My mailman, Tom, and I talk almost every day. We have genuine, neighborly conversation. It’s not like we’re best friends or anything; we just speak beyond basic pleasantries. We talk about his kids, New Orleans politics, mail tips, his weekend plans and vice-versa. I can honestly say that when I lived in Virginia and New Jersey I never knew our mail carrier — heck, I don’t even know if our carrier was a man or woman. Even so, talking to strangers isn’t exactly something you do up north. You just don’t. Try talking to someone on a NYC subway, and see what happens. Try chatting up a retail clerk to see if they’re interested — chances are, they’re not. They could care less about your week, your day or your last meal. Don’t even waste your time. And if you feel compelled to do so, be prepared to get pegged as a sappy Southerner.
OK, so maybe Northerners aren’t cutthroat to a fault, but Northern social mores and customs certainly differ from those down south. Whether you attribute these cultural differences to Southern gentility, Northern progressiveness or whatever — they exist, no doubt.
I was reminded of this last week while reflecting on all the fabulous people I’ve met in New Orleans. Every single person I know has a heart of gold and his or her own special fiber that creates the patchwork spirit that defines this great city. The food, music and architecture excite, but the people of New Orleans inspire.
I think of wonderful people like Lauren G., a young woman I met at the dog park a few weeks ago, who graciously introduced me to her neighbors and invited Drew and me to dinner. As random as it seemed at first — meeting a stranger, then getting invited to dinner –– it was perfectly normal by New Orleans standards. If the same thing had happened in Jersey, I would’ve been thoroughly weirded out. But not here.
I think of my friend Renee, a single mother entrepreneur, who also happens to be the daughter of the late musician Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown. I first met Renee through work, when she was a startup business owner working with the Idea Village. She started off as a client but quickly became a friend. Nowadays she and I hardly talk business; we discuss when Drew and I will babysit her kids or what fun events she and I can get away to. She also she gives me bottles of her local tea, Bayou Brew, to share with others, and she’s always on hand to encourage and inspire. She redefines my image of the ultimate superwoman.
I’m also reminded of all the neighbors on our street — most of whom we know by name and respective life history. In past entries I’ve talked about my neighbors’ fun holiday shindigs and block parties. But it goes far beyond the parties; the sense of inclusion and recognition is what matters most. The sense of community. It’s the comfort in knowing you can call on your neighbors for anything, and they too can rely on you.
My French neighbor, Aline, moved across town this past weekend. I’d known for some time she was moving, yet the sight of her moving truck made me cry nonetheless. In the two years that I’ve known Aline, we’ve spent countless hours together, shopping, eating and practicing French. She gives me her couture hand-me-downs and always has bottles of wine and champagne on tap, just for the joie de vivre. She even invited me to join her and her mother on a trip to France and Italy this past June. I couldn’t swing the trip this time but plan to go next year.
Growing up in Jersey, my neighbors used to shoo my brothers with brooms and never talked to my parents, much less invited them over for wine tastings and foie gras dinner parties. They had no interest in fostering a sense of community, much less an interest in knowing our names.
The culture of disconnectedness that exists up north doesn’t exist here in New Orleans. There, people greet you with frosty exteriors, and it always seems like you’re bracing for a slap in the face, an eye roll or an angry car horn. But here, you can expect smiles, advice, lagniappe (something extra) and friendly conversation from strangers. It’s a more welcoming way of life, a way of life worth experiencing.