The advantages of a "walking" city over a commuter city are far too numerous to name (at least in one sitting). Speaking as someone who has been known on more than one occasion to miss the forest for the trees, one exclusive of the walking city that has always attracted me is the connection you have to the microcity. When most of a town blurs by in the antiseptic confines of an automobile, what few details are there most often go unnoticed. Most often the details are drowned under an expanse of parking space and by-the-book housing developments.
The true urban centers are seas of minutiae. Having visited several cities that can be considered walking cities - and I can include some quintessential cities like NYC, Paris and London among those I've been fortunate enough to visit - I must say that no city struck me as more of a detail paradise than New Orleans. Certainly only the French Quarter can be considered a walkable area (it's hard to build a subway in a city below sea level), but that is where all the fun is. Walk around the city during the day, long after the very macro spectacle of Bourbon Street has turned in for the night, and the random curiosities will overwhelm the discerning eye. Perhaps the collective hangover of the city allows a more casual pace by which to peruse (as opposed to the financial center bustle of NYC or London), but it strikes me that the city makes a concerted to be, well, quirky. You'll have to steer clear of the countless tourist-trap shops - there are only so many details to be found in the endless topless-woman-swinging-on-a-lamppost knick-knacks and hot-sauce bottles - but lose yourself in the side streets and you will find much to enjoy.
There was a gate leading to what I assume was someone's residence. The posts of the gate were each adorned with a shoe. So as to avoid any confusion, someone had labeled the gate appropriately: "SHOEGATE." There was the bicycle with the oversized front wheel, the type that should only ever be ridden down Flatbush by a man with a bowler hat and large mustache. The above-ground cemetaries, each tombstone and crypt complete with whatever token of rememberance a loved has decided to leave - as it should be, no one seems to concerned with cleaning much of it up, whether it be flowers or batteries. The antique shops, which against all odds managed to all have completely different stuff than the one two doors down. Each building, each door, each sidewalk has a story to tell, and given half a chance they will tell it.
Good luck, New Orleans.
Did you run about as far as you could go
Down the Louisiana Highway
Across Lake Ponchatrain
Now your soul is in Lake Charles
No matter what they say
- Lucinda Williams, "Lake Charles"
Posted by Joel at 8/28/2005 08:53:00 PM
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