June 3, 2006
Slidell and New Orleans, Louisiana

I was heading to New Orleans to see the effects of extreme weather, such as that which global climate change might cause. I received a more intimate look when my car broke down in one of the towns Katrina hit hardest.

This had happened to me before, though I had more support at the time. Driving in Florida with my friend Jeannie last summer, my car had died in the middle of the Everglades. Then, as now, I had moved out of where I had been living and had all my worldly possessions in the car. Then, I had the good fortune of staying with some of Jeannie's friends in Miami, who lent us their car and knowledge of the city.

In Slidell I was on my own. To make matters worse, most of the town had not reopened since hurricane Katrina had struck nine months ago. I called to rent a car, and someone from Enterprise came to pick me up. On the radio, voices were discussing preparations for another hurricane.

I asked my driver if she was worried about another hurricane and if she thought the local government was better prepared for another one. No, she wasn't worried, and no, she didn't have an opinion about their preparedness. She would just do what they told her, like she had done when Katrina hit. If they told her to leave, she would leave.

I transferred my belongings from the old Taurus to the new rental. I took my clothes to a Laundromat. Some of my things were in boxes already, and I hastily taped them shut and brought them to the post office. For the rest of my travels, I would take only what I could carry on my back.

I had called around, and no one was interested in buying my car for parts. I agreed to sell it to a wrecker. A tow truck would come in the morning to pick it up. I still needed to take my guitar and bike to the UPS Store to be packed and shipped.

Nine months after the hurricane, not all of the roads and bridges had been repaired. Reduced roads plus increased traffic from the volunteers and construction workers rebuilding the city slowed traffic to a crawl. As I inched along, the UPS Store closed for the day, and I tried to turn around and leave the city.

Eventually, I reached I-10 and was on my way to New Orleans. I had the rental car for twenty-four hours. After that, I would purchase a Greyhound Discovery Pass for $645, which allows unlimited rides within a specified time frame. As I bus rider, camping was no longer on option, and I couldn't afford any more motel stays. I had forgotten one of the most enjoyable and relatively inexpensive lodging options: hostels.

The India House Hostel in New Orleans has an air of the 1960s about it, with such 21st-century improvements as wireless Internet access. A vending machine dispenses a can of beer for one dollar, and many hostellers take a rest from the fast times and high prices of New Orleans to relax by the hostel's pool with a one-dollar beer.

A Potential Partner

I bought some boxes downtown and packed them in the parking lot. After a shower, I walked from the India House to Canal Street to catch some sort of public transportation. A Frenchman was playing a clarinet on the steps of a church. A young man approached and invited me to walk downtown with him. I agreed. His name was John, he was from Hattiesburg, Mississippi, and he would be my guide to all the gay clubs in the French Quarter.

The men at these clubs knew I was straight but insisted on buying me drinks anyway. Eventually, we met up with some others from the hostel, including a young woman from Toronto named Claire.

Claire, like me, was looking forward to graduate school in architecture, to study sustainable design. She ran the names of architects by me, asking if I had heard of them, but I, embarrassingly, knew only American architects working on sustainable design.

Claire was traveling the United States and viewing great architecture along the way. I described the Zero Emissions Road Trip to her. She wished that she were not only traveling but also engaged in some project.

I proposed that I accompany her to Dallas, her next stop, and that we undertake some project there together. She agreed, and we made plans to meet the next afternoon and catch the bus. Then we went to bed. It was 6 a.m.

Delayed amid Katrina's Destruction

I was supposed to return to Slidell, to sell the Taurus to the tow truck driver. When I awoke at 11 a.m., I had missed a call from the driver three hours earlier. I called the driver, but he didn't answer and his voicemail was full.

I drove back to Slidell to finish taking care of my business, but I kept getting lost in the city. Under normal circumstances, when I'm lost, I stop at a gas station for directions, but all the gas stations in Slidell were boarded up. I finally reached the tow truck driver, but he wouldn't be able to pick up my car until the evening, when I should be on the bus to Dallas.

I agreed to leave the title to the car at the transmission shop for the driver to pick up. I would also leave my parent's address, and the driver agreed to mail the money to me. It was a risk, but I had few choices.

By the time I reached the UPS Store, time was running out for me to return to New Orleans and catch the bus with Claire. The UPS Store didn't have a box big enough for my bike, and they weren't sure when they'd be able to get one. I had no choice but to leave the bike, without a guarantee that it would be shipped to me.

My last stop was Goodwill, to drop off the last of my possessions. I kept driving past where the Goodwill should be, but I failed to see it. I thought I had called every place on my list to make sure they were still open, but I had failed to call Goodwill. They had not reopened.

My car was still full of my things, and I was tempted to deposit them along with the other piles of garbage throughout the hurricane-ravaged city. But everyone in Slidell had done their best to be helpful, and I wasn't going to leave my garbage with them.

The clock was ticking, and the traffic was inching along. When I reached I-10, I sped toward New Orleans. I was going to make it, but then I tried to take the rental car to the downtown Enterprise location and it hadn't reopened since Katrina.

I stopped before delivering the car to the nearest open location. I moved everything I wasn't taking with me to the trunk, where I hoped they wouldn't see it until I was gone.

At this point, my only chance of catching the bus was if it was late. Greyhound buses always ran late. Claire's bus, however, left on time.

Next Stop, Dallas

I rode the trolley up Canal Street to the India House for another night. Claire was going to Dallas. I got on the Internet and saw that there was only one hostel in the Dallas area. I called them and asked if they were expecting someone named Claire from Toronto. Sure enough, one Claire had reserved a bed for the next night. I left a message for Claire, from James from New Orleans, with my phone number.

That night, I returned to the French Quarter with a group from the hostel, but I eventually left the group and set off on my own. I sat with a vodka and tonic on an open patio as the sun rose. Someone called me over. What was I doing? he asked. I couldn't sit around. I was in the Deep South. I needed to be active, aggressive, talk to women, have sex, do drugs, live life.

I smiled and nodded and thanked him, then returned to the India House for a couple hours' sleep. I caught the morning bus to Dallas. If the bus arrived on time, I would have an hour to get to the Dallas-Irving Backpackers' Stop before it was too late to check in. This time the bus was late.

Claire should have received the message to call me by then, but I hadn't received a call. It was too late to stay at the hostel, and I couldn't afford a motel in downtown Dallas. I spent the night in the Greyhound station, sleeping on a metal chair and feeling foolish for having come to Dallas.

Coming up next: I receive bad news about my bike, break my computer again, find out that I won't be paid for my last week of work, and run out of money. But I do get to hang around with four young English women in bikinis. Stay tuned!

Click here to view a panorama of Slidell.