Matador Network's Blog, page 2202

Can science stop shark attacks?

Photo: Ken Bondy

On paper, it makes very little sense to be scared of sharks. When you get into the water, you have a far better chance of drowning than you have of being attacked by a shark, let alone being killed by one. Nearly 360,000 people drown each year, while only 12 die every year in shark attacks.

David Shiffman, a marine biologist at the University of Miami, put it this way: “I recently calculated that Jack Bauer has killed more people onscreen in 24 than every shark attack worldwide since 1580, when the species of shark was identified.” Mosquitoes are far more dangerous. Deaths caused by mosquito-transmitted diseases kill around 725,000 people a year.

But there’s nothing dramatic about a mosquito bite. Usually, you don’t even notice it’s happening. Then, a few weeks later, you die from a horrible illness. We tend to blame the illness, not the mosquito. The shark, on the other hand, lurks beneath us in the depths of the sea, and without warning attacks from below with rows of jagged teeth, ripping limbs from the body and turning the sea red.

It’s an image that sticks with you a little bit more than a zit-sized bug bite, so naturally we’re far more scared of sharks. Technology and science are helping to change that, though. New innovations could protect swimmers from shark attacks, which might allow us to overcome our fear and focus on things that are infinitely more dangerous than hungry sea predators.

1. Invisible wetsuits

After a spate of shark attacks on the western coast of Australia a few years ago, scientists developed wetsuits that either hide the swimmer from sharks or ward off the animals. The wetsuits were based on a relatively recent discovery that sharks are, in fact, color blind, which would make them much more susceptible to sea-colored camouflage.

The developers of the “invisible” suit also created wetsuits with patterns and colorings similar to those of fish that sharks would know to avoid — usually because they’re poisonous. While the sharks would be likely to see this wetsuit, they would also be likely to avoid it.

Obviously, a big part of protecting ourselves against sharks is understanding them. To some extent, this means managing our fear to the point where we acknowledge they aren’t as big of a threat as we think they are, but it also means learning how we can exploit elements of their biology and behavior so we’re able to avoid attacks altogether. Aside from learning about their color blindness, we’ve also discovered that they’re more likely to swim away if struck in the nose, eyes, or gills, and that they’re attracted to sudden thrashing movements.

A shark isn’t a T-Rex — it can see you regardless — but it’s attracted to movement.

2. Electric pulse emitters

Another company has developed a device called the “Shark Shield” that emits a low-frequency electric pulse to scare the shark away. Shark Shield has been around for a while and sells devices for use on kayaks, dive kits, and fishing boats.

The Shark Shield is based on the understanding that sharks have pores under their skin that they use to detect electromagnetic fields produced by the muscles or heartbeats of other living things. It’s actually a tool they use to hunt prey, but the Shark Shield uses it against them. It should be noted that while the Shark Shield appears to have worked in Africa, it hasn’t been as effective in Australia, strangely.

3. Social media

Seriously — Twitter could save you from a shark attack. Because of the relatively high number of attacks in recent years, western Australia has been trying virtually every method to keep people away from sharks. This has included an ill-advised shark cull, which resulted in the killing of around 50 sharks. This is obviously not ideal — humans kill on average over 11,000 sharks an hour, which seriously threatens the continued existence of these tremendously important apex predators.

But to Australia’s credit, they’ve also been trying methods that better allow humans to coexist with sharks. One such program is Surf Life Saving Western Australia, which, with the Western Australian Fisheries Department, attached GPS transmitters onto some 350 sharks. The sharks are ones large enough to be deemed a threat, and SLSWA monitors for their presence near beaches. When one appears, they tweet out its location, which beachgoers or lifeguards can then respond to.

4. Knowledge

Ultimately, the best way scientific advancements can help us overcome our fear of sharks is by putting the numbers into perspective. You’re far more likely to die because of all the french fries you’re eating than you are of becoming a shark snack. You’re far more likely to die because you always forget to apply sunblock than you are of being involved in a shark attack. Really, most of the ways you can die are more likely than death-by-shark.

Sharks are certainly dangerous — no marine biologist would argue otherwise — but the best approach to lowering our risk of a tragic shark encounter is to try to understand them, learn to respect them, and then work to coexist with them.

