Afloat.

Works for me.

New Orleans, LA – Night oozes over the Mississippi like an oil spill, the shore twinkling like a string of Mardi Gras beads.

With it, a chill, despite only being 5 p.m.

Our ship was 90 minutes late leaving port due to traffic on the river, but we’re finally underway. Naturally, we arrived painfully early to climb aboard.

At least we have a glass of sparkling wine.

Morning in New Orleans was about decisions: The Ruby Slipper Café is known for its eggs Benedict, prepared several ways. The Peacemaker came to the rescue: one biscuit covered in Applewood smoked pork, another in fried chicken. And, naturally, buttery Hollandaise sauce, which is usually something of which I’m not a fan. So smooth, and so rich.

New Orleans is about eating, isn’t it?

“Laissez les bons temps rouler” goes the local expression – roller bags clacking over the broken pavement, we do just that.

Ships ahoy.

Hola, NOLA.

Dancing in the streets.

New Orleans, LA – “Braaap!”

We’re greeted by blasts of brass horn and a storm of powdered sugar as we arrive in the French Quarter.

It turns out visiting the famous Café du Monde offers a far different whiteout from what we experienced during yesterday’s drive. Tables and chairs are slicked by remnants of confectioners’ sugar peaked onto still-warm beignets and subsequently caught on the breeze.

Fattened crows, pecking at the ground of the outdoor café, are thrilled.

Stepping into the elegant Omni Royal Orleans is like stepping into history, as is anywhere in the French Quarter, where ornate iron railings and wrap-around balconies frame art galleries and bars – lots of bars. These days, it seems some of this history has been perverted by neon and cheap Chinese trinkets, but beauty lies behind the troubling evidence of rampant addiction and homelessness.

On cue(s), a man staggers by as if he has wooden legs. It's still early.

But, N’awlins is known for its soul, expressed through food, art and music.

VooDoo like to come in?

Brass bands fill the squares, kept in tune by the rat-a-tat-tat of snares, as we tuck into the back of the Erin Rose and into a one-table room with the trappings of many years of bartending: an old Miller High Life sign rests in a retired brick fireplace. Something tells me it’s not the only thing lit in here.

But the grilled shrimp po’ boy sold under the flag of Killer Po’ Boys – logo: skull and crossed baguettes – is tremendous.

Later, neon catches fire as we wander down Bourbon Street, and into the famed Carousel Bar, which installed an operational merry-go-round in 1949. At least I can blame the rotating bar seats for my world spinning.

The stars, meanwhile, have been replaced by the twinkle of tiny white Christmas lights wound through the trees and over the balconies. One is festooned with "Peace, Y'all."

In the distance, a trumpet sounds mournfully.

Brevity III.

No home, but a boat, no longer afloat, on an otherwise empty lot.

poseidon, enraged
The city disappeared
in spinning ghosts of wind;
half, never to re-emerge
from under Poseidon’s trident.

A softer whisper
carries the mournful cry
of brass,
still strong in its sadness.

Yet now, the ghosts seep still
from the crevices
of lonely, misshapen timber
of homes
since forgotten.

Nacho Regular Reflection.

A week of teamwork turned this lumber into something tangible.

New Orleans, LA – “I’ve ministered all over the world – from Africa to Haiti – but in a minute, the third world came to us,” said Pastor Randy Millet of the immediate and continued devastation of his city.

As ever, his eloquence was spellbinding. In a paean to seize the moment and create change, Pastor Randy spoke of how we generate snapshots in time in our lives and that he hoped our experience in New Orleans had become one for us. Heads nodded in unison. With that, he urged us to take the lessons we had learned home with us, to become successful and to remember to continue to give back to – and build – our communities. More nods of promise.

Despite the obvious nature religion plays in the Pastor’s life and words, the lessons he imparted perfectly encapsulated ASB’s objectives of learning from the communities in which we are working, incorporating this knowledge into our own lives and sharing it with others.

Having bid a fond farewell to Pastor Randy, we continued with ‘Nacho Normal Reflection™’ – our final team reflection session, led by Tyler and Katie, over a dinner of nachos for 40. Yes, that did, in fact, include eight pounds of ground beef, an equal amount of grated cheese and a dozen large bags of chips.

The mental commitment to reflection after hard days of physical labour has become one of this team’s hallmarks. Not only willing to share deep, personal emotions, team members have consistently offered extremely profound and thought-provoking observations that have generated emotion-filled conversations. There was no shortage of tears, reciprocal hugs, smiles and ponderous looks. It is obvious we have been tremendously affected by the people and devastation of New Orleans, and by the strength and friendship of our own teammates.

I feel extremely privileged to have experienced the bond and trust that formed so quickly with this team. That alone has been reflection worthy for me.

