New Orleans? More like New Friends-eans...

I don't have many good friends.  My best friend for over a year willfully distanced herself from me, lying the whole way, and the best friend I ever had came back in and then left my life, and both happened around the same tame about a year and a half ago.  My best friend for years had drifted out of my life and recently moved out of state without saying goodbye, and still owes me quite a bit of money.  I deal with anxiety and have little in the form of a social life, and a lot of times I'm pretty sure that nobody really likes me, that they simply tolerate me, and will ditch me at the drop of a hat, or really at the drop of anything.  So, this trip was both a exciting, and a little bit intimidating, thinking that I may end up as a loner.  Luckily, this didn't happen.  I made multiple new friends on this trip, and became better friends with a handful of people.  I was included, and allowed myself to be.  One person in particular I became extra close to.  I knew of her, but we'd never met, let alone talked, and I can't recall if we'd even spoken on the trip until the night on Frenchman Street.  With so many people leaving early that night, she and I ended up pairing up and had a long conversation while listening to music.  After that night, with the ice clearly broken, we began talking regularly, and I invited her to go shopping with me the following day.  We didn't end up going, but instead ended up going out to Bourbon Street and having a blast.  I helped her back to the hotel and took care of her until I put her to bed.  We ended up together with other people or paired up most of the rest of our time away from Illinois, continuing to get to know each other better, and even ended up getting tarot readings done together on the last day.  On the bus home we argued and laughed like we'd known each other far longer than we have.  There's still fear that something will go wrong and this too will die, but I am very grateful for the opportunity to make new friends and build the relationships.  Honestly, this probably ended up being my favorite part of the trip for me, because I do appreciate my friends and to make memories with them, more than the surroundings and context of the memories.

Church of the poison mind

On our trip to the Whitney Plantation there were numerous sights and stories that could have (and did) wretch up significant emotion to the point of tears.  There was one in particular that stood out to me, and that was the sight of a large, metal crucifix attached to the inside of a holding cell where slaves were kept either out of punishment, but usually to wait to be bought.  So many things ran through my head seeing that crucifix; one being that this was the same symbol that was a source of hope and community for post-emancipation former slaves in a church that stood not far from this cage, yet there it was, affixed upon the bars of what held them like livestock.  In my agnostic mind I cannot help but see this contrast and look at that cross as just as essential a cage as the actual cage; a mental cage.  These people stripped not only of their freedom, much of their humanity, and their own spirituality and religion, baptized and told to worship a bearded, white lie, further undermining their sense of power and worth.  How can you tell a people they are less than you when the person you worship, and tell them to worship does not look like you, but more like them?  I'd imagine that would be pretty hard, but luckily for slave owners, visual interpretations of Jesus as a man of bronze skin and woolen hair were and are in short supply.

This brings me to the other major thought that went through my head upon witnessing the above visual, which has more to do with the slave owners, and those who were complicit in their inaction.  This cross, I imagine, was put there not by slaves, but by the owners, the same people who helped force their slaves' conversion to Catholicism.  I have to think that this cross was put there to offer some sort of comfort to those being held, and that despite their treatment of the slaves as subhuman, they offered up their religion, again, I assume in part to offer some sort of comfort (not to mention means of control).  So, on some level these people who owned or condoned had heart, compassion, sympathy, one might say humanity.  These people were not 100% bad, yet they participated in something that was so devoid of humanity in its stripping of it from others.  They treated humans like property and tools, working them ragged, beating them, possibly killing them, then went home and loved their family and hugged their friends, went to church.  These people weren't 100% bad, but they were deluded beyond belief.  To think of the amount of lies being told to self and others, and the staggering amount ignorance, all to keep up the charade of slavery as being okay, allowing these people to retain a modicum of humanity in order to function is just mind blowing.  Talk about opiate of the masses.

Looking back, I really have no definitive favorite place in the French Quarter.  Everything held some interest to me, save maybe the cheap t-shirt shops.  If pressed, though, I suppose I would go with Jackson Square and the immediate area surrounding it.  It is such a beautiful area, and acts as sort of the gateway to the French Quarter, and its quintessence.  There is beauty and ugliness, art and commerce, and fun.  There were paintings of all stripes, and people of all stripes, some who looked like paintings.  Myriad performers, both large and small scale.  There is voodoo and mysticism in the shadow of a revered Catholic structure.  Tourists and locals.  All of this with the center being a statue of a man who helped save the city, which carries its own debauched backstory, surrounded by a beautiful park.  The river on one side, the St. Louis Cathedral opposite it, and the first apartment buildings on flanking both sides, each built by a local legend.  You have to go there if you go to New Orleans.