The danger & thrill of Ice climbing

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ICE CLIMBING — or ice in general — is not the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Italy. I have learned a lot more about this adrenaline-pumping sport from this video showing Matthias Scherer, Tanja Schmitt and Franz Walter scaling frozen mountains and rivers in Cogne, Italy. Unlike traditional mountain climbing and rappelling, ice climbing must be carefully timed based on weather conditions, seasonal changes, and how thick the ice is on any given day.

In ice climbing you have to find your own velocity – it’s fundamental to find the right balance between waiting and observing and then leaping into action. Ephemeral ice lines will often be climbable on very few days – sometimes just one day…

You can learn more about Arc’teryx athletes here.

24-hour food guide to Princeton, NJ

Photo: Ryan Forsythe

Welcome to Princeton, New Jersey, site of the fourth-oldest college in the US. For many, Princeton is just the university. Welcome to my Princeton. Welcome to the world outside the gates — a world I’ve called home since I was eight years old, a world I’ve been able to see with new eyes after returning from four years abroad.

For those who aren’t part of Princeton’s “Ivy League” (or maybe those of you who are), I suggest that 24 hours in this town shouldn’t be spent toiling away in dark libraries, getting drunk in frat-like eating halls, or sleeping off exams. 24 hours should start at Small World Coffee.

Breakfast

In 10 years I’ve never seen Small World Coffee empty, but don’t be intimidated if there’s a line — the employees are incredibly efficient. As you wait to order, you’ll hear, “Cap to go!” and “Double-iced joe to stay!” shouted from behind the counter.

I recommend the cappuccino. The smooth coffee blends with creamy foam on your first sip, no airy bubbles quickly evaporating away. While sipping on your morning coffee — or chugging it — glance around at the other patrons. Small World is a rare common denominator in Princeton; you’ll see moms or dads with young children getting their morning caffeine fix, business people on their phones, students chatting with friends, hipsters on their computers.

As you exit, check out the photos of world-travel regulars displayed on the wall, each flaunting Small World t-shirts — the iconic bright red standing out in front of the Giza pyramids or getting soaked at a misty Stonehenge.

Caffeinated and ready to go, follow Witherspoon to where it intersects Nassau, forming the epicenter of Princeton. The busy traffic on Nassau serves as the dividing line between town and gown. For a brief glimpse of campus, pass through the official entrance to Princeton University — the FitzRandolph Gate.

The wrought-iron doorway is flanked by two columns, each topped with stone eagles, their wings partially spread and beaks open as they stare at each other above your head. Nassau Hall is centered on the lawn beyond.

Completed in 1756, this is the oldest building on campus. Two bronze tigers rest with dignity on its steps, their backs worn to a matte finish where decades of visitors have perched for photo ops. Snap a photo if you like before passing back through these emblematic gates, exiting the university, and turning your attention back to real town life.

Lunch

For good student-watching, make your way to Hoagie Haven on Nassau Street. Unchanged since the ‘70s, this family-run place serves stuffed-to-the-brim hoagies and is known for such delicacies as the Phat Lady, a cheesesteak packed with mozzarella sticks and fries, and the Big Cat, four bacon cheeseburgers with four eggs.

If greasy hangover food isn’t your thing, you can grab a sandwich at Witherspoon Bread Company. Classic, simple, and fresh, your choices include a baguette filled with prosciutto, mozzarella, and tomato, or an even more modest ham and butter. Regardless of your choice, take your lunch to the Albert Hinds Plaza in front of the library and once again indulge in some people watching.

For the more morbidly inclined, a post-lunch stroll through the nearby cemetery is in order. The graveyard is a designated historical sight; we’ve been burying people here since 1757. Our most famous dead resident is Revolutionary War captain, vice president, and infamous dueler Aaron Burr.

Dinner

The Alchemist & Barrister is a Princeton favorite, with almost 50 beers on tap. One of the most popular of their lauded burgers is the Dry Aged, topped with Irish cheddar, smoked bacon, and Guinness-glazed onions.

