tom began chanting and water was applied. The heat hit everyone like freight train as the Grandfathers began to tell their stories. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. 

Soon we where all chanting along with Tom. It was the best way of disassociating yourself from the fact that your body was being aggressively poached. The floor was made of hard compacted mud and remained cool. I slammed my palms down to it has hard as I could to help ground myself against the relentless heat. Prayers were being machine gunned by voices in the dark. After what felt like an eternity, the call of 'ALL MY RELATIONS' rang which was a signal to open the door. That was the end of round one. 

Around me, signs of visible distress were already apparent. You could only talk if you began your sentence with 'Lodge Keeper' and the immediate request was, unsurprisingly for water. Once we had settled down, it was time for round two. 

This round was meant to be for recognition of courage, endurance, strength, cleanliness, and honesty. We would need a lot of that to get through this. Fresh, glowering Grandfathers were brought in and once again we were shrouded in darkness. Another eternity of scalding heat. Then, the eventual relief as the flaps were opened.  

A woman a few feet away from me had begun to freak out and said she was going to have a seizure. Water was quickly passed to her and attempts made to comfort her. Her panic was contagious and a guy next to me began to, quite visibly, lose his shit. I did what I could to comfort him but given that I wasn't exactly a veteran I don't think it did much good. 

"I can't feel my legs man. I can't feel them." He bellowed. He was channeling Apocalypse Now, it seemed. 

By the end of the third round everyone around me was holding on for dear life. Sunny had completely collapsed between my legs and was interspersing hearty man sobs with utter gibberish. Limbs were flailing about the place and now everyone around me seemed to be wrapped with tears and sobs. I probably would have done the same but was too busy keeping everyone on an even keel and it was absorbing a good deal of my attention. 

The fourth and final round was by far the most intense and hottest. It was like breathing in molten lead and I lost all sense of time, space and self for some brief moments. Panic drifted into a sense of euphoria and it felt like my mind had completely detached itself from my body. It was an indescribable and extraordinary sense of being and one that I imagine people feel  like during the midst of a stroke or a heart attack. Before I could succumb to it entirely the door was opened with one final cry of 'ALL MY RELATIONS' and then we slowly flopped out. 

During these final moments it later transpired that Sunny had vacated his bladder all over himself and, given that I was holding him between my legs, me. Given the amount of liquid flowing around and my general state of dissociation, it went quietly and thankfully unnoticed. 

One by one, we crawled out of the lodge like children reborn from the womb into a new state of being. Sunny fell straight into the stream next to the lodge and for a panicked moment I thought he had actually died. I sat limply on a rock and surveyed the beauty of the creek and felt completely reborn. 

Post piss Sunny

Shiny Happy People 

I think that should probably satisfy my ancestors for the time being, I thought. Despite it not being quite like Jodie Foster's experiences in Contact, I did certainly feel closer to humanity, the universe and everything in between. It's hard not to when you're trapped in an oven with 31 other humans in a space that's no bigger than a Japanese hotel room. 

Since the lodge I've certainly gained a great deal of focus and purpose. Would I do it again? Probably. It's certainly not for everyone but on the broad spectrum of religious and existential experiences it certainly beats singing Holy, Holy, Holy and eating a wafer. 

We retired to the feasting hall and I ate my bodyweight in couscous, beans, rice, cheese, crisps (chips), cake and whatever else I could fit onto my plate. An Egyptian lady had very kindly provided a sliced steak which instantaneously teleported into everyone's stomachs. I was going to ask if there were any beers around but then I realised that would sort of defeat the point. After we'd had our fill and bantered about our respective experiences, we slunk off to our wooden cabin and soon we all fell into a deep, luxuriant (and well earned) slumber.  

Our digs for the night

A Romantic Refugee

As my first five months here gently draw to a close, it made sense to write a summary of my experiences in NOLA and reflect on my time here. 

First I'd like to retread the reasoning for why I came here in the first place and see it it still holds true. Most, if not all of the expats I had met here were hot on the heels of a NOLA native - and almost exclusively men chasing women. These people are generally referred to as 'romantic refugees.' For me there was no such dusky temptress. Ultimately it was an opportunity to see if it was possible to build a new wing of my life 4000 miles away from home and to achieve a relative level of success in doing so. But, like many before and after me, I've come to terms with the fact that I am also something of a romantic refugee. Except I somehow managed to fall in love with a city, not a person. 

It was pretty much love at first sight. I still remember the visceral sensation of driving across the bridge over the mirror flat, heat hazed surface of Lake Pontchartrain. Watching wide eyed as the city gently unveiled herself to me. It felt, as it still does now sometimes, like I was driving in a lucid dream. Entering the city, I  gawped at giant palms bracing her sleepy neighborhoods. I cooed at the lush, alien vegetation shading her beautiful shotgun houses. Each of them bursting with an array of luscious, kaleidoscopic colours that gave them an almost edible quality. It felt like a city designed by someone who was having the best day of their life. 

I had already decided that I wanted to live here before Tommy had met me at the bar I had installed myself at on Magazine Street. It took no more than two hours here to completely change the direction of my life. I'd barely seen any of the city and, as I'd discover later, I'd seen a fairly unexciting slice of the place at a relatively dull time of year. On reflection, I suppose that's what love really is. An irrational attraction predicated by a strong gut feeling telling you that you somehow want nothing more in the world than to be with that person (or place apparently). Love almost always forces you to take brave, sometimes foolish leaps into the unknown that are often based on scant prior information. 

