#nolavie

[iris-claire]

@Regranned from @citygirlsguidetothejungle - When I set out to get a story about #fashion at @wizardworld this year, I had no idea it would lead me to @prideofgypsies One of a kind badass jewelry by @reliquaryarcanum @7dragonbunny7 ! 📸 @akysnola #nolavie #vianolavie #articlecomingsoon #khaldrogo #aquaman #wizardworld2018 #lisabonetshusband #nola #i❤️NOLA #gameofthrones #badass #jewelry - #regrann #jasonmomoa

[belleanathema]

Never forget. #nolavie #kingcake #allforthekingcake #mardigrasmemorial (presso New Orleans, Louisiana)

[fleur-de-leaving]

"After six years here, I’m convinced that glitter and champagne run through my veins.... While I might not be a native, I’m still a local."

Part of New Orleans' appeal is its rich and largely hidden history. New Orleans is to secrets as NOLAVie is to posts from departing transplants-- an apparently inexhaustible cornucopia. It's fascinating to consider days of yore and speculate on how life here must have been once upon a time. 

For example, what was New Orleans like in 2008? Were there automobiles? Had "talkies" yet reached this odd and insular islet? With scant historical record and no time travel device at hand, we are largely confined to conjecture. We know there were already humans here, though they'd likely appear quite strange to our modern eyes. What good fortune, then, that a tipster has provided this humble blog an invaluable record left by one of those quaint early inhabitants-- a digital palimpsest recounting one self-described local's life and times.

She was neither an Ursuline nun nor a member of the Houma tribe, but rather a student at Tulane, and it appears her existence here was primarily (perhaps exclusively?) one of pleasure. "The relationship is more than Hurricanes and Hand Grenades," she tells us, but follows this assertion with a fond list of places she got drunk.

Her record, which is in the form of a farewell, posits New Orleans as a person with whom she is "breaking up." Don't be startled; this anthropomorphizing of the city into a lover whom the writer must abandon runs rife through the literature of that epoch-- it's what alliteration or ritual invocation of the muse was to poets in the periods just previous.

Much of our bard's word count addresses how distraught she is over her departure, another theme seen frequently in the works of her contemporaries. The lore surrounding the mandrake plant is that it emits an agonizing, potentially deadly scream when uprooted. Just so, it seems, the self-uprooting Neauxla transplant. It's tempting to pursue the analogy: could transplants, once removed from the swampy, glitter-strewn ground, be made into useful magical amulets? Would eating a transplant induce hallucinatory visions? Evidence is inconclusive.

Though her tale begins in the mist-shrouded primordiality of 2008, shortly after this region's denizens carved the first go-cups using chipped flint, further research shows she arrived from Florida, where she was born and raised. Despite this, our ancient nomad's Twitter bio elides any mention of this peninsular pre-history, instead advertising her location as "New York via New Orleans." If the reward of studying the past is those occasional moments of connection one experiences across otherwise intraversable gulfs of time, we may rejoice in the surety that whatever else changes, one facet of New Orleans' generosity remains ageless: the power this city has always possessed to help careerist transients build their brands.

http://nolavie.com/a-bittersweet-goodbye-to-new-orleans-79486/

“Leaving New Orleans also frightened me considerably. Outside of the city limits the heart of darkness, the true wasteland begins.”

― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

I’ve lived in New Orleans for six years, and I’m not ready to leave -- but I am. It’s the type of painful break-up in which both parties drag their feet, searching for a way, the right way, to say goodbye. This isn’t a city you can quickly forget, rip off the breakup band-aid in a five-minute shouting match. It’s an epic exchange, a leisurely stroll along the Mississippi, an exhausting conversation that leaves you in need of a big, icy Ramos Gin Fizz.

The relationship is more than Hurricanes and Hand Grenades. It’s late nights at the Dungeon, with metal blaring while you hide in a cage until street sweepers come through, letting you know that’s it’s long past time to go home. It’s nights at F&M’s when you steal some poor preppy’s cheese fries and dance on the pool table until the sun comes up. It’s a different festival every weekend -- for a score of mythical vegetables and holidays. It’s about Styrofoam bowls of red beans and rice and the sunshine and sno-balls you wash them down with. It’s friendly Mardi Gras strangers. It’s afternoons at the Fly -- a an empty field adorned with crawfish shells, empty drive-thru daiquiri cups, beach towels and frisbees.