Just across the street, Agricola advertises their farm-to-table philosophy. Waiters in plaid shirts serve your meal, whether you choose Florida frog legs or decide instead on one of the elaborate flatbreads, perhaps one topped with calamari, house-made chorizo, and fennel. Cocktails have old-timey names like the “Great ‘Dirt’ Road Farm Martini,” which is made with farm-pickled vegetables, and the “Apple of My Eye.”

If you’re looking for some classic Mediterranean cuisine, be it seafood, meat, or pasta, and a glass of Sangiovese, head to Mediterra.

No stay in Princeton is complete before you’ve been to Bent Spoon and sampled some of their gelato. Flavors include lavender mascarpone, basil, and chocolate Earl Grey. Vintage decor and handwritten signs make the small space warm and welcoming. To finish it all off, stroll through campus with your dessert and admire the old stone buildings as they’re transformed by the dim lights and dusk’s soft opal glow.

Huge spider colony in Brazilian town

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I’VE GOTTEN USED TO LIVING with cockroaches in NYC, but I was squeamish just watching this video from thousands of miles away. Even though this footage of a spider infestation in the city of Santo Antônio da Platina (in the Southern Region of Brazil) was captured last year, I’m going to have nightmares for the rest of my life. These must have been super huge if Erick Reis was able to get such close footage on his camera. The exact species of spider is unknown, but scientists say these spiders are social/colonial insects, that are found in such large numbers because they band together to hunt. What are they hunting though?!

How to ruin a business class flight

Photo: Jetstar Airways

AS I STEPPED OFF THE AIRCRAFT after my flight from Paris to Montreal, I thought to myself, There’s no way I’m getting on the next one.

Afflicted with severe flight phobia, I’d just spent seven hours being shaken about above the Atlantic Ocean, clutching a picture of my partner as my only consolation. I’d been sure I was going to die in horrible circumstances, all alone, in a metal bullet with 350 smelly strangers. I was sobbing, calling the flight attendants for help, and holding onto my neighbor for hours. The last thing I wanted to do was go through the whole ordeal for another five hours on the way to Vancouver.

During my layover, I had many occasions to imagine how horrid the cross-Canada flight would be. Thunderstorms, mechanical problems, loss of cabin pressure — I thought about it all. When I heard my name being called by the Air Canada staff at the gate, I thought, After the scene I made on the previous flight, they’re going to tell me I’m not fit to travel. But then I heard the sweetest words a budget traveler can ever hear: “You’ve been upgraded to business class!”

“How come?”

“No idea. Enjoy!”

“Thank you! Also, could you give me an aisle seat? I really can’t sit by the window.” Give me an inch and I’ll take a mile.

You’d think that, for what I believed were the last hours of my wonderful life, I would enjoy the treat to the fullest. Instead, I ruined it. If you want to botch up your one and only business class flight, here’s how.

1. Don’t use the fancy lounge.

All major airlines have fancy lounges where you can hang out while waiting for departure. Usually, these are lovely, quiet spaces, away from the commoners, where there are enough sockets for EVERYONE to plug in their laptop. You get free drinks, free food, and comfy chairs to sit in. You can even take a hot shower. Instead, I stayed on my hard seat, smelling like sweat, sipping my $6 iced tea and munching my $5 almond croissant.

2. Don’t take advantage of priority boarding.

Rich people get to board first so they can enjoy champagne or orange juice while reading the business section of the newspaper. When you aren’t used to being so elite, though, you stay where you are and wait for the staff to call your row to board. Needless to say, this never happened because I should have boarded first with the rest of my wealthy friends instead of waiting until last call.

3. Drink nothing but water.

I don’t drink alcohol, but I really should have thrown my healthy habits out the window for this flight. I saw cocktails passing by me while I was trying to enjoy my glass of Evian. I felt so out of place in business class that I didn’t even ask for a soft drink.

4. Have a panic attack.

Freak out, hyperventilate, and breathe in a paper bag for one hour out of five. That should attract everyone’s attention and make you feel terribly ashamed for the rest of your journey.

5. Watch a movie you’ve already seen.

Everybody who’s used to flying takes advantage of being stuck in an airplane for several hours to catch up on all the movies they wanted to see at the theater but didn’t. That’s just smart thinking. Instead, try to take your mind off the fact that you’re 35,000 feet up in the air by watching Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for the third time, or several episodes from season 3 of Frasier.