It's been five months now and I've had some time to digest this place. Giddy infatuation has blossomed into a deeper, broader more mature cluster of emotions. I've had time to absorb her wonder and to despair at her deep, galling flaws. No article summarising this city could omit them. The tragedies of this city are sadly as much part of it as its delights. For many people in the black community I've worked with and met here, there is a feeling of hopelessness. The poverty and murder rates here would make some African warlords blush with envy and the trends are getting worse. Last Saturday alone there were thirteen gun related deaths. In London that would be an unprecedented epidemic. Here that's just a bad weekend. 

New Orleans is now the most incarcerated part of the most incarcerated state in the most incarcerated country in the world. One in three black men in America will be imprisoned during their lifetimes, versus one in seventeen for whites. The stats are even worse at the local level here. That's staggering in unto itself. When you also take into account that New Orleans is also the current murder capital of America and pretty high on the global rankings too- just leapfrogging past Kingston, Jamaica. You have to wonder, why on earth would you live in such a place? 

The simple fact is that as an educated white male, I'm far less likely to be on the wrong end of these statistics and can turn something of a blind eye to it if I want to. I am less likely to go to go to jail and receive unfair treatment by the justice system if I did commit a crime. I've not been stopped once by the police here. Nor have I been the victim of gun violence because I live in a relatively safe area.

The point is that one's experiences of this city can be completely different depending on your economic circumstances. It's a city of extremes, even more so than London. For every act of unspeakable cruelty I've heard about, I hear or see individuals going far out of their way to be kind, generous, loving and neighbourly. This place feels so incredibly human. Sometimes I look at her vast embarrassment of potholed roads and warped pavements and feel like the city is literally writhing in agony for all that she suffers though. 

My ongoing work with Propeller has helped me understand the underlying economic issues facing this city. How they are bred out of centuries of institutionalised racism. Propeller's mission of empowering people in minority communities to become successful business owners is really only beginning. But I'm still hopeful for the future and what they can achieve here. My team at Propeller are some of the most brilliant, insightful, driven, talented and dedicated I've ever worked with. There have already been so many success stories and I expect there will be many, many more to come. 

One of the reasons I left the world of banking was because I took a look at pretty much everyone in management all the way up to the top of totem pole and realised that I had little to no respect for any of them. The thought of becoming one of them made me somewhat nauseous and I knew that I needed to take more drastic action than simply switching to another financial institution or area of finance. 

Fortunately Propeller has been everything I hoped for and more. This job has given me a chance to use the experience I garnered over five years in banking and actually make a clear and tangible difference for small, growing businesses that are themselves re-writing the rules of enterprise in this city. I've learnt so much over the last few months but it only feels like the beginning of an even greater endeavour. I'm so immensely proud of the ventures I have supported and I look forward to being part of their journey for many more years to come. 

Tommy (left) who I have a great deal to thank for

Pedicabbing also turned out to be an unexpected but fulfilling turn in my career. I certainly think I'm the first ever banker to become one as his first job after he leaves the industry. I'm very grateful for it as It saved me from almost certain penury. I hadn't received any income for four months by the time I started so the wolves were scratching the door a bit. On top of that the job got me into reasonable shape and introduced me to the pedicabbing network. A diverse and well plugged in group of people who come from all over America and beyond. Each of them had pretty fascinating stories to tell about how they came to be here. Unsurprisingly quite a few of them are here because they were chasing a woman from NOLA. I'm beginning to think this is a deliberate strategy devised by the Tourist Bureau. 

Pedicabbing also gave me the opportunity of meeting just about every kind of American (and sadly Australian) out there. I've learnt more about the average American than I would have on a three month road trip around the country by doing this job. There have been so many wonderful moments and stories which would be a small novella unto themselves. The most important takeaway for me is that 99% of the people in this country are good, honest people. The ones who voted for Trump are not all knuckle dragging racists (although there were a few). I've met scores of kind, generous and well meaning folks who got scammed by that slimy orange bastard. They are only really guilty of ignorance and misplaced hope that this man would suddenly make all of their problems disappear. 

On that note I'm also glad I'll be nowhere near the UK during Brexit talks. While Donald Trump is a dangerous clown, it's important to remember that presidents are on four year terms with a lot of checks and balances. Brexit, sadly, is more or less permanent and I firmly believe that the British government is very brazenly trying to fuck the country for generations to come. At this rate the chances of the UK having any kind of deal by the end of the two year negotiation look about as high as me marrying Jennifer Lawrence.

Also lucky to have had such a fab flat mate. Although she doesn't ready my blog posts. 

Another pleasant surprise was how one's status as an expat affords you a great deal more social flexibility than back home. Although I am very fortunate to be a beneficiary of Britain's class system through my education, I had grown quietly frustrated with its limitations. I was fed up with finding myself involuntarily prejudicing others before I'd even gotten to know them. The same applied in reverse. Having a posh accent seems to give about 95% of the UK the instant licence the think you're a total wanker. And sometimes for good reason, quite a few public school educated children are knobs (for American readers - public means private in the UK. I still forget why). 