New Orleans is everything your mother warned you about. It’s decadent, destructive, and dangerous. There are potholes big enough to swallow you whole, and crime reports that make you clutch your pearls for days. You can still see Katrina in the abandoned houses and overgrown fields, and you can still hear her every time a New Orleanian remembers where they were when the levees broke. New Orleans is well into recovery, but Katrina will never vanish, never entirely. Katrina is the ex-girlfriend from hell that no one deserves, still texting, no matter how many times you delete her number.

I love you, New Orleans, and I’m not ready to leave. I know it’s time, but that doesn’t mean I’m mature enough not to put up a fight. I predict tears, consolation shots, and half-hearted promises to visit regularly and “keep in touch,” like every painfully cliché young adult break-up. After six years here, I’m convinced that glitter and champagne run through my veins, and New Orleans put them there. It changed my DNA. It made me who I am, for better or worse. It’s more my hometown than anywhere before; it’s the hometown I chose. Suddenly, my old haunts feel haunted -- leeching with memories I’m scared to leave behind, eventually forget.

I fear I’m utterly unfit for life anywhere else. I’m too accustomed to the convenience of go-cups, dirty dive bars that stay open until sunrise, and the regularity of walking into Rouses and seeing familiar faces. I’m too in love with the quirky Easter egg-hued shotguns that line the sunken sidewalks. I can’t re-enter suburbia, somewhere with cul-de-sacs and subdivisions molded in cookie cutter construction. I’d rather be back on St. Charles, waiting for a streetcar that might never come.

I dread returning to New Orleans, home, as a tourist -- an interloper, spilling onto the streets of the French Quarter, sticky with sweat and sugar from mixed drinks that missed my mouth. I don’t want this to turn into occasional clandestine meetings -- stopping in for Jazz Fest or Mardi Gras, forgetting that the French Quarter is not the entirety of the city’s pulse.

New Orleans is under my skin; it's the city that helped me grow up. While I might not be a native, I’m still a local. Without it, I would be someone else entirely.

[fleur-de-leaving]

“New Orleans is that unique lover that you can never forget. The eccentric one that brings the lingering smell of good times and vomit in its wake.”

High-yield nonsense farm NolaVie brings lingering in its wake a Tulane student’s fond farewell. Our correspondent says of her arrival in New Orleans, three years post-flood, “There were still people living in tents under the interstate then. I immediately knew we were a good match.” Note the match she’s Swiping Right on is the city in general, not the destitute houseless people. The humans living in tents are not themselves good matches for our writer; they’re background decoration letting her know she’s somewhere great.

Tulane kids write a lot of “Goodbye New Orleans” letters. They’re young, and one needn’t come down hard on them.

In this piece’s comments section, some other departer’s Mom is moved to pen her own mini-missive: “I thank this worn out, eccentric, floozy, and generous city for embracing, entertaining and taking care of my son for the past 4 years...”  Here beneath the interstate, we call that lagniappe.

http://nolavie.com/how-to-say-goodbye-to-new-orleans-64004/

This isn't the first time I've posed for pictures, thrown a goodbye party, and packed my crappy Honda to leave the city. In fact, it's closer to my third. Like a balloon on a string, New Orleans has a way of pulling me back. Every time I think I'm ready to leave, I realize somewhere along I-10 that I'm not and quickly come scuttling back into New Orleans' warm arms. New Orleans waits for me like an unappreciated lover. It takes me back every time -- let's me cuddle safely back beside it, curling up next to it in bed and begging to be forgiven for my mistake.

This week marks my last departure. This time, there is no turning back. Life demands that I move on and life is not going to give me any opportunities to change my mind.

Saying goodbye to New Orleans seems nearly impossible. The lingering finality of it has me filled with hopeless dread. I don't want to leave New Orleans. How will I start calling po'boys "hoagies" or "subs" or whatever dreadful thing they call them elsewhere? How will I follow speed limits without the very real fear that my entire car will be swallowed by a pothole if I go too fast? How will I avoid winter weight because I'm still carrying around that extra ten pounds from last crawfish season?