6. Say no to the ice cream and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie.

Sweet delicious treats made on the aircraft? No thanks, I’m full of expensive iced tea, overpriced almond croissant, and Evian.

7. Don’t fully lie down.

The real beauty of business class is that you can sleep properly. You can lie down completely, without anybody else beside you wanting to use the armrest, and you’re also given a fluffy pillow and down duvet. Everything is set up for you to have a comfortable snooze, but you’re too tired and embarrassed to ask how to get into a horizontal position, so all you get is an hour nap that ends in neck pain.

8. Fail to take a souvenir.

Your camera is stuffed in your backpack in the overhead compartment, next to everybody else’s Burberry coats and Louis Vuitton luggage, and you’re getting the faint impression that the passengers around you will smirk if you take a selfie. Grab a wrinkled copy of the menu to show all your friends the fancy food that was available, but that you did not eat.

Music festivals & social media [map]

Photo via Eventbrite

AT FIRST, I THOUGHT THIS MAP was only an infographic about where different music and art festivals happened around America. While I now know that Gathering of the Juggalos happens somewhere in Ohio, what this map actually represents is which states talk about music festivals the most, over social media.

Eventbrite put together this map, and several other facts and figures, to try and track music festival trends and behaviors. I guess it comes as no surprise that California and New York contain some of the densest chatter, but what I’m more interested in is which music festival is talked about the most, and which states are talking about it.

Why I moved off the grid

Photo: Drew Herron

The short answer for why I moved to an off-the-grid cabin in Washington County, Maine — without electricity, running water, refrigeration, a bathroom, or even a driveway to pull my car into — is that it was free. My boyfriend is from here. He was contracted to build a house for a client on the Harrington River. If we fix this cabin up and make it livable, no one will charge us to live here.

The long answer is something I’ve spent all spring and summer trying to define. I’m sure I’ll still be thinking about it this winter, when I’m most likely still here.

Last year I was living in Portland, working at a restaurant and reminiscing about a traveling lifestyle that had since gone stagnant. I moved to Portland because at the time I thought I wanted an apartment with a year lease. I was sick of moving around all the time, using my summers to work 70 hours a week in a Bar Harbor restaurant, just so I could spend my winters growing bored in a warmer climate, not working at all.

When we arrived, we pushed the door open and stepped into a world put on pause.

I thought I wanted to settle down. I should’ve known that after spending six months in the East End Portland apartment I’d wanted — with a whitewashed brick face and a front stoop facing a local coffee shop — I’d be counting down the months until its lease was up.

Every chance I got, I made the four-hour winding drive north to Harrington. I spent my nights camping at McClellan Park on the coast in Milbridge, where a guy named Tom comes around every day at sundown, taps on your tent, and asks you for the nightly fee of 10 bucks, if you have it. Sometimes I’d stay at my friend’s one-room cabin on the river, next to a summer camp where kids come from all over the world to learn about their different cultures and self-sustain together out in the woods. A lot of times I’d just sleep in the back of my boyfriend’s 1983 Volvo 240, waking up at sunrise to go swimming at Spring River Lake.

No matter where I stayed, each time I visited I fell a little more in love with the mentality of Washington County. It’s a place where people still reserve Sunday for visiting one another, popping in for a hot dog or a beer. There are singing circles at the community center on Thursday nights and a dance at the VFW every Friday. Some people have electricity and running water and others don’t, either because they can’t afford it or they know they don’t need it. It’s a community based on congregation, a person accepted whether or not their family dates back generations in the area or they’ve traveled from as far away as England, Germany, or Mexico.

Maybe I was still searching for a place to settle down. It was just different from the city I’d chosen for myself. Washington County was showing me I wasn’t the eating, drinking, woman-about-town I believed myself to be. All I really wanted to do was pick blackberries along the gravel roadside in August, brushing off mosquitoes as I ventured further into the brambles. I wanted to immerse myself in a simple lifestyle that seemed to have disappeared from my own Maine hometown long before I grew up there.