Here I felt less anchored to any one social group and have formed friendships based on personality and interests, not family heritage, schooling or wealth. I've been lucky enough to befriend hot dog vendors, artists, waiters, chefs, musicians, farmers, street performers, pedicabbers, tarot card readers, poets, filmmakers, exotic dancers, politicians, bankers, doctors and even a lawyer or two. This is a land blessed with an endless diaspora of personalities and stories and it's such a great pleasure learning so much from everyone I've had the privilege of meeting here. 

Of course, there are plenty of snobby, Waspy places in America and in NOLA that really do care about that sort of thing. Even here, most initial conversations between locals will gravitate around which high school they went to. Nevertheless, NOLA just seems a little bit less preoccupied and stuck up with the notion of class than back home. And I'm very grateful for it. Unfortunately race is  still a bigger dividing line in America. Although New Orleans, by Southern standards at least, is one of the least racist areas in the region. But that still doesn't help bridge the enormous economic divide that exists between races in America as a whole.  

You can get as weird as you like here 

Aside from this, my various endeavors are also beginning to bear fruit. My clandestine film screening venture Caravan Cinema NOLA finally had a successful event. The first two were plagued by serious technical difficulties which thankfully didn't matter so much as the turnout wasn't exactly stellar. They certainly weren't outright failures, but not quite what I'd hoped for. The third screening attracted around sixty people and the discussion of systemic racism in the justice system afterwards led to some of the most candid and heartbreaking stories I've ever heard. I hope it's only the beginning of a series of events. It's a discourse that I'm very passionate about and something that I'm going to divert more of my energies too as my career moves forward. 

The financial literacy consultancy I started called Flyte also appears to be moving towards bringing in actual paying clients. The potential for good that Flyte can do in the city is immeasurable. When I was asked to do a few pro-bono sessions with the staff at a restaurant called Liberty's Kitchen, I never would have imagined that lack of financial literacy was such an enormous problem for the city, if not America as a whole. For many people it just seems to be the elephant in the room. This venture will hopefully be able to help thousands of people clear the room of their elephants and focus on living their day to day lives. 

Flyte's progress also had a jolt of good fortune which was so wonderfully and typically New Orleanian in nature. At about 10pm during a particularly sweaty pedicab shift, a couple hopped into the back of my cab and we quickly began conversing. They were both in their late 50s and looked well presented and sufficiently lubricated after a night out in the French Quarter. 

The man had a kindly face and a disarming, rugged charm about him. Soon we were all talking about the London restaurant scene and getting along very well. I think I'm still the only Pedicabber from the UK so I'm regarded as something as a novelty by most passengers. As the conversation progressed it dawned on me who was in the back of the pedicab. He was arguably the most successful restaurateur in the city (not going to mention him by name but feel free to guess). 

"Would you like to join us for dinner, Bigbie?" His voice was gentle but had a commanding firmness to it. I couldn't possibly refuse.  

Soon we were all three of us sitting down to a jovial dinner at Cosimo's in the Quarter. The whole thing felt so enchantingly surreal. This man had been at the very top of my prospecting list for Flyte. Not only had he gotten into my pedicab but we were now all having dinner together. Incidentally, the lady accompanying him was also a relatively well known actress (not giving that away either) which added to the strangeness and delight in the whole occasion. I pitched him the idea of financial literacy coaching for his front and back of house restaurant staff and he loved it. I spent much of the evening pinching myself to make sure it was actually happening. 

Tennessee Williams famously said 'There are only three great cities in the United States; New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans. All the rest are Cleveland.' Having been to all three (not Cleveland), I firmly believe New Orleans stands head and shoulders above the rest. And this, despite becoming more and more familiar with its morbid underbelly. It's hard to really put your finger on what exactly makes this city truly great. Why do so many people come here to visit for a few days and end up spending a lifetime here?

Greatness is certainly derived beyond the merely physical. New Orleans is a truly beautiful city but there are many more that eclipse even its seductive shotguns, mansions, parks and general weathered charm. It has a rich culture and history. For a time it was the second busiest port in America. But then again, Munich is rich in history. And I don't hear many people clamoring to get there in a great hurry. 

Find me something that isn't a festival here

What this city has that so many others lack is pure, unadulterated soul, built deep into its DNA. The ability to conjure magical moments that are uniquely of this place and could not happen anywhere else on earth. A million weird and wonderful anecdotes are born here every day. It has the capacity to celebrate and enjoy every moment that life gives you as though it were all suddenly going to end at any time. Even death is an excuse for a party. I believe the chief component of this soul is derived from the people who live here or gravitate here and call this place their home.

There is an openness and generosity of spirit here that I have scarcely seen anywhere else. Everyone in my neighbourhood waves hello and smiles. Asking someone how their day is will doubtless lead to a twenty minute conversation. If there's booze around, it may well take longer than that. There are few things New Orlinians seem to like more than conversation, especially in the presence of alcohol. I've lost count of the moments here that have left me tingling with joy. Again, I could probably fill a novella with them and I've only been here five months. 

