I have a list of cities that are special to me. They’re not places I’ve actually been to — that’s an entirely different list. Rather, these are places I’d like to go to. But that makes it sound like this list is just a roster of possible vacation spots, and it’s more than that. The cities on this list are places that occupy large tracts of my imagination and which exert a pull on my spirit that is somtimes difficult to explain. I associate them with works of literature I’ve enjoyed, or movies, or ideals. They represent things to me, and I feel like I know them without ever having actually set foot on their streets.
One of these places is New Orleans, the legendary city of Mardi Gras and the Delta blues, of Tennessee Williams and The Vampire Lestat. Many times I’ve imagined myself strolling through the French quarter to the sound of a mournful sax drifting down from an iron-framed balcony, or touring the grand old mansions and mossy graveyards, or breakfasting on strong coffee and beignets and supping on spicy foods that, like a short-lived affair based entirely on lust, I’ll enjoy at the moment and regret afterwards. Yeah, I know they’re cliches and that there’s a lot more to a city than postcard slogans and imagery cadged from lush gothic novels. But that imagery is much of the reason why I find New Orleans compelling; my sense of the place, my desire to see it, stems from overheated sources. I guess it’s fair to say I’m in love with the idea of cities like New Orleans, rather than the actual places themselves.
Either way, I hope we’ll be left with more than just an idea of New Orleans by the time Hurricane Katrina blows herself out. The last I saw on CNN.com, the protective levees were failing and parts of the city were under six feet of water.
My hopes are with those who couldn’t or didn’t evacuate in time.