I think Jackson Square may have been the the site that put the cap on my favorite part of the trip, which was going through this new, fun, and exciting learning experience with friends, including those I made on the trip.  On our final day, in front of St. Louis Cathedral, I, along with my best friends on the trip (including my instructor, who I know will call my "Soul Sister") all had tarot readings and our palms read, learning more about each other than we had previously known, and sharing this fun and interesting experience with one another.  It was such a great way to end the trip, as it sparked conversation and was just the type of thing you don't readily find where we're from.  From a pure learning perspective, my favorite part was the walking history tour.  Our guide was fantastic, and it was just so interesting and informative.  I would recommend it to anybody who can walk, hear, and see.

It would be easy to say that I learned that the people of New Orleans are resilient, or artistic, or open, or lively, or whatever, but I think that all that is part of a larger whole.  What I learned about the people of New Orleans is that you cannot thrive here without true spirit and soul that makes itself known.  This is not a city for the banal.  You don't have to be a "weirdo", but you have to have...oh, I don't know...how about to keep with the defiantly French culture, I say you have to have a certain je ne sais quoi?  Do I have that je ne sais quoi?  I'd like to think so, but one cannot truly be the judge of that.  What I did learn, is that I, more than ever, know that I am not where I need to be, and I mean that in so many ways.

Today we made our way to two museums; the Presbytere & Cabildo.  The Presbytere was first, and was certainly the most affecting.  The bottom floor is dedicated to Hurricane Katrina; its causes and effects, and the stories that came from it.  The top floor is dedicated to Mardi Gras and its history.  The Katrina portion was painful for a lot, if not all, the members of our group.  The midpoint of the museum in particular was very emotional.  There were relics from hospitals, the Superdome, among other parts of the city, including a journal written on the walls of an apartment building, but what got most people were the video and audio recordings at various stations, telling the story of the storm and its aftermath from the people who lived it.  The infuriating lack of coordination and communication, running people around, even ending with police firing on citizens, was wretched to hear about, even more than it was when I heard about it at the time, because this wasn't someone telling me the news, these were the people who WERE the news.  A rescue worker having a baby shoved in her arms from the second story of a building by a desperate mother, while dangling from a helicopter was heart wrenching, and made even more real by the tears you could hear building up and cracking her voice.  The squalor of the Superdome was unbelievable, sounding similar to a pig pen on some mega farm.  One girl from our group had to leave this room before the rest of us, because it all was just too much for her, and it's understandable.  It wasn't all bad, though.  There were stories of heroes, like doctors and nurses, boat operators, and an ordinary citizen delivering a baby on a tiny boat.  All the stories I heard sure made it seem like some in the media really played up the negative aspects of the citizen's response, overstating the looting and violence, focusing on the sensationalism and offering up fodder to feed the confirmation bias of bigoted and uncaring viewers, rather than pointing the lens and delving further into why this happened, and what conditions might cause what negative behavior that did occur.  Overall the Katrina portion left me and others a little emotionally drained.

I have to be honest, given what I had just witnessed in the Katrina portion of the Presbytere, I was not really into the Mardi Gras portion, and others, I believe, felt similarly.  Mostly I just wandered through and admired all the pretty things, without stopping and really reading about what I was looking at.  Our instructor made a good point when a few other people and I brought up that we were a bit spent coming into Mardi Gras, when she said that the museum's exhibits were what the city was really about.  New Orleans has tragedies, often massive, and yet they always bounce back.  The undeniable undercurrent of music, fun, and life that has always seemed to permeate the culture, still does, and those things are what lift, invigorate, and resurrect the soul of the city each time it is brought to its knees and left for dead.  It's a frustrating and inspiring binary which this city lives within.

Again, I have to be honest and say the Cabildo was unable to really grab and hold my attention after the emotional hurricane of the Katrina exhibit.  There was definitely some interesting stories and items in there, but I just couldn't focus.  Many agreed this tour would be more effective being guided, and maybe nearer the beginning of the trip.  This would allow our learning to begin broad and then focus.  Honestly, what I'll remember most from the Cabildo, unfortunately, is that Countess Pontalba's portrait looks like a guy we go to school with (or the love child of a Teletubby and Frida Kahlo).