So when I got the chance, I left the city. We first hiked into the cabin in late April, leaving our car in a small parking lot called Bear Apple Lane and walking a quarter mile across a field of yellow growth that promised to be wildflowers come June. It was one of those emerging sunny days, when the sight of sunlight is almost confusing — you don’t know what to wear, you’ve forgotten how to react to the new warmth. Outside of the grey, cedar-shingled cabin was a small overgrown fire pit and a wood shed falling in on itself.

After a lot of work, this mysterious place became our own.

It’s worth mentioning that this cabin had been left uninhabited for nearly 15 years. Three girls were born in its lofted bedroom and were raised feeding its two woodstoves downstairs, reading from the wall-length library and coloring at the kitchen table, which looks out onto the marshland of the Harrington River.

When we arrived, we pushed the door open and stepped into a world put on pause. There were children-sized fleeces left on hooks and rubber boots tipped over in the entryway, a cluster of dolls left on the floor of the loft and a Klutz book of hair braiding — a familiar favorite from my own childhood — open on the kitchen table. The cabin hadn’t seen people since its original family had left, grown up, split up, separated to all different directions across the world. The girls who owned those dolls were close to my age now. One had children of her own, another was getting married, and the youngest was living in Holland.

We spent weeks clearing away the artifacts of their life to make room for our own, organizing it all in a corner under a plastic sheet, so it wouldn’t be destroyed by the demolition. We spent the next few nights sleeping in a tent outside, shivering in the 35-degree night and listening to the barred owls screech. We took out a skylight, overgrown by mushrooms around its edges. We ripped off the roof, which had been leaking for years directly onto a twin mattress. We built a porch supported by tree trunks that looked out onto the river — a structure that seemed like an immediate necessity to us but which they’d never thought to build. We leveled the shed so I could have a place to store my CRF. And we used scrap 4x8s and cedar shingles to build a chicken coop. We burned all the excess in a bonfire out in the field. After a lot of work, this mysterious place became our own.

Now after five months, I look out my kitchen window at seven wolf spiders spinning together. It’s funny the things you decide to find beauty in once you realize they’re not going away. I’ve learned how to cook on a rusted iron woodstove from the early 1800s, how to start an hour early and always keep the smoke down by using smaller pieces of kindling. Now I can see the smoke billowing away from the house, cutting through the morning air like my own personal Milky Way. I wonder still about that long answer I’ve been looking for, the reason I accepted this challenge. Maybe the answer is just that. I knew it would be a challenge. I needed to see something I hadn’t seen, even though I grew up just a couple hours down the road from it.

Out here, I feel more connected to the world than ever. I’m not distracted.

When I visit my friends back in Portland they tell me, “I don’t know how you do it out there.” I tell them that once a week we have to haul water from our neighbor’s well, three seven-liter containers in a garden cart we mail-ordered. I tell them that before I drive to Bar Harbor to bartend every week, I shower outside with a pesticide sprayer filled with two-and-a-half gallons of water. I have to conserve, but it gets good pressure if I pump it up enough. We fitted the head of a garden hose onto the end, so I can change the settings if I want to.

My family wonders if I’m “getting enough stimulation.”

I tell them that out here, I feel more connected to the world than ever. I’m not distracted. I wake up with the news on the radio every morning and fall asleep to its storytelling programs at night; This American Life at 6, followed by the Moth Radio Hour, and finally Snap Judgment.

I know that in order to do my writing work I need to drive 15 miles to the library so I can use the internet. When I’m back home again, I can’t bring that work with me. So I do other things. I build a fire when it’s still light out. I read through the old tattered books from the library. I walk down to the river and watch the tide coming in around the salt hay.

When the sun goes down, we can usually see the moon from our window. And someone always makes a point to comment on the stars.

Each day I spend off the grid, in a cabin that’s no longer abandoned, in a Maine county that hasn’t changed much, that long answer for why I moved out here becomes a little bit clearer.

The moment this city became my home

Photo: 719jin

I ARRIVED IN CHICAGO IN OCTOBER 2003, completely heartbroken. My relationship of 10 years had just ended, which had a lot to do with my insatiable need to see more of the world than the small town we’d been living in. Sure, we hadn’t tied the knot, but it had that feeling of permanence — the one that makes your stomach sink. I left on a Wednesday. Once I finally stopped using my lunch breaks to weep uncontrollably in the park outside my office, I realized I couldn’t have been happier.

