nolawitch58 | Hopedale fishing camp writers retreat

Exceeded my expectations in every way. I drove there with few problems in navigation, although I did miss the turn for 46 and ended up on Bayou Road. No worries; turned around and continued onward. The trip from downtown took an hour and fifteen minutes in the dark without the benefit of landmarks noted in the directions.

First surprise: There was no "roughing it" involved in this camp. The place is brand new, huge and well furninshed. It's nicer than my humble condo. The house has four adult bedrooms, one of which is the master bedroom with its own bathroom, and I grabbed that one. The other three are decent-sized and there is a kiddie bedroom with bunk beds and a toddler-sized table. Whatever. The owners have grandkids. The master bathroom has one of those huge-assed whirlpool tubs, a low-flow toilet, double sink and a shower. There is a pool table that pivots and becomes an air hockey table. They also have a card table. I guess that's for when the weather unexpectedly sucks and they're already out there. Way cool. I had taken a sleeping bag and extra blanket but didn't need either.

Second surprise: Everyone had really great stuff to share. We read some of our own stuff and the work of other writers. Tad kicked off the sharing with Ginsberg again. We ended with the last few pages of Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins. In between, we heard chunks of ongoing works and snippets of new works. Amy brought the cards we filled out at the very first meeting that cold, dark night in Pirate's Alley. There's something profoundly special about receiving another's soul laid bare but couched in fiction. That's all good writers seem to do anyway: reveal facets of themselves through their work.

Third surprise: I didn't get sick from mixing several different alcohols. I drank a little bit of everything from wine to scotch to the Holly King's Favorite I got from Anja at Yule. After the readings, we had Sazeracs. Those are hella strong. I officially became a wet blanket at 2:00 a.m. when my tired old ass had to go to bed.

Fourth surprise: There is rush hour traffic out there at o'dark-thirty in the morning. Seriously, are the fish awake at that hour? Do fish sleep? I took a leak and went back to bed. Despite not sacking out at my normal time, I was up at 7:30 a.m. No cats meowed in my face to complain about empty bowls. No matter. I smelled coffee so all was right with the world.

Fifth surprise: This was more a surprise to Tad. We didn't leave him holding the bag to clean up. We washed the linens, cleaned the kitchen, swept the floors and left the place reasonably tidy.

Sixth surprise: Holy shit, on the way home, I noticed that there was water on both sides of the road in places. No wonder they call that the wetlands. I didn't realize how close to MR-GO I was until Saturday's Times-Picayne had a front-page story about closing it. The graphic they used showed almost exactly dead center where we were last night. Some of the camps out there have been rebuilt and are very nice. Others are dumps and still messed up from the storm. In other places, only bare slabs remain. There were several stands of dead trees along the road with their bony branches reaching skyward in futility, echoing the emptiness ahead.

Driving through Ycloskey, Violet and Chalmette was informative. I hadn't been that far east since before the storm. So much is still empty and moldering. Strip malls and shopping centers remain boarded up and vacant. I didn't want to drive all the way through Chalmette, so I went up Paris Road to the Interstate. The former Jazzland amusement park sits deserted, a victim of both nature's fury and an economy run into the ground that can no longer afford happy amusements. I really hope that someday when things get turned around, that place gets bought and reopened so I can go ride that wooden coaster again. I had so much fun there for the few years I went.

Despite the numerous instances of unused and unusable buildings, as I got closer to town, the more I noticed that people were dotting the landscape with signs of life where death had come on wind and water. Great hope coexists with great despair down here. It's an act of faith and a feeling of home, of belonging that make people want to rebuild. More power to them since they've been thwarted right and left over the past three years. Driving past Read Boulevard, I remembered my temp job over there a couple of years ago before the storm. Coming over the highrise, I glimpsed my city again. The glass roof of the Aquarium of the Americas glinted with just the right angle of sunlight like a beacon to my bloodshot eyes. The closer I got, I saw the rounded breast of the Superdome, on which Saints fans yearly suckle the faith that drives them to believe the team will finally win the big one, peeking from behind the décolletté of the buildings surrounding it. I smiled and sped onward to my home, my husband and my cats.

The nap I took this afternoon wasn't sufficient to reduce my sleep deficit. I'm going to be turning in early tonight. Tomorrow is Superbowl Sunday. One of these years, before I'm dead I hope, our beloved Saints will go all the way. When that day comes, there will be much rejoicing and I think a number of people will faint from the excitement. No property will be destroyed and no riots will break out. I predict an unprecedented outpouring of mushy love and drunken weeping for all who wear the black and gold.