Now for 20 more hours on a bus, a return home and some tough goodbyes.

For now.

Music to our Ears.

A jubilant team and homeowner on the last day.

New Orleans, LA – The strains of Brooks & Dunn’s “Proud of the House we Built” breathed poignantly across the worksite as we approached the 4 p.m. deadline on our last day. It was both fitting and serendipitous.

Not to mention emotional.

As with all week, we had pushed hard throughout the day, installing tin flashing onto the cinder blocks to prevent termite damage, and both building and installing the subfloor. As we toe-nailed boards into place, heads popped up through the framework like a whack-a-mole game at the carnival. The rhythmic drumming of hammers on wood blended with strikes on flashing that was reminiscent of steel drums in the Caribbean. It was music to our ears.

Adrenaline and energy had begun to flag after a long week of steady days spent lifting, hammering, mixing concrete and digging in the heavy heat of N’awlins, but we still had our eyes on one last target that would help illustrate our progress.

Walls.

So, with the country tune in our ears, we hefted two of the exterior walls we had built earlier in the week onto the freshly built floor and nailed them into place – wearily raising our arms in victory. With that, the homeowner, Joyce, began to cry. Her home at 4768 Flake Street was very much becoming a reality.

At the end of the day, it was but a small step in helping rebuild the city, but to Joyce – and to our team – it remains a very significant feat indeed.

Magic.

Brevity II.

Far too many homes lay empty like this one.

in frame
Piles of photographs of homes
erased from lots,
lonely,
lying fallow beside
shattered shelter
formerly

what brought photographs
to life
and life to photographs.
 

the cross
Leaning houses, tattooed
like genocide survivors,
a constant reminder
with every cross
of the threshold.

The cross lays crooked
on the living room wall,
worn brown and faded
like the vibrancy
that once lived here.

Stilled, but smiling,
Steeled, but rising.

Cementing a Reputation.

The new house is being built beside and abandoned one.

New Orleans, LA – As we raised pillars of cinder blocks – which came to be named ‘Cindy’ by many of our crew – the bubble in the level danced animatedly.

All the while, the incessant, high-pitched beep of the laser level chided us for having too much or too little mortar in our stacks of five blocks. After the first, third, fourth and fifth, we would beckon the measuring team – “Major Laser!” – who would carefully scrutinize our ability to spackle mortar between the heavy blocks.

Add or subtract, mix mortar and repeat. This house must be level.

After several days of heavy lifting and the repetitive motion of hammering, today was an exercise in precision for many. For others, there was still the thankless, but necessary, task of digging out the wooden framework that had been used to form the foundation.

While Habitat for Humanity has not traditionally built foundations themselves in this area – opting instead to hire contractors – they have begun to do so to save costs for homeowners and themselves. This, in turn, allows them to build yet more homes. At the end of the day, that is, of course, the whole point.

Despite having had a short day that ended at 2:30 p.m., we became the first group this chapter of Habitat has had complete all of the house’s pillars – which will hopefully minimize damage in the event of another flood – in one day.

Our reputation with the Habitat team was solid before, but really cemented with our effort today. *Groan*. (Yes, it has been a week of construction-related puns and jokes.)

A Strong Foundation.

Tyler makes the sparks fly, cutting rebar.

New Orleans, LA - Building, day two: More lumber, more lumbering across the lot with materials in hand. More hammering, more door frames, more excellent energy - paired with improved tool skills.

More cowbell.

But then, the day changed as the concrete truck arrived and unfurled like a praying mantis, breathing life into the house's foundation. Made smooth, we had built the base of not only a house, but someone's home and, hopefully, a small piece of a new New Orleans.

Building Progress.

Marta's a cut above (saw that one coming).

New Orleans, LA – Since Hurricane Katrina five years ago, Habitat for Humanity has built more than 400 homes in NOLA. While significant, that number is but a drop in the bucket – so to speak – when you consider more than 80,000 were destroyed by the storm.

It was with this sobering message we excitedly began our service-learning project today, pulling into an empty lot framed by abandoned homes that continue to shrug at the weight Katrina has imposed upon them. High-fives flew from fresh muscles, but only with a stark reminder of what has transpired here.

For nine hours, we created rebar frames to reinforce the foundation, lugged hundreds of pounds of lumber and materials, and hammered at nails that softened in the sweltering heat. We worked side-by-side with Margie, a homeowner at another location, and a pair of family members who were contributing to her sweat equity hours.

The Habitat program requires homeowners to contribute 350 hours of community service as a down payment – an effort that does not need to be directed toward their own home. This “hand-up, not a hand-out” approach also provides an interest-free mortgage on a house that is 80 per cent volunteer-built. While we remarked at how tired we were at the end of the day, we also thought of Margie, who still had an eight-hour shift to complete at her job when she had finished working with us.