From my experience, any place that has suffered through great tragedy conversely produces the kindest and most generous people. Cambodia, Colombia, Iran, Burma all have histories steeped in blood and tears. New Orleans very much belongs to that same club of peoples that have suffered loss on such an unprecedented scale. But they have done more than just survive. This city has been reborn and continues to flourish. It remains a city that punches well above its weight on a global scale. How many other cities are so recognisable around the world with populations lower than 400,000? Not many. 

As an aside, I'm also conscious of the fact that I have not been a resident of here for long means that I have no opportunity to bemoan, as locals tend to, the negative ways that their city has changed over a long period time. Natives will always feel that their city is gentrifying too rapidly for their liking. Unfortunately I can only bear witness to the NOLA I know and still love. But I can at least sympathise. One of the reasons I left London was my dislike for the way that it was gentrifying and becoming a playground for billionares. If New Orleanians think their city is running away from them they should come and see what's happened to Shoreditch. 

I had thought that five months here would have caused me to yearn for London and I would return there permanently, begging for forgiveness. Unfortunately all my time here has taught me is that perhaps being born and raised in a place doesn't not mean it is where you will eventually spend the majority of your life there. I've learnt that London is not the be all and end all of the world. And if Brexit goes the way I expect it to then it its position as one of the greatest cities in the world may be in jeopardy. 

When I look at London I still see the world's most open, dynamic and cosmopolitan city. But I also see a field of empty luxury skyscrapers, grumpy commuters, sweaty tube trains, exorbitant rail fares, events that get sold out before the tickets are available online, journeys taking more time than the night out itself, City boys being utter twats and Theresa May. I feel very little for it still and it usually takes about half an hour after landing at one of its array of terrible airports to be reminded of how frustrating a place London can be. 

I have two weeks to go before I leave and I'm already beginning to mourn my departure from this city. Even now, I still find my heart fluttering at her glowering gas lamps, lighting her quiet historic neighbourhoods. I'll miss the weather, which never seems to do anything in half measures, just biblical proportions. The stunning array of verdant hues on her sprawling live oak trees after a storm. I'll miss the enormous skyscapes. I'll miss my scooter Guinevere, who now looks like a victim of serious domestic abuse after a succession of minor and more major road incidents. I'll miss my friends here and Skylar (the house dog). Without all of them my experiences would have been very different. 

My bae Guenevere 

In some ways I feel that I'm still as childishly in love with this place as I was when I first came here. I suppose that's also part of the process of loving something or someone. Getting to know a place is a lot like getting to know a person. If you can still love it after you've born witness to its deeper flaws and foibles then I suppose it really is for you. So, in summary, it looks like I'll continue to be a romantic refugee here for some time to come. I can just about live with that. 

Coming Home - A Return to NOLA

There was something rather surreal about coming home to a place that I had first visited as a tourist only a year beforehand. I still vividly remember gawping on the Pontchartrain Causeway as NOLA's skyline gently reared herself through the thick, hazy shawl of late summer heat. In truth, the skyline is one of the least distinctive aspects of the city. If you want an exhilarating skyline you can sod off to New York.

Not much to wax lyrical about here

Only when you leave the interstate does this city really begin to work her quick magic on you. Only a heathen couldn't be captivated by her kaleidoscope of pastel colours, palm lined streets, warm hearted, welcoming locals and her bewildering array of festivals and ancient (by American standards at least) traditions.

It's a city blessed with a poetic, irresistible beauty and, like many before me, I was instantly smitten. Anyone with half a soul can't help but fall a little in love with it. 'I think I would quite like to move here', was the first thing that I said when my good friend Tommy came to meet me at a bar on Magazine st. In truth, I didn't really have a great deal of conviction behind those words. I'd been drinking for some time and was quite well lubricated by then. Moving here was still far too big a dream to really wrap my head around. If you'd told me that exactly a year to the day after first coming here, I would be landing at the airport as a happily settled resident, I would have politely told you to stop tooting your crack pipe.

I don't normally like to talk about my fears and concerns and often people ask me if I'm actually capable of them. Of course I am. I just don't like to let them on much. I confess that completely altering the course and location of my life is one of the most daunting and terrifying things I will ever do. Especially on my own. But the rewards can be ample if you really follow your gut and the courage of your convictions.

However it still causes me great sadness to know that I won't be able to attend all the weddings, stag (bachelor) and hen (-ette) parties, birthdays and so forth for some of my closest friends and family members. Or that I will only get time to see some of them maybe once or twice a year at best. But this was something that I had to accept as a worthwhile sacrifice for the life I've chosen to live.

One thing had been surprising was that spending time in London didn't make me regret my decision to leave the city behind. This seems completely insane on reflection. To put it mildly, London has rather a lot to offer. Even though most Londoners would dispute this, London does have a world class transport system and roads that don't swallow unsuspecting cyclists with reckless abandon. It's also very safe. I'm approximately eleven times less likely to be murdered in London that New Orleans. It's full of some of the most arresting and gorgeous parks on earth (for 1/3 of the year), with exceedingly beautiful and varied countryside to boot. Culturally you'd be hard pressed to find a greater density of art, antiquities, music and dance.

NOLA's real magic trick is that it makes you take an absence of reason. You simply don't find many cities that have such a power over people's imaginations. Tragedy never seems far away from that magic though, yet it only seems to deepen its mystique for many. The more time I spend here the more my love grows for it, especially for the wonderful people who also call it home. I'm constantly thrilled by her art, music performances or just a small, delightful little moment. It often feels like the purest expression of the human soul here. For better and worse.

