If you can imagine acute poverty patch-worked in with overgrown southern jungle, then maybe the Lower Nine won’t unsettle you the way it did me.
I’ve always thought of poverty as being loud. Traffic and corner stores. Voices yelling and music playing from an apartment on another floor. But in the Lower Ninth Ward, sometimes the only sounds I hear are the tires of my rental car passing over the ruptured pavement and my own breath as I peer out the window.