My first apartment in the city was a huge studio in Ravenswood on the North Side. Being far from downtown and in a quiet residential area of the city, I figured it would be a safe spot for a single girl and her dog. I was wrong. It was the only place in Chicago that I ever got broken into (and I would live and work in some pretty rough areas of town in the years to come). I had been hired by a big hotel corporation, so not only was I finally moving to the city I loved, I had my first high-profile design job.

I took the Brown Line downtown. Every morning on the El was a combination of thrill in the new, disgust in my fellow man, frustration in my choice of footwear, and plain excitement to finally have a Chicago address. My stop was Washington and Wells, smack dab in the hubbub of morning commuters. It was the stop right before mine, though, that always caught my attention.

Merchandise Mart was a scene of stylish creatives and design studio reps. Every day I would watch men and woman, clutching giant portfolios and leather notebooks, make their way off the train. The women had smartly cropped silver hair and horn-rimmed glasses. The men wore perfectly distressed jeans and shoes that cost more than my rent. I loved every second of it.

I immediately signed up for classes at an interior design school. Being just down the street from Merchandise Mart, I knew it’d take advantage of the incredible resources the Mart offered. Classes were after work and often left me downtown late and completely exhausted as I boarded the train. On occasion I’d need to walk over to Merchandise Mart for research, and catch the El there for home.

Downtown is deserted by 7pm, so on these occasions I found myself completely alone. One warm October night, waiting for the northbound train on the raised MM platform, my mind drifted…how did I get so far off my original path? Was I right to have left? And why did I choose to live so far north?

As I sat there, it hit me how long I’d been waiting. I wandered down the wooden walkway overlooking the river. The city was still and strangely quiet, glowing with the warmth of city lights. I was overcome with the peace of it all — peace at what was before me, peace at being there, peace in my choice to leave what wasn’t right.

As I stood in silence, I was surprised to see the slow rise of each of the river’s street bridges — something that doesn’t happen often, especially in October. It was the first time I’d ever seen them rise, and I leaned over the rusted railing to gaze further down the water. In a moment, the silence was broken by the chop of helicopter blades whizzing past me down the river. It was there, and then it was gone. I almost thought I’d imagined the whole thing, although later I heard they’d been filming a movie on the river that night.

It was again quiet. I laughed. The glow of the buildings across the water seemed to permeate my skin, and I became sure that Chicago was my home. That platform would forever be my favorite spot in the city — the spot that defined this new certainty. I’d find myself wandering in that direction after work, even though it was completely out of the way. I’d take the train there early in the morning on weekends, to have a bagel and watch the river when it was abandoned by the mass of commuters.

It was one of those mornings, at my favorite breakfast spot, that I snapped a photo.

The NYC tourists don't see

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NEW YORKERS NEVER HAVE ENOUGH TIME for anything, so I can’t imagine visitors really get the most out of even a week-long trip to Manhattan. There’s just too much to see and do, not to mention all of the general chaos that comes with being a part of NYC. This video by Menzkie might have annoying music (and a few sci-fy elements), but it shows 99 sides of New York most tourists don’t even know exist. It focuses on NYC’s incredible architecture, depth of diversity, and ever-changing urbanism, all of which make this city the crazy place it is.

10 things to do in New Orleans

Photo: “El Gabo” – Davide Gabino

1. Get up close to the area where the levees broke.

2005’s Hurricane Katrina wasn’t just a natural disaster, it was a manmade one. While the storm brought incredible amounts of rain and wind, it was a crack in the levees that flooded areas of the city such as the Lower Ninth Ward.

A bike ride through this area gives you an up-close perspective on the devastation, as well as the efforts to rebuild. You’ll see student volunteers making repairs and the Brad Pitt-sponsored Make It Right homes, and you’ll likely get to chat with the residents who loved their community enough to return. At the same time, a leisurely bike ride will also show you the damaged roads and abandoned homes that are a constant reminder of Katrina’s wrath. It’s both an inspiring and sobering experience.