Despite moving to a new house, my return promised to be more of a homecoming than another start from scratch. During my previous six months here, I had worked hard to carefully lay the foundations for the kind of long-term life that I was seeking. The next chapter would be an attempt to build on them and create a sustainable, successful business and ultimately to decide whether this was the place where I really wanted to put down thicker, deeper roots.

New digs

My consultancy work for Propeller was waiting for me when I got back as their latest accelerator program was starting. This was a far cry from my arrival in January when I had no guarantee of any employment whatsoever. It was a novel experience to come back to colleagues and work you genuinely love. I was certainly given a warmer greeting back than at any of my previous teams at Barclays. Which may speak more for to how visibly fond I was about the working culture there, than the friendliness of their employees.

My financial literacy coaching business 'Flyte' is still in the very early stages of client acquisition and it's probably the most uncertain and exciting prong of my endeavours here. 80% of adults in the city are classed as financially illiterate. That means that compound interest, inflation and investments are completely alien concepts to them. Many don't even have a bank account. Getting even a small reduction in this statistic will be an uphill struggle. This is a city that can often be fiercely resistant to change. But I believe that it will change, especially once employers see the benefits that a financially literate workforce can bring. Either way, it is going to be my greatest test of resolve to date.

Despite some relative early success in settling here, I have occasionally wondered whether it was a mistake. Giving up a fairly stable and potentially lucrative career in a place where I had built a full and happy life would seem almost insane to many, including me at times. But as I said, this place obfuscates reason. It also has more than just a bad habit of spitting a crumpled husk of a person out at the other end. Often drawn in like foolish sailors to the Sirens with their dainty figures and enchanting music. 

The danger of this place is in the endless opportunity to indulge your vices, without giving many the chance to give back through work. Life needs a balance of the two. I have to thank pedicabbing for keeping me on an even keel before my work with Propeller began, and even after it. The most lucrative shifts are when people are out enjoying themselves on weekends so I get the pleasure of watching other people get completely shitbagged for once. It also reminds you just how hard it is for the vast majority of people to earn an honest living in this world. Peddling obese people around in 95% humidity can be somewhat testing at times.

There are worse side hustles 

At the end of the day you are still getting paid quite well to pedal people around in a giant tricycle, which is kind of awesome. I was also lucky to be returning to great friends there too. Pedicabbers are some of the most interesting, learned, humourous and fun people I've ever worked with. It made slipping back into the job like putting on your favourite pair of old trainers (sneakers).

In just four days of rather sweaty work I managed to earn enough to cover a month's rent, utilities and have some spare change for a Saturday night out. Most young people in London, San Francisco or New York take more than two weeks to earn enough to cover those costs and usually for a place the size of a fag pack (cigarette box). Not a large, beautiful historic home five minutes from the city centre. This seemed like a completely false economy to me and was one of the many reasons I remind myself that moving here may well have been a good idea.

I never cease to be delighted by the skies here 

One of the bonuses of living in NOLA is also that the city essentially goes into hibernation between July and early Sept. Just when Europe is ready to get the Speedos out. The scorching heat here means that anyone who can leave, does leave. Tourists don't really visit and many businesses reduce their hours. I've been told I should continue to avoid it if I still want to love the city. And I certainly shall, as it's an excellent time to catch up with loved ones across the pond. 

It was reassuring to see that the potholes on my commute were still there, albeit a little bit wider and deeper. The roadworks on Bourbon were still moving slower than most continents. And the new airport terminal (opening Spring 2018) looked more like the empty frame from a wedding marquee. I had been gone over two months but it really could have been two days. Even the weather was the same. In three weeks of being back it's been over 30 degrees C (80s in F) and sunny almost every day. Something that would have induced a mass hysteria back in England. 

Just another dress down night out 

In London, skyscrapers were popping up like daisies and the roads were as smooth as a Sultan's bed linens. Yet, for all its wealth of virtues, London just doesn't have the secret sauce that we have here. It never will. It's a different world and exists in a different time. I always say to friends at home that NOLA feels like Never Never Land. A sanctuary for lost and found adults who steadfastly refuse to believe that life is about working excessive hours, suburban one-upmanship and corner offices. It's a place where you truly get to experience all the riches that life has to offer, without spending much to get them. For all its faults, I couldn't be prouder or happier to call it my home.

A Year in NOLA

It's been quite some time since my last blog entry and I suppose that's not really a surprise. After a year where everything was so new and fresh, the novelty of a place will always rub off a tad. That's not to say that I'm bored or frustrated with this city yet (although there is plenty to frustrate one). Or that I'm no longer delighted and surprised by her many magical moments. NOLA still holds a seemingly unlimited capacity for those and they more than compensate for her foibles.

Never a dull moment 

This coming year is very much one where I intend to build on the foundations of the last twelve months and I feel as energised and excited about my purpose in life as I've ever been. Bearing that in mind, it makes sense to write a little something to reflect on these past twelve months and what the future might hold.

