Drug dealers. Gangbangers. Corrupt Cops. Stingy tippers... There are many varieties of mean people who prowl the streets of New Orleans. But all that's a topic for another time.
Today we're talking about the mean streets of the city -- as in actual asphalt. Potholes. Sinkholes. Treacherous streetcar tracks. Manhole covers set so deep you wonder why they even bothered.
I made mention in an earlier post of three particular factors which come together in the French Quarter to create a dangerous cocktail for those who come here to party:
1) an abundance of alcohol;
2) lots of ladies -- not to mention a considerable number of drag queens -- in high heels; and
3) broken pavement.
If I park my bike on Bourbon for any length of time on any given evening, I can pretty much count on witnessing a sprained ankle in the making.
Patrolling the city's streets in the pedicab, I have come to the conclusion that the the geography textbooks have it all wrong when they say that the terrain of New Orleans is flat and featureless. Some of the holes and humps of our streets are substantial enough to deserve full topographical-feature status. In fact, I've taken it upon myself to assign names to some of the more prominent of our road irregularities. Here's a partial list:
The Zephyr
Those of a certain age who grew up in New Orleans will remember the Pontchartrain Beach amusement park, which was home to The Zephyr, a roller coaster whose rusting hulk can still be spotted from Interstate 10 at the eastern edge of the city. (The park closed in the 1980s.)
One night, not long after starting my job, I remember turning off Decatur onto St. Louis St. and hitting a deep dip in the road that made my passengers scream and made us all feel as if we had left our stomachs behind. Then when it was all over, I could hardly wait to do it again.
Sadly, the St. Louis Street Zephyr, like it's Pontchartrain Beach namesake, is now defunct. It kept getting deeper and deeper, passing from fun to dangerous and finally to downright deadly. They blocked it with one of those big orange and white barrels for a while before patching it this past week. However, I noticed that there's still a bit of a sway in the patched place, so I'm holding on to hope that the Zephyr might make a comeback.
The Pit of Doom.
This is another one that has been patched now. Located on a dark, shadowy stretch of Esplanade, it was never really much to look at, but it sure did pack a violent punch. Someone had marked it with a tiny pile of brush, which was nice if you knew what to look for. I actually struck it twice before I figured out what that little pile of brush signified. Fortunately, I didn't have passengers either time, and I myself escaped on both occasions without any permanent damage to my spinal column. There are a lot of dark mysteries in New Orleans, and personally, I harbor a deep suspicion that that inconspicuous little hole was some kind of portal to the underworld.
The Tea Party Tracks
In the Central Business District on Carondelet and Saint Charles streets the streetcar tracks are embedded in the pavement. Coming off of Carondelet onto Canal one damp day, I hit those ruts at just the wrong angle, and they grabbed one of my wheels forcing me to make a jarring, hard-right turn. No lie. I was planning to go straight across Canal toward Bourbon, and the next thing I knew I found myself headed down Canal toward the river, a full 90 degrees off my intended course.
The Sleeping Policeman.
Perhaps you've heard that in many parts of the world, speed bumps are referred to as "sleeping policemen". There's a kind of accidental speed bump, a ridge of broken asphalt that runs across Treme St. just before the intersection with Canal. This happens to be very close to the parking garage that serves as our company's shop.
Let me describe a scenario: It's the beginning of the shift, and I'm overflowing with energy, eager to get started picking up passengers, excited to experience whatever adventures await me. As I roll out of the shop toward Canal Street, humming the theme from Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, I look up to see the traffic light turn green in front of me. Wow! I'm barely out the door, and already it's looking like it's going to be my lucky day. I put on a burst of speed, pedaling furiously to make it through the intersection before the light changes. Am I going to make it? Yes, it's still green. I'm going to make it! Then, just a couple of feet shy of the intersection, I hit that ridge as though I had collided with the Great Wall of China. By the time I come back to my senses, the light is red. I've been detained by the sleeping policeman.
The scenario I have just described has actually happened to me not once but on multiple occasions. Not lately though. I'm not a very quick learner, but I do catch on eventually.
The Big Bang
The median (or as we call it here in New Orleans the neutral ground) of Canal Street is occupied by streetcar tracks. These tracks are sunk into the pavement, so you don't usually feel much more than a slight bump when you cross over them. But there's this one spot at the intersection of Canal and Basin that reminds me of those anvils that always fall out of the sky in cartoons: it's violent and painful, and no matter how many times it happens, you never see it coming.
Every time I pass that way, (which is not often anymore because I've learned from bitter experience to avoid this intersection whenever possible) I'm looking down at the road, hoping against hope that this time I'm going to spot it -- whatever it is -- and avoid it; and somehow, I never see anything. Nothing. I'm looking down... looking... looking... until the moment finally comes when I'm jolted by a force that feels like an aftershock of the Big Bang. Through a haze of pain I watch the contents of my handlebars basket -- water bottles, lunch box, the plastic ice cream container in which I carry my tools -- spinning through space like heavenly bodies streaking away from their point of origin.
The moonscape
How can I describe this for you? Let's try this: Step one: Imagine you're you. This shouldn't require any great effort unless you've got serious psychological issues; but it's an important step as you'll understand when we get to step two, which is: Imagine you've got to go a round in the ring with Mike Tyson. Not Mike Tyson now but Mike Tyson when he was at the peak of his power. (OK, do you get why step one was important now? Because otherwise you would have been going, "OK, if I'm going in the ring with Mike Tyson, then I'm going to be Muhammad Ali", which would have totally messed up my metaphor.) Step three: Imagine that you manage somehow to duck and weave just enough to avoid that one knockout blow but not enough to avoid getting mercilessly pummeled for that brief period of time that feels like forever.
I'm referring here to a stretch Iberville just below Bourbon, which is pock-marked with mini-craters. It happens to be a route that every pedicabbie in New Orleans must typically traverse several times in the course of a normal day's work. Any pedicabbie who manages to navigate this course of craters without making his or her passengers spill their hand grenades all over themselves, has truly attained a high level of mastery in the pedicab profession. (One must make allowances, of course, for the fact that a high percentage of the passengers coming off this part of Bourbon would spill their drinks on themselves even if the road were as smooth as glass; but that has nothing to do with the pedicabbie's skill or lack thereof.)
One of my passengers -- not a tourist but an actual resident of the Vieux Carre -- told me that the NFL has committed $8 million to fund road and sidewalk repairs in the French Quarter before next year's Superbowl. I poked around a bit online but couldn't find any confirmation one way or the other. If it turns out to be true, it could spark a mass movement of New Orleanians rising up to demand that the NFL take complete control of of City Hall. I, for one, would be at the forefront.
Today we're talking about the mean streets of the city -- as in actual asphalt. Potholes. Sinkholes. Treacherous streetcar tracks. Manhole covers set so deep you wonder why they even bothered.
I made mention in an earlier post of three particular factors which come together in the French Quarter to create a dangerous cocktail for those who come here to party:
1) an abundance of alcohol;
2) lots of ladies -- not to mention a considerable number of drag queens -- in high heels; and
3) broken pavement.
If I park my bike on Bourbon for any length of time on any given evening, I can pretty much count on witnessing a sprained ankle in the making.
Patrolling the city's streets in the pedicab, I have come to the conclusion that the the geography textbooks have it all wrong when they say that the terrain of New Orleans is flat and featureless. Some of the holes and humps of our streets are substantial enough to deserve full topographical-feature status. In fact, I've taken it upon myself to assign names to some of the more prominent of our road irregularities. Here's a partial list:
The Zephyr
Those of a certain age who grew up in New Orleans will remember the Pontchartrain Beach amusement park, which was home to The Zephyr, a roller coaster whose rusting hulk can still be spotted from Interstate 10 at the eastern edge of the city. (The park closed in the 1980s.)
One night, not long after starting my job, I remember turning off Decatur onto St. Louis St. and hitting a deep dip in the road that made my passengers scream and made us all feel as if we had left our stomachs behind. Then when it was all over, I could hardly wait to do it again.
Sadly, the St. Louis Street Zephyr, like it's Pontchartrain Beach namesake, is now defunct. It kept getting deeper and deeper, passing from fun to dangerous and finally to downright deadly. They blocked it with one of those big orange and white barrels for a while before patching it this past week. However, I noticed that there's still a bit of a sway in the patched place, so I'm holding on to hope that the Zephyr might make a comeback.
The Pit of Doom.
This is another one that has been patched now. Located on a dark, shadowy stretch of Esplanade, it was never really much to look at, but it sure did pack a violent punch. Someone had marked it with a tiny pile of brush, which was nice if you knew what to look for. I actually struck it twice before I figured out what that little pile of brush signified. Fortunately, I didn't have passengers either time, and I myself escaped on both occasions without any permanent damage to my spinal column. There are a lot of dark mysteries in New Orleans, and personally, I harbor a deep suspicion that that inconspicuous little hole was some kind of portal to the underworld.
The Tea Party Tracks
In the Central Business District on Carondelet and Saint Charles streets the streetcar tracks are embedded in the pavement. Coming off of Carondelet onto Canal one damp day, I hit those ruts at just the wrong angle, and they grabbed one of my wheels forcing me to make a jarring, hard-right turn. No lie. I was planning to go straight across Canal toward Bourbon, and the next thing I knew I found myself headed down Canal toward the river, a full 90 degrees off my intended course.
The Sleeping Policeman.
Perhaps you've heard that in many parts of the world, speed bumps are referred to as "sleeping policemen". There's a kind of accidental speed bump, a ridge of broken asphalt that runs across Treme St. just before the intersection with Canal. This happens to be very close to the parking garage that serves as our company's shop.
Let me describe a scenario: It's the beginning of the shift, and I'm overflowing with energy, eager to get started picking up passengers, excited to experience whatever adventures await me. As I roll out of the shop toward Canal Street, humming the theme from Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, I look up to see the traffic light turn green in front of me. Wow! I'm barely out the door, and already it's looking like it's going to be my lucky day. I put on a burst of speed, pedaling furiously to make it through the intersection before the light changes. Am I going to make it? Yes, it's still green. I'm going to make it! Then, just a couple of feet shy of the intersection, I hit that ridge as though I had collided with the Great Wall of China. By the time I come back to my senses, the light is red. I've been detained by the sleeping policeman.
The scenario I have just described has actually happened to me not once but on multiple occasions. Not lately though. I'm not a very quick learner, but I do catch on eventually.
The Big Bang
The median (or as we call it here in New Orleans the neutral ground) of Canal Street is occupied by streetcar tracks. These tracks are sunk into the pavement, so you don't usually feel much more than a slight bump when you cross over them. But there's this one spot at the intersection of Canal and Basin that reminds me of those anvils that always fall out of the sky in cartoons: it's violent and painful, and no matter how many times it happens, you never see it coming.
Every time I pass that way, (which is not often anymore because I've learned from bitter experience to avoid this intersection whenever possible) I'm looking down at the road, hoping against hope that this time I'm going to spot it -- whatever it is -- and avoid it; and somehow, I never see anything. Nothing. I'm looking down... looking... looking... until the moment finally comes when I'm jolted by a force that feels like an aftershock of the Big Bang. Through a haze of pain I watch the contents of my handlebars basket -- water bottles, lunch box, the plastic ice cream container in which I carry my tools -- spinning through space like heavenly bodies streaking away from their point of origin.
The moonscape
How can I describe this for you? Let's try this: Step one: Imagine you're you. This shouldn't require any great effort unless you've got serious psychological issues; but it's an important step as you'll understand when we get to step two, which is: Imagine you've got to go a round in the ring with Mike Tyson. Not Mike Tyson now but Mike Tyson when he was at the peak of his power. (OK, do you get why step one was important now? Because otherwise you would have been going, "OK, if I'm going in the ring with Mike Tyson, then I'm going to be Muhammad Ali", which would have totally messed up my metaphor.) Step three: Imagine that you manage somehow to duck and weave just enough to avoid that one knockout blow but not enough to avoid getting mercilessly pummeled for that brief period of time that feels like forever.
I'm referring here to a stretch Iberville just below Bourbon, which is pock-marked with mini-craters. It happens to be a route that every pedicabbie in New Orleans must typically traverse several times in the course of a normal day's work. Any pedicabbie who manages to navigate this course of craters without making his or her passengers spill their hand grenades all over themselves, has truly attained a high level of mastery in the pedicab profession. (One must make allowances, of course, for the fact that a high percentage of the passengers coming off this part of Bourbon would spill their drinks on themselves even if the road were as smooth as glass; but that has nothing to do with the pedicabbie's skill or lack thereof.)
One of my passengers -- not a tourist but an actual resident of the Vieux Carre -- told me that the NFL has committed $8 million to fund road and sidewalk repairs in the French Quarter before next year's Superbowl. I poked around a bit online but couldn't find any confirmation one way or the other. If it turns out to be true, it could spark a mass movement of New Orleanians rising up to demand that the NFL take complete control of of City Hall. I, for one, would be at the forefront.
This reminds me of the Providence Pothole Project (http://ribike.org/2011/02/09/providence-pothole-project)
ReplyDeleteSarah, very cool link and fascinating concept!
DeleteI love the idea of sticking little pins on a Google map. Maybe I'll do that.
Delete