I'll end with this; the Katrina exhibit made me think of a great song by one of my favorite artists, Mos Def.  In his song called "New World Water" he says "New world water make the tide rise high, come inland and make your house go bye!  Fools done upset the old man river.  Made him carry slave ships and fed him dead niggas.  Now his belly full and he about to flood something".  This is an area of death and spirits, and steeped in the history of the slave trade and the lingering effects it has on the citizenry, so, you just wonder.

Bretty and the jets

I've been beat up and worn down on this trip.  I have bruises and sore shoulders from carrying bags, I have a sore ankle from not quite completing a "move" on a bench outside Chili's, almost everything below my knees hurt from so much walking, I have not gotten adequate sleep, and my back hurts from lifting a small person.  Because of this, I am so very thankful this hotel has a hot tub.  I hadn't been in a hot tub in a long time, and it took till our 3rd day, maybe, for me to finally take advantage.  We had been walking all day, and we were cold, and a friend and I (the previously mentioned "small person") decided we needed to hit the hot tub once we made it back to the hotel, and we did.  I brought my Bluetooth speaker down with us and we set ourselves at a low boil.  Two other members of the group joined us later, and we stayed down there till close at 11 pm.  Very sad to go.  Regardless, both that night and into the next day, both my friend and I felt so much better; so much more relaxed, which allowed us to head into the day's activities with renewed vigor, or at least renewed muscles and joints.  I swear, next trip the instructor needs to make periodic hot tub visits part of the class, because it will for sure eliminate SOME of the excess bitching and complaining.

Subculture

We're out at a bar tonight to see a drag show, and the lovely lady on the left ended up being from Decatur, Illinois.  Small world.  This is for fun, but I consider this exploration of subcultures.  There are all types of people here.

This is all much more normal here than back in Peoria, but looking at this scene begs the question "why do people have a problem with this?"  This is fun, and love, but many people see this and see red, and not just because of the Christmas decorations (though, the Santa here is donning pink, not red).  Okay, off the mini soapbox, and on to a good time...bitches! *snap*

Outside New Orleans for the first time since we came in on the train, leaving the ebullience of Nola.  Our first stop was the Hansen's disease museum in Carville.  What struck me most was the comprehensiveness of the community.  People with this disease were so stigmatized that out of a hospital grew a self-sustaining, insular community.  It's kind of inspiring to see what they made of it and their lives on the property, but still, I can't get past the people suffering from this disease being cast off from society, all because the disease they had was so misunderstood.  Staying at his location was partially for their own peace of mind; aside from receiving treatment, knowing they were going somewhere where they wouldn't be judged, and where the risk of violence against them was removed had to be a relief.  Still, that peace of mind is sought because much of society treated them so poorly.  Patients did their best to maintain their humanity in response to the lack of humanity shown by so many, and that sense of normalcy, and of community was tremendous in terms of coping with everything they were facing, whether internal or external.

From more of a medical/healthcare perspective, there was a lot to take in.  There was, of course, archaic ideas and treatments that show the ignorance of the time, both with Hansen's disease and medicine in general.  There were also the advancements.  The discovery of the first truly effective treatments with Promin, the adaptations to combat symptoms and physical deformities, and even the improved treatment and care of the neuropathy that comes with diabetes.  Those were all great things that came from a bad situation.

Sites like this are necessary, despite Hansen's disease being nowhere near as prevalent, damaging, or stigmatized now as it once was, because people always need to be reminded of how damaging ignorance and fear can be, and how stupid we're left looking.

Our next stop on our trip outside Nola was the Whitney Plantation, and if what I wrote about the Hansen's disease museum seems limited, it's largely because Whitney Plantation ended up overshadowing it in my mind.  The first thing I notice about Whitney is the beautiful land.  I pictured this gorgeous landscape being filled with slaves, and pain, brutality, heartbreak, and a degree of hopelessness; I couldn't reconcile the juxtaposition.  The memorials to the people who lived and died as property were moving, and makes some people's calls to move on from slavery, and let go, more laughable.

