Tales From the Quarter

Faded Memories

Sometimes the good ole days make it hard to reconcile the present.

My French Quarter is slowly disappearing. This, of course, is how long-time Quarterites must have felt back in 1989, when I first moved here. I accepted their observations and knew it to be true that much was gone. Memories remained but the actual businesses and dwellers they had known for so long were dying off or being priced out. All the love in the world for this historic and quirky neighborhood could not tether the soul and life of its inhabitants securely. However, not having had to say goodbye to what had been there before my U-Haul pulled into my new home was wickedly weird and wonderful. Bohemia still held a strong foothold in the Vieux Carré. And I suspect even the oldtimers would have agreed then that it was still possible to live there on the cheap

My first apartment reflected the “new” that was to come—gutted and remodeled, with a real-estate company as the face of ownership. Affordable, unlike gentrified apartments today (but kinda high for those days) and I was grateful; yet, I later realized this was a glimpse to the future of rentals. However, it was 1989 and for the next twenty plus years, the Quarter was affordable. In fact, the city was affordable. After four years, I found a truly inexpensive French Quarter apartment with solid landlords, nice folks—not a corporate manager. In 2008, my renter’s good luck held as Husband and I segued out of the Quarters down the road to Bayou St. John.

I suspect we were a city undiscovered—a romantic and strange place to visit but not to actually move to. Oh sure, there were many, like myself, who knew “home” when we saw it. Those that fell in love with her moved here but somehow this town was still off the radar. Exactly why, I don’t pretend to know. Much of my observations are felt rather than researched. The historians and urban planners can walk you through the economics and such, but I simply know that things began to change in earnest after Katrina.

The world watched as an American city drowned, as waters raged and slowly receded. This was before catastrophic unnatural disasters and failing infrastructures became a daily occurrence world-wide. We were the heartbreaker, the canary in the mine, and folks gave money and came to rescue us. Humanity stood up for humanity and many of those volunteers fell in love while here and pledged their hearts to New Orleans. Those newbies were invaluable to us here. But greed sniffed them out and often empowered slum lords to lure them into higher rents than we locals would ever have considered. And then the opportunistic carpet-bagger-developers joined in.

Tourism slowly grew as the city dried out and steadily increased. With it, came visitors who were willing to look beyond Bourbon Street and take in the music, food, and culture. We were the darling of the media— the Comeback Kids. And I personally feel indebted to the media for its continued focus on our struggle to rebuild and the loving attention it gave to our creative verve and uniqueness. Young (and older) entrepreneurs moved here and brought fresh energy into the city. They supported our culture, music, opened micro-breweries, bakeries, cafes, and brought an element of environmental activism into the mix. I applaud these urban pioneers and the tourist dollars spent with purpose and devotion. But fame has its price and we became too popular and rents began to edge up and up. Soon it became hard to differentiate between heart-felt immersion into our various neighborhoods and gentrification.

In thinking about my former life as a resident/Quarterite/Quarter-Rat of the French Quarter, I zoomed out over the entire city. Please allow me to refocus on the Quarter. Lately (for me), it resembles a faded photograph pulled from a dusty scrapbook. I took a long hiatus from my former haunts and upon return (I’m blessed with a lovely job in the Quarter), my daily walks from the bus stop to work are akin to a stroll through a cemetery. Businesses, apartments, and most of my old haunts have truly become haunts. The demise of a business or the condo-fication of former apartments hurts me to the bone. Passing a locals’ watering-hole where the barstools were once occupied by now deceased friends is something I take personally. There is a malaise that has settled, like dust, over much of the Quarter. The Pandemic and economy take blame for much. But time, age, and death take its toll, and the replacement troops have not fully arrived.

Perhaps I have just been living outside the French Quarter so long that its lack of trees and grass, birds and squirrels, and brightly painted exteriors have dimmed my view of it. Yet, there is a disrepair and sadness to the sidewalks and streets. And too many buildings are occupied by foot massage businesses where once a uniquely New Orleans shop thrived. Look closely, and you can see that way too many restaurants are owned by the same corporations. The once illegal t-shirt shops that plagued the Quarter thirty years back are now gussied up as gift shops—but all the same company. Uniqueness has been on life-support for some time now.

The other morning as I walked to work, feeling out of place and regretting the passing of familiar days, someone I hadn’t seen in years popped up on the sidewalk. We hugged, talked, and we were the same folks we had been. And after that much needed trip down memory lane I realized there was still a lane, a sidewalk, just waiting for me to create new memories. Funny how the Quarter looked a bit brighter after that, and a bit of color seemed to flush forth.