New Orleans is that unique lover that you can never forget. The eccentric one that brings the lingering smell of good times and vomit in its wake. The one that doesn't judge you even when you sleep perched on a street corner with a handle of rum because -- Hey! --that's just what you do at Mardi Gras. New Orleans is the one that can't be replaced, can't be forgotten. New Orleans is the one that got away.

There's a unique sort of spirit here. I grew up in the suburbs of Florida, a place so devoid of culture that they think a Chili's is a hotbed of excitement for a Friday night. I moved here at 18 to attend Tulane, just three short years after Katrina. There were still people living in tents under the interstate then. I immediately knew we were a good match. I was a strange kid. For me, life was not a beach. Life was a colorful city. I wanted to drown myself in the insufferable humidity of City Park in July. I wanted to eat pralines for breakfast. I wanted to wear tutus to a bar or a suit to walk down the street just because I could.

"Why would you move to New Orleans?" my boss had said back in Florida. "New Orleans is dead."

Eighteen and lost, New Orleans took me in without hesitation. Maybe we were both suffering a bit then. Fighting our way through tough times, we could help each other recover rather than slip into the pit everyone expected us to fall into. Maybe we met at just the right time in our lives. New Orleans and I came together immediately. We stuck. I became obsessed. Six years later... I'm still obsessed.

We all know how New Orleans got under my skin, the things I loved. It's no secret that New Orleans brands itself on you -- for me, literally. (I got a crawfish tattoo on my foot to commemorate our parting.) You can leave New Orleans, but New Orleans doesn't leave you.

You'll always follow Muriel's on Facebook and dream about getting a drink on its balcony just one more time. You'll always beg someone to send you a king cake and let, in that moment of insanity, your imagination believe you can afford those flights back for Mardi Gras. Your ears will always perk up at its name and you'll always be able to point out which scenes in a movie were shot here. You will always pronounce street names however you damn-well please and balk at any drink less delicious (and more expensive) than a blueberry mojito from St. Joes. They will never be anything other than streetcars.

I started out Uptown, but scattered pieces of myself throughout the city. A best friend in the Lower Garden, a great night in the Marigny that I hope to never forget, stumbling  through the Quarter, a place on Magazine that is still the strangest I've ever been. I've been in Mid-City for the past two years ... a neighborhood community of wonderful people that's the often unseen beating heart of the city.

I don't know how to say goodbye. I choke on the words every time I try. Goodbye Marvin at Camellia Grill, may we fist-bump again some day. Goodbye to the Theo's on Canal that saved my life on more than one drunken night at Finn McCools. Goodbye to that scary little island where I hide unseen in City Park. There's too much here to love; there's too much here to miss. Visiting all of my favorite restaurants one last time would take another year.

There is nothing to do but close my eyes and say farewell as I walk away from the best relationship of my young life. It has always been hard to leave, but goodbye New Orleans. You've made me a better person. More open, interesting, adventurous. Without you, New Orleans, I wouldn't be me.

Goodbye, New Orleans. May the fates bring us together again, but until then ... I'll know what it means to love you from afar.

[poestorm-blog]

Salvations and The Green Project: Not your Momma's Recycling

Salvaged creations are the inspiration for Saturday’s Salvations, The Green Project’s annual fundraiser. Artists and furniture designers have taken over the third floor of the Shops at Canal Place and filled it with their work.

The Green Project is a non-profit tucked away in the St. Roch neighborhood. It was founded in 1994 by Linda Stone when she was looking to recycle her paint and could not find a place that provided that service.

Seventeen years later, The Green Project has expanded its passion for living green and does much more than recycle paint. It operates 
a 
warehouse, 
lumberyard, paint recycling
 center,
 electronic 
waste 
recycling 
drop‐offs,
 grease
 collection for biodiesel,
 and conducts environmental education programming on weekends.

The organization’s warehouse attracts the usual customers of a used building materials retail store. However, in addition to people looking for a good deal on the essentials for remodeling a home, many artists in the community quickly became frequent visitors.