I teared up twice while at Whitney; when we were in the church, and again when I stepped up to and looked in the holding cells for slaves going to auction.  Inside the church it just hit me that this place and many places like it were refuges to so many post-slavery, physical and psychological wounds still new and raw.  The holding cells hit me when I looked in and saw a metal cross hanging in there.  The contrast between the cell and the church, but this similarity of the cross just hit me like a ton of bricks, and my eyes started welling up.

I kept trying to use my imagination to really picture what this place and life was like, to gain that empathy and to best understand the perspective of the people who once actually lived all of this history.  I feel like I have to push myself to really feel in order to make the lessons stick.  The lies being told, and the ignorance it took for people to treat other people like animals and property, and for that to become a cultural norm, yet keep enough humanity to live and care for friends and family is unbelievable.  People absolutely need to learn about this history up close and personal, because words and pictures don't do it justice.  Even being at this place, it all still feels so abstract, because it's just so hard to believe.

Walking Royal St. and going in and out of galleries, I actually didn't find a lot that really spoke to me.  I was kind of surprised by that fact, but it is what it is.  Outside of the first gallery I went to, I found most of what I saw rather quotidian (No, I didn't just look that word up!).  I did find one artist in a small section in the upstairs of a gallery that held quite a bit of appeal to me.  There were a few of this artists paintings in the gallery, but some were not even hanging, and sat on the floor, such as the one above, which was my favorite.  It was small compared to the paintings by the same artist hanging above it.  Unfortunately, I didn't get the artist's name, and the people working the gallery were downstairs and talking to other people.  As I said, the artist had both very large, and relatively small pieces, so they do not adhere to a specific size of canvas.  I do not know if the difference in size had anything to do with what they were attempting to convey.  I do not even know what direction is up with this painting.  How it appears in the picture is how it was when I found it.  The colors and shapes, and how they were configured just really appealed to me.  Perhaps I like it partially because it doesn't, at least to uninformed viewers, seem to be of anything, or at least anything immediately and easily identifiable.  This does allow for interpretation by the viewer of what it is, or if it is truly of nothing in particular, it frees up the viewer to simply feel, unaffected by the artist's interpretation of a thing.  I just know that I was immediately drawn to this painting, after walking past many other pieces of work, usually moving past in a robotic, unemotional fashion.

To be honest, though, my favorite work I've seen may have not been in an official gallery.  As someone who loves the history of hip-hop culture, I usually find graffiti and tagging rather appealing.  I've seen some great tags done on sidewalks where the tag seemed to be done by dripping the paint; I'd never seen that before, but I like it.  The below picture, though, is my favorite.  A collective piece of the people's art.

For as much as I love music, I have to say my favorite part of our music and Treme tour to start the day was all the stories about the Mardi Gras Indians.  I love the tradition, and that they actually act as tribes, representing their people, their neighborhoods, so far as to not recognize the authority of the city power structures.  It reminded me of the stories of the post-hip-hop New York scene, when gangs largely brokered peace, and conflict was settled often with dance battles.  Actually, I take that back.  My favorite part was Milton, our tour guide.  You can tell he really knows and cares about the things he's talking about, and he not only studies, but participates in it.  He's also incredibly warm and nice.

Our second tour guide of the day, this time at the pharmacy museum, was definitely different than Milton, but no less great.  He was very knowledgeable, fun, funny, and flamboyant.  He was undoubtedly my favorite aspect of the tour, but what he was talking about was incredibly interesting.  Maybe the most interesting thing he brought up was the social and cultural effect this early medicine had, in that women and men were treated differently, and this resulted in some of the patriarchal domination that was so prominent, and still survives today.  Though, the fact that sickness was fashionable may be tied for first.  It is distressing that that happened, but I gotta give the rich credit for making the best of the situation.  The bottles of old ingredients were often crazy and hilarious (we can laugh now), and this one in particular caught my eye, and I dared not ask what it was used for, though I'm guessing not birth control.

