Dip, Baby, Dip

Wednesday.

10:09 AM
We take a streetcar through the Garden District, towards Tulane University to take a couple of dance classes. Sun shines dappled through Louisiana Live Oak, the trees making a corridor alongside the tracks. It is an improbably picturesque day, the kind of day that makes one realize that once movies were based on real life, that real life can sometimes be obscenely beautiful.




10:29 AM
We disembark from the streetcar, walk along the sidewalk towards the university. A trash can attacks Hannah along the way. Christal comments, “Who does that can think he is? Hannah gives a good account of herself.

11:00 AM
Ballet class. Jessica is ridiculously happy. James is not.

12:30 PM
Modern class. The teacher is ridiculous. No one is happy. Paloma gives a good account of herself.

1:45 PM
We break for lunch in the Tulane cafeteria, where we also meet up with Dane for our afternoon NOLA tour. There are about five or six restaurants in the cafeteria, and Nicki Minaj on the flatscreen TVs in the mess area. Christian fanboys out.

2:02 PM
Cat is attacked by a fern.

2:50 PM
We visit Dane’s old school, the New Orleans Charter Science and Mathematics High School, or as they nickname it, SciHi.




It’s housed in a building with four huge columns, that we are told used to be an elementary school pre-Katrina. There’s a buzzer to get in, and arrows painted into the walls dictating whether a staircase is an “UP” or a “DOWN”. We walk in during passing period, and one kid yells out “Get outta my school!” A security officer makes us sign in, and wear Visitor badges. Here, we meet the principal and half-a-dozen other teachers, all of whom greet Dane with the same “Daaaannneee!” tone in their voice, the tone teachers use for a far-achieving student who’s just returned home. We introduce ourselves to the principal, an older white-haired woman who invites us back to speak to some of the Seniors and Juniors about the possibilities of attending colleges out of state, and the challenges involved. “There isn’t enough sense of urgency…” she says, in reference to the motivations of her students. We agree to come back Friday.

4:07 PM
On the streetcar back, at one stop there’s a crashing sound as a man falls out of the exit. The entire car falls silent. The man (a 20-something slender young man, with a hipster scarf and a bruised ego) limps off. A woman up front comments—“It’s recommended that you wait until the car comes to a complete stop.” Everyone bursts out laughing.
Christian decides to leave the tour early, on account of needing to rest in the hotel room due to sickness.

4:22 PM
Christian falls out of the streetcar.

4:37 PM
We hit the French Quarter. Dane offers to show us a hat store. We visit the hat store. There are hundreds of hats lining the walls, piled in boxes, overflowing, with six or seven men of varying ages manning the counter, offering their advice on what kind of brim befits a man or a woman. James is ridiculously happy.



5:22 PM
We pass a kid, tapdancing along the side of the road. His tap shoes, Dane tells us, are made by tacking bottle caps or the bottoms of coke cans to the soles. He’s pretty good—we stop to watch for a moment.

5:24 PM
Jackson Square, we run into a marching band. It’s made up entirely of elementary to middle-school-aged kids, lead in front and behind by a couple of teachers who amble along. They are seriously well-trained, marching in perfect unison, followed by two cops on horses. They play, studiously ignoring the crowd of tourists forming on the sidewalks they pass, snapping photos. The teachers wear the jackets of the Treme Brass Band.




5:31 PM
We stop by the Café du Monde for beignets and café au lait. It’s a large, open-air place, with a tent to shield sitting patrons from the rain—when we get there, it’s about half-full. A young waiter with silver stud earrings takes our order. Beignets, for the unfamiliar, are a kind of fried doughnut. When they arrive, they are covered in enough powdered sugar to give Al Pachino a heart attack. They are also incredibly delicious.




6:23 PM
Running through the French Quarter, attempting to catch a streetcar back to the hotel and then to rehearsal, we see the official Treme brass band on Bourbon Street. They are all in suits, like grown-up professional versions of the kids we saw earlier—maybe 20, 30 strong and marching slowly down the street. The tourists who are stumbling drunk give them a wide berth.

7:00 PM
With the help of John Grimsley, the tall, bearded, beatnik techie at Ashé, we run lights and sound for our tech rehearsal.