Perhaps a plane is the most efficient way to get somewhere, particularly somewhere as far from Houston as New Orleans. If I added the time driving to and from the airport, sitting in the airport, waiting for an airport shuttle, and riding in the airport shuttle, flying still might have been quicker than driving (and I could have slept on the way, a nice bonus).
But flying would have meant missing out on so much. It’s one thing to know intellectually that most of Louisiana is a swamp. It’s quite another to drive down the freeway and see trees growing out of the water. In some places, the trees are dense enough to almost form a forest, albeit a thin one. In other places, only black jagged tree trunks are visible above the water (except for scattered signs, affixed to the trunks by enterprising businessmen). What happened to the treetops? Did the trees die of some disease? Or was there a forest fire? That would have been a sight…an out-of-control forest fire, with the flames reflected in the water below.
If I’d flown, I would have missed gas stations and the candid glimpse of local life they provide. If I’d flown, I couldn’t have read the highway signs: Lake Bigeaux, Breaux Basin, Atchafalaya River, Iberville and St. Charles’ Parishes, Oupelousas, Grosse Tete, Billy’s Boudin and Cracklins. I wouldn't have learned that Lousiana gas pumps are regulated by the Department of Agriculture and Forestry, led by a veterinarian. (Texas gas pumps are overseen by the Railroad Commission). If I'd flown, I wouldn't have marveled at the ingenuity required to build highways across twenty-mile-wide bodies of water. Then, when I arrived at my destination, I would have missed the disconcerting experience of driving down long streets narrower than my home driveway—I felt closed-in, as if I were walking down a hallway so narrow I could drag my hands along both walls. And If I’d flown, I would not have faced, and overcome, the challenge of crossing Bourbon Street by car.
In Texas, cars drive on the streets and pedestrians can only legally cross the streets at intersections. Pedestrians cannot legally walk down the middles of busy streets. In Texas, pedestrians (usually) proceed into the intersection only if it is either empty of cars, or if the drivers, using eye contact or a wave, indicate their willingness to let the pedestrians cross. This works pretty well, because the cars arrange themselves nicely into designated lanes, all going the same direction.
New Orleans uses the same system, but in reverse. The people walk on Bourbon Street and the cars can only cross at intersections--cars are not allowed on the street itself. At Bourbon Street intersections, the cars must wait for either the intersection to become free of pedestrians (which never happens), or for the pedestrians to politely motion the car across. Unfortunately, New Orleans pedestrians are not nearly as well-organized as Texas cars. They do not walk in designated lanes in predictable directions. Within the intersections, many are not walking at all, but are standing, sitting, or milling around randomly. The driver’s only hope is for all the people in the intersection to simultaneously yield their territory. As a driver, your best bet is to simply wait patiently. Eventually, by luck and randomization, a group of magnanimous male pedestrians are bound to arrive at the intersection. They will enthusiastically wave you across, and because of their outgoing nature and friendly countenances, the other pedestrians will grudgingly let you through.
In Texas, at least for most addresses, you can look up the address on the worldwide web and obtain reasonably accurate directions or a map. Don’t try this for a hotel on Bourbon Street. If you do, you’ll have to pull over and call the hotel for directions. If I’d taken the airport shuttle, I would still be ignorant of the fact that Burgundy Street is really Bur-GUN-dy Street, and I would still think Conti Street rhymes with TEA. Because I drove, I know Conti rhymes with EYE.
I’m so glad I decided to drive to New Orleans.
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