New Orleans, 18 March 2026   Alcohol in high humidity

New Orleans is beautiful, in that special American way that feels extremely European. There is an unmistakable sense that the country was shaped by the masses of Europeans who invaded this continent centuries ago. They have a French Quarter that actually traces back to the Spaniards. They have Spanish moss hanging from the trees, which the French named that way to mock the Spaniards’ beards. According to Native American legend, Louisiana moss—Spanish moss—is the hair of a princess slain on her wedding day, her grieving groom draping it over a tree in mourning. The wind carried the strands across the land, and now all the trees in the southern U.S. look Gothic.

I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a hangover as bad as the one I had on that fateful Tuesday in New Orleans. I wander through the streets, wearing sunglasses, beneath a cloudy sky; everywhere they’re playing jazz and wearing green because it’s St. Patrick’s Day. They’re wearing long plastic bead necklaces—I don’t know what for or why—but I truly can’t be bothered; I just need to survive.  
That’s the New Orleans experience, they say; drinking too much is what you’re supposed to do, they assure me. 
I retreat to my hotel room and spend the rest of the day suffering in bed.  

In a beautiful, empty church, I read my text aloud; it’s about climate change, it's about wind turbines, it's about the effects in Germany.

I’m jealous, Maggie tells me afterward, you guys worry about the animals and nature. We worry about our lives.
 
Later, she drives me through the city, showing me where Hurricane Katrina hit the city 20 years ago.  
Back in the day, it looked like the neighborhood your hotel is in, says Maggie. 
The neighborhood our hotel is in is colorful, charming, and full of life. But these streets are different—empty roads, empty lots, most of the houses still boarded up. On one of them, a large X is still visible. Each triangle that forms the X holds an abbreviation: at the top, the date; on the left, the rescue team; on the right, whether dangerous conditions prevail; at the bottom, the number of bodies found. It gives me goosebumps.  
 
We go to eat crawfish and po’boys. I ask Maggie if she wants to stay in New Orleans.  
I really want to, she says, but I don’t know if I can. People are already leaving the city to go elsewhere. It’s questionable whether the city will remain livable in the future.  
I don’t know what to say. Never before have I been so acutely aware of how incredibly safe we are in Europe.  

Afterward, we stroll through a park and admire the whistling ducks that have made themselves comfortable in the trees. On a nearby bench, two girls unpack their lunches from plastic bags, pick up their plastic forks, spear salad from plastic containers, and sip through plastic straws from their huge plastic cups.

Related link:
Louise Kenn – Baby, be my technofix
https://www.wortmeldungen.org/texte/louise-kenn-baby-be-my-technofix