2. After your bike ride, have lunch at Café Dauphine.

There’s a lot of great food in New Orleans, but Café Dauphine is unique because it’s one of the few businesses thriving in the Lower Ninth Ward, which was completely devastated after Hurricane Katrina. The owners are dedicated to providing a dining option for the community, creating jobs, and fostering community pride. The menu features Southern comfort cuisine with some interesting twists. Try the deep-fried bell pepper, stuffed with crabmeat and shrimp.

3. Join a second line.

Second lines are traditional parades in which a brass band leads a group of participants down city streets. People dance or walk with a lot of attitude and rhythm, and it’s common to see colorful suits and twirling parasols. Second lines are typically Sunday affairs, and the neighborhood participates by standing on their porches and cheering, or joining in as the parade weaves its way around the community.

Local radio station WWOZ publishes a detailed list of upcoming second lines, and check out this etiquette list to make sure you participate respectfully. You can also practice first, at a second line dance class with local dance celebrity Dancing Man 504.

4. Do Sunday church in style.

Check out St. Augustine’s Church in the Treme. They have a jazz mass at 10am on Sundays, where you’ll see the neighborhood’s long-time African-American residents rubbing shoulders with hipster newcomers while you worship to some of the best church music around. The area the church is in, which was featured in the HBO show Treme, is the oldest African-American neighborhood in the United States, where free people of color first gained the right to own property.

5. Get to know the African-American side of Mardi Gras.

Historically, Mardi Gras parades excluded non-whites, so people in black neighborhoods such as the Treme held alternative celebrations. They developed a tradition of dressing up or “masking” as American Indians as a way of paying respect for their assistance in escaping slavery. Today, the Mardi Gras Indians make their own elaborate costumes, which are paraded starting on St. Joseph’s Day. Different tribes face off with each other to determine which chief is the “prettiest.”

At the Backstreet Cultural Museum in the Treme, you can see the 100-plus-pound costumes and hear stories about this unique aspect of African-American culture.

6. Hang out with the hipsters.

Hipsters come to New Orleans for the music, the historical homes, the entrepreneurial opportunities, and the relatively cheap standard of living. They’re revitalizing parts of the city with new bars, restaurants, art galleries, and cafes.

What exactly is a hipster, and is their influence positive or negative? Those are debates you could spend hours having with those born and raised in New Orleans. In any case, if you want to commune with the skinny jean, old-fashioned hat, vintage T-wearing crowd, head out to the Marigny and Bywater areas. Mimi’s, Euclid’s Records, Orange Couch Café, Frenchman Art Market, Piety Street Market — all are hipster approved.

7. Head out to the “Far East” for the best bread in town.

New Orleans East is home to a vibrant and growing Vietnamese-American community. Many of the first generation came as fishermen, working down in the bayous. The community is largely Catholic and you can find tons of Asian restaurants, grocery stores, and services around the Mary Queen of Vietnam church, which is their spiritual and practical hub. This area was heavily damaged after Hurricane Katrina, and the Vietnamese are known to have been among the first to return and rebuild.

Locals from all backgrounds swear that some of the best bread in the city is made by the Vietnamese. Buy yours right out of the oven at Dong Phuong Bakery. Or try a Vietnamese-style po-boy (otherwise known as bánh mì) made to order. Keep on going east to hit the bayou communities, and see how high the houses are being built in order to survive future floods.

8. Have a stuffed plantain in Little Honduras.

Kenner, which is just west of central New Orleans, has the highest population of Hondurans living outside of Honduras. The Hispanic population of this area, including other Central Americans, Mexicans, and Brazilians, has grown to 22%, a huge increase over the last decade. Drive down Williams Boulevard and you can visit Hispanic grocery stores, restaurants, doctors, tax preparers, and banks. Try Mi Pueblito’s on Florida Avenue for traditional stuffed plantains, pastelitos, and yucca.

9. Volunteer at an urban farm.

Hurricane Katrina left behind a lot of ruined homes that stayed abandoned and, over time, became blighted areas. Urban farms and community gardens are popping up in areas that were hit hardest and are economically challenged. They make use of areas that were once an eyesore, growing food for neighborhoods that might otherwise have limited access to fresh produce. