The nicest man in New Orleans

Like everyone else I've been following the news coverage, good and bad, of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. As a Southerner I feel a kinship with the people in those regions hardest hit. My family, both immediate and extended was affected, though all, I'm happy to report survived. For over a week now I watched the looters, or the survivalists, whatever you want to call them. I've seen a black man in New Orleans tearfully recount the power and terror of the water as it ripped his wife from his arms as she begged him to take care of their children. I've seen a white man standing alone a field of splintered lumber that was once his entire city. Both had just lost everything they had in the world.

The water hasn't fully receded and the blame game has started. On NPR today, politicians were circling the wagons of their respected ideological camps, blaming the other party for deeds and non-deeds that either caused the disaster, exercerbated it or created the nightmarish aftermath. At that point I switched over to the Oldies station.

When I got home tonight I started going through all the photos I had taken when I was in New Orleans just a year ago with my German girlfriend of the time. I wanted to show off the culture and share a little bit of the sights and sounds of my upbringing. There were pictures of us sitting eating beignets in Cafe Du Monde, listening to the jazz band aboard the steamboat Natchez, standing in front of the St. Louis cathedral in Jackson Square, walking down Bourbon Street and eating Lucky Dogs. All the touristy things that you're supposed to do when you you visit the Big Easy. I was trying juxtapose the landmarks in my photos with the pictures on my TV.

And then I saw him. Staring at me from my computer screen was a picture of the streetcar driver on the Charles Street line. We had boarded directly in from of of our hotel in the Garden District. We were just another couple of tourists on our way the French Quarter. He greeted us with a warm smile and welcomed us to his city. "Where are y'all from?", "What have y'all seen?", "Here's what you should do." My girlfriend shook her head in amazement as the driver and I conversed as if we had been long, lost friends. I got up from my seat to stand beside him and get a better look at the mechanics of the streetcar with it's gears and handles and cables. He was fascinated with my digital camera and we talked about photography and the wonderfully photogenic architecture of New Orleans.

As we rolled to a stop on the edge of the French Quarter we gathered our things to exit. Our trip couldn't have lasted longer than 15 minutes. The driver and I shook hands and hoped that we would run into each other another time. My girlfriend and I pushed our way off as a line of other tourist anxiously crowded around the door waiting to get on. As we walked away from the streetcar I turned one last time and snapped a picture just as he looked and gave me a thumbs up. That was the last time I ever saw him or even thought about him for that matter. And now, here I am in Los Angeles, a week safely removed for Hurricane Katrina, wondering what has become of my driver; this unofficial ambassador of New Orleans. Did he get out in time? Did he leave at all? Was he among the throngs of citizens forced to seek refuge in the Super Dome? I look at his confident smile. His friendly thumbs up. We both knew that when we stepped off the streetcar that our paths would never cross again. And yet, on this night, I wish that they would.