It was a long day, and I'm tired and going to bed

...is what I would say if I didn't give a shit, and didn't like to talk.  That being said, I'm going to keep this brief, because I am legit sore and tired, and have another early start to a day of funnnntastic learning =)  We did the history tour today, and I was a big fan of it.  One of the first things I took notice of was our tour guide before the tour even started.  He seemed an obvious offspring of New Orleans' culture, not just in experience and knowledge, but in physical attributes.  He had lighter skin tone, bright, intriguing eyes, and somewhat straight hair, despite his African-American heritage.  A perfect person to speak on the city and how it came to be.  The graveyard at St. Louis #1 was beautiful, morbid, and beautifully morbid.  I am often someone who could be described as being irreverent, and am quick with humor (appropriate or not) in all situations, but I caught myself being very silent, and staying more to myself on our stroll through this city of the dead.  The exception to this was passing Nicholas Cage's future grave; screw that guy.  I enjoyed that people had left combs, as I'm assuming they are referencing his tremendously awful head of hair made famous by the internet.  When learning of the VooDoo queen of New Orleans, I couldn't help but think of the song "Dark Lady" by Cher, which is a good song, by the way.  She sings of the "fortune queen of New Orleans".  Probably not related, but so many people think I'm gay already, why not shoehorn Cher in somewhere.  Anyway, back to the tour.  Congo square was awesome.  Not because of what it is, but what it was, what it represents, and what it evokes in my imagination.  I love music, and I have a special appreciation for African and African American culture within this country.  This isn't because of the typical middle-class-wants-to-be-black cliche (though I went through that phase as a kid, though no pictures exist of me and my African medallion necklace), but because of the dirty prism through which African-American culture is viewed in this country because of our history of oppression, neglect, and minimization when it comes to the magnitude of the African-American impact on this country and its culture, and the fact that so many of my heroes and influences have been African-American.  So, standing in that square, picturing this massive gathering of the oppressed enjoying themselves, and for those hours, thriving, and creating in the shadow of established power is beautiful and inspiring.  It reminds me of the modern interpretation of this tale, one that I'm more familiar and personally connected to; the birth of the OTHER true, American music, which is hip-hop.  Congo Square and then Storyville birthed jazz, and the South Bronx and then the other boroughs birthed hip-hop.  Jazz from slaves and free people of color, hip-hop from the black and brown kids from the burnt out and forsaken Bronx and the resulting gang culture.  Both were born of need for expression and fun in situations that should be devoid of both, given the circumstances.  Necessity is the mother of invention, especially when that necessity is maintaining ones humanity and spirit.

My other favorite part of the history tour was the neighborhoods adjacent to Congo Square, where we saw the smaller homes compared to the parts of the French Quarter we had previously explored.  They were so colorful and quaint.

The food tour, I feel, was probably a little more enjoyable for others, given my self-imposed dietary restrictions.  Still, the history aspect of the tour was very enjoyable, learning about the origins of the foods and their cultural etiology.  The food was pretty good, though, I must say.  It ended on a little bit of a down note, as I realized the red beans and rice has some meat in it after I had already began eating.  So, I inadvertently broke my beliefs, and didn't get to finish my red beans and rice, a double whammy.

Frenchman street was smaller than I expected, but still enjoyable and delivered on the promise of nearly wall-to-wall music.  Unfortunately, by that time of the night my feet were really starting to hurt, and I was getting a little low on energy, and my anxiety started kicking in a little bit more.  On the positive side, I made a "new friend", as a classmate and I who didn't know each other prior to this trip ended up pairing off and getting to know each other.

Well, I didn't do very well keeping this brief, but it's a relative term.  Time to call this morning a night, and hopefully get a nice, long 3:45 minutes of sleep.  Shutting up and shutting my eyes.  I'm out!

Arriving at the Amtrak station in New Orleans was such a relief, more than anything.  Long, largely boring, sleep-deprived trip was over, now enjoying myself seemed like an attainable reality, rather than an abstract idea at the end of a thousand miles of train track.  Enjoying myself was going to begin with relaxing; sitting down on something that wasn't moving.  Unfortunately, our perceived short jaunt to the hotel turned out to be a little longer than expected.  It was made more cumbersome for me by the fact that I tried to be helpful and I traded one of my rolling suitcases for bag with a strap that I wore like a satchel, and was probably as heavy or heavier than my rolling bag I traded.  I was already wearing my heavy backpack, so whatever side I put the bag on, that shoulder started getting very sore.  I also offered to take another person's bag, as it was not rolling right, so, since I had a free hand, I could just carry it.  I ended up carrying 50 lbs or more on me for blocks and blocks, and I began to wear down a little as we got close.  It may have been more psychological than physical, with my mind becoming anxious and weary, so it produced somatic symptoms of fatigue.  Regardless, I made it, though I soon found out the train ride was haunting me, as I felt like I was a buoy on a choppy ocean, or just really buzzed.