As one artist comments, “The Green Project is one of those places I never get tired of going to because there is a constantly shifting stream of inventory, and I like to hunt through the store for that unique piece or part I can incorporate into my designs… I believe in the mission of The Green Project because it is similar to the same ideology that I live by: take a good look at what you’ve got around you and make due with what is at hand.”

Due to the frequency of their visits, the volunteers and staff of The Green Project got to know many artists individually. They began learning the different mediums they worked in and projects they were working on. A partnership began to form and the idea of showing off the amazing art that can be attained using salvaged materials took shape.

Collaborating with designers and artists, Salvations was born. It is an art show and competition in which the pieces are judged by their quality, design, craftsmanship, and the amount of reclaimed materials used by notable people in the design community.

The artists who participate in Salvations are both professionals and amateurs, but all inspire with the beauty and creativity of their pieces. It is easy to forget that the beautiful furniture and art on display was once found in dumpsters and blighted properties around New Orleans.

In this single event, The Green Project promotes local artistic talent, brings attention to New Orleans’ carbon footprint and inspires a new way of thinking about recycling. “Using reclaimed materials means respecting the age, beauty and cultural context that these materials have earned,” another artist and participant notes. “It means expressing the meaning and relevance of aged materials and not propagating issues of waste in our city.”

In addition to encouraging people to think outside the recycling box, The Green Project also gives out a Green Giant Award. It goes to a New Orleanian who has been a leader in the environmental community. This year’s recipient is Mark Davis. In addition to being founding
 director
 of 
the 
Tulane
 Institute
 on
 Water
 Resource 
Law 
and 
Policy, he has
 testified
 before
 the
 U.S.
Congress
 multiple times about
 the
 Gulf Coastline and its environmental,
 economic,
 and
 cultural
 importance.

Davis will be given the Green Giant Award at Salvations Gala this Saturday, April 16. Past
 recipients
 include Lucianne
 and
 Joe
 Carmichael
 of
 Studio
 in
 the
 Woods
 (2010), 
Linda 
Stone 
of 
Global 
Green 
and 
founder 
of 
The
 Green
 Project
 (2009),
 Monique
 Pilie
 of
 Hike
 for
 KaTREEna
 (2008),
 and
 Steven
 Bingler
 of 
Concordia
 Architects
 (2007).

Beth Stelson of The Green Project sees Salvations as “a way to show the larger community that objects some people see as trash have the potential to be so much more. There is a lot of creativity in the show and it inspires people to think about recycling in a completely different way.”

The Salvations Gala will be held Saturday, April 16 at the Shops of Canal Place on the 3rd floor from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. Tickets are available at the door, $60 per person.

Mariposa Stormer works in New Orleans non-profit sector and is a regular contributor for NolaVie. For more information on NolaVie, visit NolaVie.com.

[poestorm-blog]

Local Flavor: Gerken's Bike Shop

The neighborhoods of New Orleans have learned to be self-contained. They function best when the focus is local: local bar, local restaurant, local park, local coffee shop. Therefore, it comes as no surprise that local bike shops have been a part of the city for years– both pre- and post-Katrina.

As the city continues its economic recovery, local bike shops have been slow to return. Before the storm they could be found tucked away in the various neighborhoods, now they are only in select parts of the city. I live in the Lower Garden District, but my bike shop of choice is Gerken’s Bike Shop in the Bywater. There are a few places I could take my bike that are closer to my house, but Gerken’s has everything I look for in a bike shop. Despite the distance, it is my local bike shop.

In 2008 three friends and bike enthusiasts, John Gerken, Andrew Ochsenslager and Shelly Jackson, decided to pool their talent and open up a bike shop on St. Claude. Since biking is my only form of transportation, when it came time to look for a trusty bicycle mechanic, Gerken’s came highly recommended. Their laid-back style and passion for bicycles have kept me coming back repeatedly for maintenance and biking gear.

I have had a few bad experiences at bike shops. Whether it is an over-zealous salesperson or a bike snob who would rather see my bike in the dump than repaired, instant deterrents prevent a novice from delving deeper into the cycling world.

Gerken’s Bike Shop is different. Walking into the store, one finds a casual atmosphere with bikes displayed on the left and merchandise on the right. The counter is straight ahead and manned by friendly, hipster-styled employees – this is the Bywater, after all. Most notably, the atmosphere is friendly, relaxed and the staff is deliberately approachable.