Looking back at the sunburned team dwarfed by a tall stack of completed walls, I am convinced we will likely be one of those teams fortunate enough to actually see tangible progress at the end of our tenure here. Then again, this is a special team.

And a special city in which tangible progress is still very much in need.

Parading Around the French Quarter.

One of the many street performers in the French Quarter.

New Orleans, LA - The morning fog that greeted us broke into cloying humidity as we set out to see some of New Orleans this afternoon.

First off, Pastor Randy directed a tour past some of the devastation from Hurricane Katrina. In St. Bernard's Parish, where we are staying, water levels had ranged from two feet to 28.5 feet. And it came in quickly, rising from a foot to nine feet in five minutes. Everywhere I go, I imagine – or rather, try to – 30 feet of water.

Now, empty lots rest as patchworks of dry greens and browns, framed by crippled fences bearing all-too-silent witness to a hurricane that completely destroyed the Parish. Five years later, broken windows still lean as though in a shattered mouth, doorways are shuttered and spray painted digits mark faded houses with a history that lingers still.

These derelict houses sit for sale, but unwanted: following the storm, the proud Parish's population dropped from 70-thousand people to 30.

Like the theatrical masks you so often see in boutique windows, however (grinning and sad alike), there are two sides to the city. Visiting the French Quarter, we were greeted by a vibrance and hospitality that belies the faded homes nearby.

Looking for the legendary Bourbon Street, half the team was suddenly swept into a parade. And, to paraphrase: "parades are awesome." Especially in the Big Easy. Carried away in a giddy sea of joy, we cheered, and were cheered, as the police car escorting the revelers blinked behind us.

Our fitting message from the City of New Orleans: seize the moment, because you never know what the next might entail.

Mardi Gras Meat.

'Team Lunch' and a cart-full of bread.

New Orleans, LA - Crossing from Mississippi into Louisiana, the road that never seemed to end dissolved into a ghost of fog.

On a bus for 22 hours through seven states and a province, we have set up camp at Adullam Christian Fellowship – also known as City of Hope – in New Orleans, preparing to spend the afternoon in the French Quarter. Spirits are high, and not just because we can hear the faint strains of Sunday service wafting through the air.

After a group meal at the International House of Pancakes, we broke into 'Team Breakfast' and 'Team Lunch,' invading the local Wal-Mart to gather supplies for the week. Three heads of lettuce, 24 loaves of bread, six gallons of milk and nearly 10 pounds of sandwich meat: the trappings of a few meals for 40.

Greeted by a thick accent matched only by his smile, the man behind the meat counter talked us up, and started teasing us by saying "eh" and "aboot." And asked of we had driven down through California.

Then he gave us free meat to celebrate Mardi Gras. Long live southern hospitality.

Brevity.

Rebirth, and destruction, side-by-side.

a relationship soured
Faded colours of a vibrant past
lie muted
and too tired to cry,
scribbled with exes
and numbers from a hissing can;
make-up, faded and smeared
framing windows of jagged teeth
punched in:
for sale,
but unwanted.

Eerie tombstones
of a history that didn't vanish
with the wind.

orphaned
Empty lots dressed with crippled fences,
palsied limbs
folded over themselves
as memorials to history;

Grey and green
for 40 miles
bear silent witness
to 29 feet of water
since seeped away,
leaving but memory
and memorials,
orphaned.

A sad horn cries in the distance.

Hammer Time.

The road ahead is long for the Mustangs.

Jackson Centre, OH - Like a cement arrow pointing to the bayou, 20 hours of road unfurl before and behind us. Now a third of the way in: New Orleans, here we come.

Building on months of preparation and anticipation, the excitement of 39 Alternative Spring Breakers has seemingly been bottled into the bus like a soft drink, shaken vigorously. Soon, the building will become more tangible as we begin a Habitat for Humanity project in the Big Easy.

Despite some apprehension at the border as we waited to see if one of our team members would be turned back because of a misplaced passport, we were left with a relatively uneventful crossing. Exhale. A stunned jubilation took over from there, fueling this strangely exciting road trip.

With Ontario and Michigan behind us, Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi and Louisiana still loom lazily ahead. It turns out folding 6"3 into these seats comes as easily as sleeping in them. Which is to say, not.

Several hours in, the chatter persists. Cell biology texts lay strewn across upholstered seats, Shark Week has given way to the O.C. on the DVD player and a deck of cards shuffles between seats. Aces.

And the stale smell of french fries lingers still.

kentucky hills
The sun scorches behind
the scratched-out erasings
that carve jagged brushstrokes
folding over the curves
of these hills.

In darkness,
the lines shine brightly,
a second on,

a second off,
like a light switch
switched
hypnotically.

The beauty of not having to drive,
for once.