Jump ahead and we're on the ghost tour, which was pretty interesting.  I love good stories, and our tour guide told a good story, but then again, the city provided the fodder, her script written by history.  Walking through the French Quarter and hearing these sad and brutal tales, I couldn't help but think of Disney World; going there as a kid and seeing the different parts of the park with different countries and cultures as a general theme.  A family friendly, white-washed facade.  Now, walking the real streets of New Orleans, picturing in my head the people and events being spoken of, feeling the soul of the city creep up and overtake you momentarily like an aroma on a breeze, I still couldn't help but think I was still walking through Disney World, viewing not history, but a sketch of it, too real to be real.  That being said, I still got caught up in the poetry and darkness of it all, reveling in the exquisite beauty of human tragedy provided by a city whose world-renowned liveliness is matched by the death that it is both literally and figuratively built upon.

Once returned to my hotel room, lying in the dark with my eyes closed, I was still haunted by one particular spirit....that damn train ride.  I still felt like I was floating in choppy seas, and I could see trees going by on the screens of my inner eyelids!

Our bus ride to Champaign would have been nearly unbearable had it not been for all the time spent laughing.  No heat, and but the vents kept blowing cool air, and even delayed because the windshield kept fogging up.  The Amtrak station felt about as close to heaven as I can reasonably imagine it can, save for escaping a pack of wolves, I guess.  We ordered pizza to the station, and normally I wouldn't eat something like that, especially that late, but I partook because I was going to be short on calories if not, and I had a long trip ahead of me.  It helped that it was hot, and continuing to warm up seemed like a good idea.

I knew it was going to be a long trip, but I underestimated, and I had no pillow, so even if I had fallen asleep, lifting my neck up probably would have been similar to unbending a hanger.  Also, no wifi, so even as I came close to zoning out and dozing off with my earbuds in, the signal would get weak or go out, and no more music.  I tried reading, but too bumpy and couldn't concentrate.  So, I decided to make the first entry into my physical journal.  That entry read as such: "12/15/15 - It's just past 1 am, and it is too bumpy to write comfortably".  I did give it another shot once we stopped for a while.

6 am and stopped in Memphis.  Haven't slept but maybe a half hour, max.  I definitely need something to stabilize my neck on the way back.  Couldn't really enjoy all this time awake, since Shannon and everyone else was asleep, no wifi, in-and-out phone signal, and it's dark.  Sun is coming up now, but may not be as bright as the woman in the front of the car with the bright red afro.  She's wearing a hoodie of the same color, and that seems overkill, if not just a bad fashion sense.  I mean, I don't wear a lot of light brown or dirty blonde clothes.  Deep thought of the night: traveling on this train in the dark, especially in relative silence, is similar to suffering with mental illness.  You feel the ride, the bumps, the swaying, and you feel the momentum and the pull of time, but you remain largely unaware of what is going on around you, the people and joy, and you feel like you aren't the one driving.  You know there's better out there, you see glimpses, but it feels somewhat distant, and you're unsure of how to take control of the ride, and scared that if you do, you'll just wreck it all, so you begin to think of how to just make it stop...

When the world was lit up again, now in the south, I began noticing, especially once we hit Mississippi, that the towns are a little more spread out than what you usually see back in the midwest, and there's a different hue to the land.  A lot of trash, a lot of rundown, burnt out, abandoned buildings.  Everything seems a little more sun bleached and dilapidated.  The age, and the scars of war and segregation, seem to show through.  This land has beauty, though.  Seeing the Mississippi in its true, massive glory from the observation car was pretty cool.  Also cool was my conversation with another passenger, and Louisiana native.  It began as he was commenting to Lisa and I about the weather, and then some of the history of Louisiana, as Brandon and I had just discussed the history we researched with the class.  Once Lisa left to eat, the man and I kept talking, mostly about history of the state, but we did it from a distance.  Eventually, I walked over to him and the discussion turned more towards the political.  It did not get contentious, and we agreed on most things, despite him being a southern Christian who seems to lean more towards the Republican or conservative side, and me being an agnostic Yankee who leans more towards the Democratic or liberal side.  I take this as just another example that we as a nation off normal people are not as divided as politicians and the media are, and portray us as.  I bid him adieu, and finally went to eat my lunch, and then it wasn't much longer until our arrival.

Prepping can get dicey for me.  I vacillate between laissez faire and perfectionism.  I hadn't really done much prepping prior to today, and that is a good example of the laissez faire part of me, as I kept procrastinating and thinking I'll be able to handle what comes.  An example of the perfectionism reared its head when I went out to get some new clothes; I hadn't bought much in the way of new clothes in a while, and a lot of my pants don't fit anymore because I've lost about 20 lbs.  So, I set out to the mall(s), and per usual in my shopping expeditions, I found the general selection of clothes for men limited, and lacking much in the way of style.  This led to some frustration, exemplified by my text mid-shopping to my friend, saying "Shopping around here makes me want to stick my head in a wood chipper".  I also ended up going home and eating some of my frustration away, which led to more frustration, now placed upon myself.  I only came home with one pair of jeans and 3 new pairs of socks.  No new shoes, and I couldn't find a pair of pants not colored black, khaki, grey, or navy that wasn't some muted, bland tone.  Just because it's not summer does not mean colors cease to exist!  On the positive side, I met my teacher's daughter at the mall.

Seeing as I ate my frustrations away, mostly with cookies, I decided to go to the gym for the first time in a while; my cardio is lacking at this point.  On my way back home I convinced myself to go to WalMart and pick up a few things for the trip; a journal and some travel containers, along with some food that is not for the trip.  I don't have much else to get, and I'll probably end up doing some shopping down in New Orleans, where there will be a bigger selection, and color still exists!

I’ve never done anything like this course.  Except for maybe once as a kid, I have never taken time out of a trip to do homework, let alone go to a class.  While the school aspects of this trip will often be pulling me away from likely more enjoyable activities, I can’t say that bothers me too much, given that I will still be away from the repressive nature of the campus, and frankly, this region.  Also, with the journaling we will be required to do, I will now be forced to do something I’ve told myself I need to do regularly in my life.  I need to do more healthy reflection, rather than just dwelling and ruminating, like I often do, and writing things down will make that easier.  So, with learning nothing, I expect to gain at least that from the class, and hopefully keep it going when I come home.

I do expect to get more from the trip than just experience journaling, though.  Mostly, I want to see and experience new people and things.  I haven’t done a whole lot of traveling in my life, and most of what I have done was under the auspices of my parents and other family.  Granted, I won’t have a car and total independence, but hey, I still get to go somewhere I’ve never been; somewhere historical; somewhere a little more accepting of the odd.  I may feel similarly to what I did when I experienced Los Angeles for the first time; I didn’t want to leave, or I at least didn’t want to go back to Peoria.

I really don’t have a lot of real concrete or lofty expectations of what this trip will be or what I’ll gain from it.  I worry enough as it is, so I don’t need to be thinking too much about expectations.  I just want to try to operate out of my norm and just live in the moment and enjoy myself.

In my limited travel experiences, nothing epitomizes urban more than Chicago.  Even more than the towering heart of the city in downtown, I think of the vast and varying neighborhoods that provide the blood, the life to that heart.  Driving through these neighborhoods quick glimpses of the different cultures, ethnicities, and economics that criss-cross and collide throughout the city, but putting your feet on the ground and walking the streets is the only way to truly appreciate this type of environment.  There is very little space, save for parks and playgrounds, or some occasional empty lots.  Everywhere is occupied, and if it isn't, it soon will be; people and commerce are seemingly at arms-length with every step.  Neighborhoods, homogeneous in their contents and inhabitants, or a the cultural and commercial equivalent of a Pollock take turns in your travels.  Some neighborhoods act as battlefronts for old and new.  Classic neighborhoods bookended by million-dollar condos, with gentrification's tendrils reaching in all directions.  Homeless or hipster?  Who knows, they're both just as likely to have a beard and a bike.  For all the life that these neighborhoods offer, too often, many also offer death.  Segregation and neglect are the downside of some of the sectioning off of the city, and that lack of space I spoke of.

I imagine New Orleans is much the same, maybe just a little slower and damper; that's just how the south comes off in the media or in person.  There are different mixes of cultures, of course, but the battle of old and new, commerce and community, life and death remain the same in the city.