I sat down with Gerken to discuss how this no-frills biker’s bike shop came to be.

It became clear during our conversation that it wouldn’t occur to him to run his bike shop any other way. He has an innate understanding of how attached people become to their bicycles, so he and his staff are happy to work on them, no matter what condition they arrive in. They do not talk down to the customer and they give honest advice. They offer frank appraisal of which problems can be fixed and cannot.

Gerken’s specializes in rehabbing older bicycles by piecing together parts to create interesting new frames from old ones – a process known as “chopping.” An outgrowth of this is the double-decker bike, or "tall bike" — a popular New Orleans style.

Gerken laughs and admits they really do work on any bikes that come their way. Just the other day, while working on a particularly vintage bike, one of his employees commented that at any other bike shop, they would just tell the owner to save themselves the hassle and get a new bike. “It’s true, we just fix people’s messed up bikes,” he muses.

Before opening the bike shop, Gerken worked at Plan B: New Orleans Community Bike Project for six years. (Plan B is a community-run bike project that supplies the space, tools and volunteer staff to build and repair bicycles. Recently, Plan B has become “Homeless, but not Powerless!” due to building occupancy sanctions. Follow their facebook page for updates on Mobile Plan B.)

Gerken ultimately decided to open a bike shop with Ochsenslager and Jackson when the hobby of fixing up and repairing bikes on the side became more and more time-consuming and expensive. Combining their ten plus years of bike expertise, it is no surprise that this unpretentious bike shop fits in well with New Orleans’s unique bike culture.

“That’s what I love about the bikers in New Orleans,” Gerken says. “In every other city, the people that bike are a very specific type of people. They are a very defined group. It’s so refreshing here. There are so many different types of people who bike. They don’t think about it. They aren’t trying to be a part of anything. They just want to get around the city.”

Have a question about your bike? Looking for bike parts or advice? Stop by Gerken’s Bike Shop at 2703 Saint Claude Ave. Phone:             [phone]      

Mariposa Stormer is a regular contributor for NolaVie. For more information on NolaVie, visit NolaVie.com.

[poestorm-blog]

Nola from the Bike Lane: Easy Biking in the Big Easy

Biking in New Orleans is a great way to get around the city. We may have dismal roads and aggressive driving habits but, luckily, we also have a very flat city. That may seem obvious, but when traveling by pedal power, it makes all the difference. If nothing else, it means that biking around the city is accessible for people whose definition of a marathon involves a pub and good company rather than running shoes.

A year ago I would have given my right arm to own a car and drive myself to work. My co-workers were wonderful about carpooling, but I had enough of bumming rides. A couple of women I worked with biked to work, and I would occasionally express a passing interest in joining them. As time wore on, I began running out of excuses. A few months later I decided to bite the bullet and bike to work.

After a couple of long conversations with my biking colleagues — and a solemn promise that they would bike with me over the St. Claude bridge — I felt ready to attempt the 9-mile ride to work. The decision to bike from Uptown to Chalmette and back was not an easy one, but I have no regrets. Before I knew it, I had become a part of the biking commuter culture, something that is steadily taking root in the Big Easy.

Bike culture is not described by adjectives, but by actions. My friend biked to work with me for about a week, until I felt ready to go solo, and I haven’t looked back. I felt silly asking for company, but to my surprise she said she started bike commuting in the same way: the buddy system. Like any slightly eccentric hobby, it is done with love and participants are excited to share their interest.

I now expertly navigate the pot holes, narrow streets and obstacles that make up life in New Orleans, and I love it. I have seen a different side to the city on my bicycle and, like other bikers around town, nothing makes me happier than sharing my experiences.

People are often interested to hear about my ride to work, about 18 miles round trip, so to give you a little taste of my world, I filmed my morning commute. Please enjoy. I look forward to sharing more of the growing world of New Orleans bike culture in weeks to come. 

--

Next Post: The joys and hazards of biking in New Orleans.

Mariposa Stormer is a regular contributor for NolaVie. For more information on NolaVie, visit NolaVie.com.