I'm happy to report that there have been almost no negatives that I can really point to. The only outlier was having my heart a little bruised by someone. It's unusual only in that for a very, very long time I've had an almost total mastery of my emotions. This unsettled my orbit a little and the circumstances are such that nothing will ever come of it. In many ways I'm relieved because I now know that I'm still capable of powerful emotions that I long thought were in a state of permanent hibernation.

On the plus side, being hurt made me realise it had been many years since anything made me feel genuinely sad. Emotions are always a bit harder to process if you aren't accustomed to them and that was certainly the case in this instance. In many ways I'm grateful as it made me aware just how lucky I had been over the years to take happiness for granted. 

It also helps that my brain is very forgetful so I can get over most troubles relatively quickly. It's amazing to think that the most complex and mysterious object in the known universe is quietly nestled in each and every one of us. And yet many (especially myself) spend the better part of our lives actively buggering it up. I'm still not sure whether mine is highly efficient or just a bit useless.

Living here has certainly helped me to become a more emotionally open and less opaque human being. I'm much less afraid to discuss my fears and vulnerabilities. Living in a city where people are not afraid to talk about themselves (in all respects) has certainly been a catalyst for this change. In any case, I'm a firm believer that romance is a poetry of circumstance (Robert Louis Stevenson's words, unbelievably, not mine). Dwelling on the past is a fool's game but writing about it does at least achieve a certain level of catharsis.  But it's hard to feel sad for long when the future feels so open, so exciting and oh so wonderfully unpredictable.

Sophie, my ex landlady and great friend

It's reassuring to think that twelve months ago I came here with no guaranteed job, meager savings, one local friend and only a vague blueprint of what I hoped to achieve with my life here. I knew I wanted my work to be of real, tangible benefit to society and for it to allow me a degree of flexibility and freedom not afforded by a 9 to 5 desk job. It seems a shame to me to waste the fortune of a decent education on enriching yourself and not humanity. Ideally it would be something that I had a measure of control over and would reflect my values. After a year, I feel like the foundations for this life have been set in place and the process of building on them will be satisfyingly ambitious.

Financial illiteracy blights 70% of this country's population. And no one is doing a great deal to fix it. So there's something of a market out there to work on. Flyte is only a sapling at the moment but it has already notched up a few successes and the feedback from clients has been overwhelmingly good. I feel confident that I'll be able to build it into an organisation capable of extraordinary change for the betterment of this city and maybe beyond, if I'm lucky.

What I also hoped for was a life that my future children and grandchildren could feel inspired by, not bored by. Travelling through exotic and potentially perilous countries and taking part in self-congratulatory sporting feats is all well and good. But they should really be a compliment to a satisfying working life. I'm still a good distance away from a place where I feel like I've been successful but things are on track and moving forward, which is encouraging enough for the time being.

Leaving London and the banking industry also helped me shake off the notion that a successful life should me measured in wealth alone. Certainly, a measure of financial independence is liberating. Unfortunately living anything close to a comfortable life and doing something demonstratively do-gooding with your work are two things that are almost incompatible in London.

In any case, success is also something that one defines for one's own self and everyone measures it differently. For those reasons I would never look down on anyone who thinks that a great salary and a corner office with a nice waste paper bin will lead to complete emotional fulfillment. Because it might well do. If I derived my happiness from my current income, I'd be a manic depressive.

Working with Propeller Incubator has also been a very rewarding experience. When I started last March they had six different finance consultants, including me. Now there's only one, in-house. No prizes for guessing who. My colleagues are great and it's a genuine pleasure being in the office. From prior experience, that's a rare thing. The companies I've worked with have also been interesting, diverse and inspiring. It gives me immense sense of pride to think of the work we've done together. This year promises to be even more exciting as we're launching a loan fund that targets social enterprises. A first in New Orleans.

Hooray for adulting 

Other endeavors like my clandestine film screening business have trundled along nicely. The Carpark Cinema has now screened over fifteen films, with varying degrees of success. It even has a semi-permanent pop up location (in a car park, surprisingly). I even make a little money from it from time to time, which is nice.

Pedicabbing continues to keep me in half decent shape and out of too much trouble. Getting paid to get fit is certainly better than a gym membership. A year on and I still enjoy doing it just as much. Perhaps even more as I'm now capable of navigating the French Quarter's grueling one way system. There are few jobs more entertaining and fun than pedaling around in a giant yellow tricycle and lounging in the sun with a book when you're not busy. I've started bringing my laptop out with me so it's sort of become a mobile office too.

My new found friends here are also something I'm immensely grateful and happy for. Coming from a very small family, I treat many of my friends are extensions of my family. My love for them can often be equally as deep and complex. One of the main worries about moving here was that I wouldn't be able to replicate friendships that were as close and emotionally rewarding as back home.

Thankfully this place seems to attract some of the most diverse, open hearted and open minded people I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. My time here would have been far less fun, exciting and interesting without them. I'm nothing but grateful for their enriching presence in my life. Y'all know who you are.

To top it all off, one of my dearest and  oldest friends Sebastian decided to move into the room next door to mine. He came here for Halloween and came back three months later. This happens to a lot of people who visit. I heard of a couple from Texas who came here for a weekend and refused to leave. They bought a house and had all of their things shipped down. There's just something in the water here, booze mostly. You're next. 

