📍notes from nowhere #1
crossing time zones
friends,
I write to you in the dark, headlamp on, from Toledano Street in Orleans Parish on Wednesday night. We lost power a few hours ago, just after the eye of Hurricane Zeta passed overhead (update: it took a few days to get power back, but we’re safe and well). The mirrors and the light from my headlamp are drawing unfamiliar patterns on the walls of our Airbnb, and I am sprawled out on the bed, comfortably spooked and waiting.
In the meantime, I’ll share with you this week’s dispatch, inspired by 638 miles traveled and the backdrop of New Orleans’ lower garden district, which we’re calling home this week.
First, though: your replies to notes from nowhere #0 where illuminating, inspiring, perfect; just what the voodoo doctor ordered. This whole week, I have cherished imagining each of you in your contexts, a sprinkling of the details you shared with me throughout: a year-long anti-racism course that teaches the dismantling of memory (whoa). a success story of sweet potato meatballs; a plan to make hot wings. A Nintendo Switch! For these, thank you and please keep them coming!
Crossing time zones
Early Saturday morning, we packed our Kia Soul with dried pineapple, two computer monitors, and an inflatable kayak (among other necessities), dipped our toes into Tampa Bay one last time, and hit the road.
Our route took us through Florida’s panhandle and along the Gulf Coast as we crossed over into Central Time. We camped overnight in the swamp dunes of Panama City Beach, bellies full of royal red gulf shrimp and boiled potatoes rubbed with Old Bay.
As we passed through towns with names like Crystal River, Spanish Fort, and Apalachicola, the highest point on the horizon was almost always a church steeple, that old trick to draw the eye Godward especially persuasive against the drift of stripmalls. As I often do, I asked Mike to tell me stories from his Catholic childhood, and thought of the changing state of religion in our country. How, I wondered, has it changed here?
I was struck by more than one decaying shopping mall—so spooky, and triggers my penchant for reveling in the decline of mall-era consumerism (remember Sam Goody? Sbarro?!). The standalone storefronts were strong, though:“Take a kid fishing” Bait n’ Tackle. Suncoast Books: Used n’ Unique. A brick-and-mortar Dippin’ Dots. The sheer number of Waffle Houses (no more than half a mile between them) felt, frankly, conspiratorial.
We coincided with a biker rally in Panama City Beach, and from the window of our car I spotted a leather jacket with an image of Trump, middle fingers aloft, emblazoned on it, that read, ”Fuck your feelings.” And even though I was surrounded by more ideologically different-from-me humans in that moment than I’ve probably ever been, it felt really good to see people in community with one another, bonded over their love of Harley Davidson. Just by virtue of being near that connected energy, I felt, warmly, a part of it.
Dumpster-diving for coffins
We settled quickly into NOLA and on day two, took a walking tour of Lafayette Cemetery. I’ll get right to it: I’m obsessed with New Orleans burial rituals.
Here’s what we learned:
Tombs in New Orleans graveyards are (see 👆) above the ground. Families pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for them, and they can house generations of bodies.
Cremation, once outlawed by the Catholic Church, meant that bodies went into these tombs as bodies—but, thanks to the Louisiana heat, the bodies would cremate naturally as long as they were left entombed for a full year and a day (and thus, a summer).
At that point, the graveyards’ caretaker would come to the cemetery in the dead of night to clear the tomb of the body, in order to make room for more.
Why night? Cockroaches. Turns out, if you open a tomb in broad daylight, cockroaches will fly out in every direction. So caretakers went after dark, positioned a single light outside the tomb, and dislodged one brick from the tomb to expel all the cockroaches in a single line. Epic.
Then, they’d remove the rest of the bricks and use a broom to push the remains of the body toward the back of the tomb and down a shaft into the earth—leaving plenty of room for the next body.
Did you know any of this? It totally beguiled me. I think I was most struck by the practicality and specificity of the process. When a city has seen as much death as New Orleans has, perhaps it gives rise to a structured system that can be returned to in moments of chaos, or despair. In celebration, maybe I’ll be a tomb cockroach for Halloween this year. Or maybe I’ll just change my title to “Graveyard Caretaker” on LinkedIn.
Oh! And like anything expensive, coffins are a prime target for dumpster-divers. As soon as the body has decayed, the caretaker must remove the coffin from the tomb and toss it—and enterprising divers wait at the dumpsters to recover the treasure. Smart.
Joy blaaaast (📷 edition)
What I’m reading, cooking, or listening to
Borat Subsequent Moviefilm is hard to look away from. A bizarre but totally brave act of political comedy. Let’s discuss.
I started Big Friendship by Aminatou Sow and Ann Friedman, which posits that we should treat our friendships like we treat our marriages: as an investment. Anyone want to co-read?
On a cooking hiatus this week in order to reinvest in my relationship with croissants, and let’s just say things with us are going WELL.
A poem-share
This week I hope you will enjoy the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls by e.e. cummings, which I like for its chewy sounds and the helpful reminder that furnishings aren’t everything.
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also, with the church's protestant blessings
daughters,unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things—
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
.... the Cambridge ladies do not care, above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy
What’s keeping you floating this week? I would love to hear.
Until next,
Becca