Erstwhile resident’s return to the Quarter with new eyes

Homeless encampments under the bridge and elsewhere in the city seem to have multiplied in the last two years.  
Photo by Christine Bordelon, Clarion Herald

Story by Mark Lombard
Clarion Herald

Six years ago, I began working at the Clarion Herald, the first four of those living in the French Quarter on Bourbon Street. Far from what might have been thought to be a rowdy, noisy home lifestyle, we lived on what we experienced as a much quieter, “residential Bourbon,” four blocks from any of the raucous scenes synonymous with what is one of the most recognizable, famous – some might suggest infamous – streets in the world.

But as much as we loved it, my wife and I moved away to outside the area. For the first time in two years, we returned last month to our old neighborhood as residents, albeit temporarily, for spring and Jazz Fest 2023.

Americans are transient and have been for more than a century, with mass migrations westward and from the South northward to places like Chicago, St. Louis and Kansas City. People move for greater opportunity, to be closer to family – as we chose – and for other reasons, such as calamity, as many here in Louisiana did after Katrina.

But there is something about the neighborhoods in which we live that grips our souls, becomes a part of our fiber.

For us, the French Quarter is that. It’s more than its being a destination place for the country’s tourists, soon-to-be-marrieds and music lovers. There is something about New Orleans’ architecture, its history that is more European in scope and length than almost anywhere else in the United States and its jambalaya of cultures and peoples that made this city the birthplace of that most uniquely American art and music form – jazz.

Fast-forward two years

With our return as residents, we were not sure as to what we would find and how we would be welcomed back. Inevitably, we became as much a curiosity as the city is to tourists, and received some of these questions (and then responded): “Did you miss the Quarter, and are you glad to be back?” (“Very much so and yes”); “Have you noticed any changes?” (“Oh, yeah”); “Are things pretty much the same?” (“In some ways, yes; in other ways, very different”); “You left during COVID restrictions. Have things returned to normal?” (“Returning but maybe to a new still changing normal”); “Is it more livable or less?” (“Yes and no, depending upon what and to whom”); “What has most impressed you upon returning?” (“The people. Yep, the people”).

I guess the best way to share this view as a northerner-turned-resident-turned-visitor is to invite you to walk (and, in one area, run) along with me as we together share the view through the eyes of this returning prodigal son.

Sobering first impression

Knowing that first reactions can be – at times but not always – the most insightful, mine was one of some sadness. The dislocation of homelessness in any big city or in the French Quarter is not a new phenomenon. But it appears – and I offer no data – much more present than in pre-COVID times. It is more common to have to watch where one is walking so as not to disturb, for instance, the woman asleep in a doorway cradling a dog in a fetal position and a man along a sidewalk with his dog lying on his shoulder, with a tattered sign propped up against his leg reading, “Anything Will Help.”

But will anything help? How much? How?

Then there were a couple of men, one whom I saw the previous evening in another business doorway on Decatur finding rest with his wheelchair, sharing space with all their worldly possessions in the entryway of the iconic Royal Pharmacy at Royal and Ursulines streets. Or the man sprawled out in a state of undress on the steps of the beautiful St. Mary’s Church aside the Old Ursuline Convent as tourists tried to avert their eyes so as not to stare and nervously maintained their banter on their walk.

And there were the moving, very temporary (likely lasting in any one spot from early evening to early morning) “encampments” like the one I walked by a block from the cathedral of a half-dozen people bedding down along Chartres – including a couple in passionate embrace. There were more than a dozen encampments at the Gov. Nicholls Wharf at the end of the Riverwalk.

Torn about whether I thought more services from the city or state might help those here, I have to admit to harboring a feeling of uneasiness, for the first time in 45 years of visiting and living in the Quarter of not feeling completely safe. And, while I tried talking myself out of it, I could not shake that unwanted companion of unnamed fear.

A cashier’s pain

On the day after an April 22 march against violence in New Orleans East, I was talking to a pleasant, young woman cashier at another French Quarter pharmacy, who asked how we were doing. After sharing that we were glad to be back, I asked her the same.

I was not prepared as she moved closer, lowered her head and her voice, and shared that she was scared because her brother had lost two friends to shootings in two different areas of the city in the last couple of days. “I can’t stay here,” she said. “I have to find somewhere else to be.”

As we walked to Jazz Fest several days later past St. Ann’s Episcopal Church on Esplanade Avenue, which notes on its walls the names of victims of violence from the area, my conversation with the young woman came into starker focus.

Fear for my bodily existence has not been a cross I’ve ever had to bear. That gift of general security now will become a prayer of thanksgiving in my journaling and prayer life. I will not, as I have always before, take it for granted.

The parking is still as crowded in the Quarter, especially on Saturday nights, and somehow the residents navigate it without dents on their cars, which I have never been able to figure out. But the cratered surfaces of some blocks, such as those on Chartres east of the cathedral, are a dentist’s dream. I am convinced several fillings became dislodged during my first drive through! Maybe repairs before Super Bowl 2025?

The Riverwalk renovations in and around the ferry to Algiers and the Spanish Plaza, dating back to the 1984 World’s Fair, were a welcome sight.

Yet, there are constants, including the jasmine and magnolias, the latter as big as dinner plates, something we never saw up north. The mule-drawn carriages are back in force, as are crowds shuffling from spot to spot on the local tours, be they spooky or ghost-, lewd-, murder- or crime-themed. I admit having to keep my distance outside of earshot, as the historophile in me has difficulty stifling a laugh upon hearing some of the purported histories concocted. Better to allow tourists to enjoy basking in the stories – true or not – that they paid for.