Another hapless victim of NOLA

I repeat this a lot (because I'm forgetful) but this city feels like the purest expression of the human soul. An embodiment of the boundless capabilities of humanity's ability to express itself, usually in the form of love and all its various trappings. I suppose that's why I'm never really sad or lonely here. How can you be when there are so many wonderful people around you.

My actual love life, apart from the aformentioned emotional hiccup, is probably not something I'll discuss in much detail in this blog. Suffice it to say, being a British born and raised man in the prime of is life in New Orleans is probably a little like the experience of an American GI in Europe after World War Two. I'll leave you to make of that what you will.

Other goals for the year are more modest. I'd like to learn a dance. Something easy like Swing. I'd like to do more Yoga and free myself from the tyranny of inflexible limbs. I'd like to work closer with community organisations. I'd like to travel a little more in America. In short, I'd like to do lots of things.

I love being weird

Life always moves in mysterious and unpredictable ways and it's all the richer for it. If the last twelve months are anything to go by, I have a lot to be excited about. As one friend put it, 'If you have a shred of intelligence and an ounce of ambition in this town, you can go far.' I firmly believe that will hold true.






 

Getting Love Burn

It's impossible to fully capture what a Burn experience is in a blog post, it's just something that you need to try for yourself. In any case, everyone has their own unique set of encounters, experiences and emotions associated with these sorts of events. For some, it goes very little beyond an excuse to ingest vast quantities of drugs and/or alcohol, and to dress up in a lot of silly costumes. For others, it's a genuinely transformative and spiritually enriching journey that alters the course of their lives forever. Often positively and occasionally for the worse. 

It makes sense to write a little about what Love Burn and Burning Man actually are as I'm conscious that many people reading this haven't had much experience of them. I must confess that a year ago I also had absolutely no idea what they were either. Before I went to Love Burn in 2017 I knew embarrassingly little about Burning Man and had assumed it was similar to Coachella or other such festivals attended by people I have very little time for. Even as I was hitchhiking to Miami from New Orleans, I had absolutely no clue that Love Burn had anything to do with Burning Man. All I knew is that the name sounded like a rather troublesome venereal disease. In hindsight, it was a rather stupid failure of association on my part. 

I had been invited by my two my friends, Sunny and Natalie, who were living in Atlanta. At the time, I had only been in New Orleans for two weeks so in many ways my experiences of Burning and life in New Orleans have been in a kind of parallel. My only prior briefing was that it was a fun party on a private beach near Miami. I like fun parties and (to some extent) beaches. How could I possibly refuse. 

To describe myself as woefully unprepared for Love Burn last year is a gross understatement. I'd failed to book a flight so had little choice but to hitchhike and write about it instead. Through great fortune and much gas station charming, I  managed to arrive there after  18 hours without having to give a single trucker a blowjob. This was a relief as I heard that's a sort of currency on the road in America.

Soon it was obvious that this was not just another shitty festival. As we made our way to camp, we where whisked up by a car shaped like a giant bio-luminescent beetle, driven by a well bearded man called Rusty, from Arkansas. A beach buggy equipped with a crest of giant flamethrowers zipped by us and repeatedly blasted the sky with a series of deep, booming eruptions. There was no branding anywhere to speak of and when I went to a bar I was asked to provide a cup (which Natalie had thoughfuly brought for me) and no money was exchanged. 

Everyone I met had names like Jester, HoneyBee, Slacker and Sexy Bacon. I was confused. So I decided to do what I probably should have done before getting there. I asked people what on earth was going on. 

I was told that this was something called a 'Regional Burn' and followed the same principles of the large Burning Man festival. That festival takes place once a year at the end of August in a temporary desert city called Black Rock City, about 100 miles north Reno, Nevada. It began in 1986 on a beach near San Francisco as a small affair organised by a group of friends. Now it plays host to around 70,000 people spread across seven square miles, on an area also known as The Playa. There are ten principles that you must at least attempt to abide by;  "radical" inclusion, self-reliance, and self-expression, as well as community cooperation, civic responsibility, gifting, decommodification, participation, immediacy, and leaving no trace. 

The silly names, incidentally, are called Playa Names. I have now been to three Regional Burns and steadfastly refuse to be called anything except Bigbie. Mostly because my name is so odd that people assume it's a Playa name. And also because I haven't yet been to the Playa or 'Big Burn' so I don't feel I've really earned the right to one yet. 

On the last day of Love Burn 2017 I was fortunate enough to bump into a few folks from New Orleans. They were curious to hear more about the drifter lunatic who had hitchhiked alone from New Orleans. They told me that I had unwittingly fulfilled the principle of radical self-reliance by hitchhiking to the event. It was more like radical self-stupidity in my view. It turned out that NOLA had a pretty large Burner community at the event. I didn't know it at the time but that meeting was the spark that lit the flame that would prove to be pivotal in making my time here so wonderfully special and exciting. 

For my second Love Burn I really wanted to be part of the creation process. I'm one of those strange people who feels guilty if I haven't earned the right to have fun. A large chunk of the overall experience for many is derived from the creation of art installations and the various structures that are interacted with throughout the festival itself. I'm not an artist by any stretch but I can certainly lift heavy objects and screw things, which is a useful skill at any Burn. Thankfully my friend Mark runs one of the larger theme camps on the Playa at the Big Burn, called Trifucta. He was taking Trifucta to Love Burn and needed more hands  on deck to help with three installations called Narnia, The Playground and The Hammock Garden. I was only too happy to oblige. 

