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Well it’s long past time for me to continue the New Orleans story. As usual school and life just seemed to catch up with me. I figure I better hurry up and get this down though before it all escapes my memory.

I’ve never understood how any one has time to be a devoted blogger. Perhaps when I am in France I will find plenty of time to blog. At least for the first few months while I am still attempting to meet people and settle in. In the mean time, I’ll finished telling this rag about my spring break trip down south.

Day 1 cont.:

After helping Horace and Roscoe unload, they insisted we all come out along with them and have a few beers. Naturally, my stranger instincts kicked in at first, but after considering the situation and the fact that we outnumbered them three to one, I willingly climbed into the back for Horace’s cab with the rest of the crew. As were began to drive off Horace and Roscoe’s other friend, who they referred to as “Sir Charles”, grinded the gears of a black compact car behind us. Horace laughed about how he didn’t think Sir Charles could drive and we took off down the street.

It turned out that Sir Charles, an older looking African man, was from Ghana and could barley speak English. I never really figured out how he knew Horace and Roscoe or what his relationship with them was. It struck me as interesting though that it seemed so natural for Sir Charles to just be accepted as a member of their group. It was the most diverse group of social deviants that I’d ever run into. Horace was a New Orleans local, had lived there all his life and was currently spending his time rebuilding basically the entire block that we had run into him on. Roscoe was an independent contractor, originally from Detroit. The way Roscoe approached his personal story made him come off as a relatively rootless man. He talked about commuting back and forth between Detroit, Florida, and Louisiana for the last few months. He mentioned a wife and child that he no longer knew, a man with a past and no idea how to settle himself with it. Roscoe had met Horace after the hurricane, I never learned how. He had just started working for him, Horace kept throwing jobs at him, and Roscoe stuck around. Roscoe even mentioned a time when he worked as a bridge builder, suspended high above the Mississippi river. It was easy to picture him hanging from these bridges days later when we returned to help him side a two story house and he did it all without a latter, but instead supported himself by hanging from window frames and jamming his legs between the neighboring houses wall and the wall of the house he was working on.

(I have to stop writing now. It’s time for me to go study for my finals. No worries though. As soon as I am done with school I will finish this story in no time. Peace! And good luck to all of you college students out there who are suffering with me.)