Bustling crowds

There are lines for business establishments and more crowded streets – including Frenchmen, just outside the Quarter, which was jammed with Saturday night revelers. Music venues were again packed with visitors who were missing when we left during the pandemic, though not yet to the levels residents I talked to were accustomed pre-COVID. But, it is a far cry from those long months when the rats visible on the streets outnumbered the tourists, though there is still evidence of the rat traps, many of which were first placed during COVID out of fear that rodents were going to expand their network to find more food away from the then-closed eating and watering holes.

But, ultimately, what makes the most lasting impression is the warmth of the people. And, New Orleans can boast some of the most interesting and engaging characters.

There is our former (and now current) mailman Kerry, possibly the most polite, positive, professional, concerned and helpful postal worker I’ve known. As someone working in newspaper and magazine publishing and delivery my whole life, I have known many postal carriers. Kerry remembered my wife and me, and actually rattled off our old address!

An older man, who has difficulty walking and is forced to shuffle along the sidewalks in the Quarter, can be seen daily holding two drumsticks in his hand, likely to find a place to sit in as a drummer with a street band. And there was the most gentile of older Southern women, who I met at the Croissant D’Or French patisserie as she, with New York Times in hand, offered me the salt and pepper shaker from her table, which then led us into a discussion about national and world events and then history. We agreed to continue that discussion sharing sections of the Times the following week.

And there are the unsung baristas who are central to aiding the city’s hospitality industry come all the way back to life: Heidi, at a popular independent coffee and breakfast spot; Envie, who immediately recognized us from our hiatus with a big smile and welcome; Vicki, who was working one Sunday morning behind the bar at 10-month-old Nonno’s in the Marigny and who spent a good 10 minutes showing me the menu and convincing me that we would have a good meal and experience there; and Jenny, at Croissant D’Or, who parried comments back and forth with me but was always on top of each order.

Sunday morning run

When I lived previously in the Quarter, one of my real joys was running through our neighborhood streets, along the river, to Audubon Park or through the Garden District. But my favorite run was through the Marigny and the Bywater, maybe because of the early-morning quiet that allowed me to get my thoughts in order for the day and to have a moment of prayer, while hearing my running shoes hitting the pavement, the occasional dog barking or a train whistle blowing.

On that first Sunday back, I decided that two years was too long to deny myself that six-mile run. I set out early enough so I could get home to shower and then make 10 a.m. Mass at the St. Augustine Church in Treme, the oldest African-American Catholic parish in the U.S.

Heading into the Marigny from our rental near the Old Ursuline Convent, I came across the beautiful former Sts. Peter and Paul Church, now a boutique hotel. On my run, I noticed more than a few building projects, which never seemed to get completed when we lived there, now finished. I did notice that there is a greater affluence and continuing gentrification of the area – more resources spent on upkeep of properties, more expensive cars, fewer open lots and less trash on the streets.

Here, too, in both the Marigny and the Bywater, businesses seem to be coming back, and not only those from before COVID, but some newer establishments I did not remember seeing. After passing the Bywater Bakery, I remembered their desserts to die for, but also reminded myself that I’m running to keep poundage off and not add to it on my run!

Church bells, church men

Then I spotted the twin spires of Blessed Francis Xavier Seelos Church and almost amazingly simultaneously heard the wonderfully melodic sounding of the bells at 7:55 a.m. calling the faithful to Mass. As I would do in the past whenever I was passing and the doors were open, I stopped, removing my runner’s hat and walking sweat-soaked into this jewel of a sacred space to offer a quick prayer of thanksgiving for being granted the health to run, for all of life’s blessings and for family. I also prayed to find the strength to do God’s work that day.

As I was leaving, I stopped to introduce myself to the two church greeters, Carlos and John, and explain why this disheveled person in shorts and athletic shoes entered this holy spot. As I have noted, my journey back has been all about my encounters with the people of this amazing city.

John shared with me that he is from the Marigny and, in fact, attended St. Vincent de Paul School there as a youth and continues as part of that faith community. Both he and Carlos made me feel that, despite my appearance, I was welcome and was back home at this site where God has heard many of my prayers before.

And at St. Augustine’s, where I had the honor of singing as a member of the accomplished and noted Gospel choir, Mass was not being celebrated in the 182-year-old structure, dating back to a generation before the Civil War, but instead in its much more modest adjoining parish hall. The church, with the cross atop its steeple still bent and leaning down on its cupola, is still recovering, with renovations ongoing, from the damage of Hurricane Ida.

Spiritual home

While disappointed not to be in the church, I relearned the important lesson: A building a church community does not make. Appropriately, the Gospel that Sunday proclaimed with the story of the risen Christ walking along the road to Emmaus with his disciples. The Mass demonstrated through word, song, clapping and attentive participation of the faithful that God was indeed every bit as present as always in that community and in the hearts of those present.

Oh, and I was invited back by Carol LeBlanc, the choir director, to sing again with the church’s Gospel choir as long as I was back in town. That was yet another demonstration that our two years away did not create a barrier to the love, connection and sense of community that I felt – and was reciprocated – on my journey back to what I will always consider a home.

Mark Lombard is the business manager of the Clarion Herald. He can be reached at [email protected].