The Playground on day 1

This time, mercifully, I was flying and not hitchhiking. I couldn't risk tempting fate by hitchhiking again. Those poor truckers will just have to wait. Sebastian and I got to the site which is only 25 minutes from the airport but feels a million miles away from Miami. An oasis of verdant greenery and palm strewn sandy beaches. You'd be hard pressed to find a better location for a festival. All around us, structures and installations from all corners of the human imagination were being diligently assembled. 

Mark had spent the night unloading the contents of his enormous trailer and the various components of our toils were on the ground, waiting for a crew to assemble them. One by one they arrived. Members of camp Trifucta from all over America. I was amazed at the distances that some people had traveled to be there and basically work for free. That's one of the things that really impresses me about Burning Man. These events require an extraordinary level of dedicated hard work and most people do it for very little or no money. It's an incredible testament to what human beings can achieve in the name of love, creativity and mutual cooperation. 

Over three long, exhausting days we screwed, hammered, bolted, lifted and sawed. By the end of the build it felt like we had known one another for years, despite some of us having been perfect strangers three days previously. There is something about the experience that taps into your inner child. I was once obsessed with Lego, Meccano, Roller Coaster Tycoon and SimCity. You could leave me alone with a box of assorted Legos and I would be a happy camper for weeks. Now as an adult straddling my 30th year, I was getting the chance to satisfy those impulses again, except on a scale I had never dreamed of. 

The finished article

After three days of fairly arduous work, The Playground had taken shape. Amazingly, there was no loss of life or even serious injury. Especially given that few of us were professionals and had no clue what we were actually building. The process had a real sense of the American Pioneer spirit to it. I could never imagine the French being able to do anything like this. Far too much like hard work. All around us the piles of wood were now transformed into enormous, extraordinarily intricate and beautiful structures.

It was sad to think that three of the most beautiful of them would be reduced to piles of ash by Sunday night. Incidentally the reason why the effigies are burnt is one thing that baffled me for a while. I then learnt at the end of the burn last year that they are filled with written personal intentions, mementos, treasured possessions and messages to loved ones.  It's certainly more than an excuse for a cool pyrotechnics show. Like all art, it's open to interpretation. People get what they want to get from the Burn. Catharsis, sadness, relief, excitement, joy and everything in-between. That's part of what makes this event so special. 

There wasn't much time to admire our labours because it was now the start of the weekend and it was time for the fun to really begin. I went over to say hello to my fiend Momo, whom I been introduced to last year. He was a veteran of many Burns all over America. A broad, tanned, bear-like man in his late 40s. Oozing an adolescent vivaciousness and charm that was all girdled by an aura of deeply ingrained wisdom. A wisdom which he had no scruples about imparting to all.

Back home Momo ran a successful law practice. This was a means of blowing off some steam from the banality of home. He was also the attorney for the whole event and had written the disclaimer that everyone at Love Burn is forced to sign (it basically says that if you fuck up and die, it's your fault). He was also responsible for deciding if someone who had made an infraction should be permanently banned from all future events.  In short, he was not a man to be fucked with. 

Over numerous iced whiskies, Momo and I caught up on our endeavours over the year. I asked him what he thought of Burning Man after so many years of attendance. 'You Know Bigbie, this is really an island of misfit toys. Most of these people can't handle the outside world and the outside world doesn't want to listen to them much. That's why you get folks hoppin' on their soap box a lot here'. I certainly had seen a fair amount of soapbox speeches from folks at the event. Some of it deeply enlightening, some of it I could live without. 

I had interacted with many people at Burns who would be viewed as strange, insane or just plain weird by most of society. But I think that's what makes these events so wonderful. Everyone deserves to have a place where they can feel safe and like they're not being judged by others. And that's really one of the great strengths of this environment. You can be whoever you want to be and it's completely accepted and tolerated (as long as you're not being racist, sexist, homophobic or generally a dick). In many ways I also think of New Orleans as a burner city, or at least certain elements of it. Both of them share many of the same values. It's no surprise to me now that the Burn community is so vibrant here. 

Burns are also a place where you can explore your own desires, interests and fantasies in a safe and secure environment. I've certainly learnt many things about myself over three events that I didn't know I'd be into or interested in. Not all of it is to do with kinky sex (as you might assume, knowing me). You are about as likely to learn how to blow glass as you are to learn techniques for blowing a dick at a Burn. There really is something for everyone. Unfortunately I'm not going to discuss any details of my experiences over the weekend. I believe in the sanctity of them for myself and, more importantly, for those I shared them with. I'm afraid you are just going to have to give it a go for yourself. Or forever hold your tongue. 

Suffice it to say, it has been one of the most emotionally and spiritually rewarding weeks of my life. I met some of the finest souls humanity has to offer (y'all know who you are) and made many friends for life. I saw and participated in things that set my soul ablaze and that will stay with me for the rest of my earthly days. It's been a week since I got back and I'm still tingling with love and happiness from my time there. I certainly would not recommend it to everyone by any stretch. But for weirdos like me, it's heaven on earth.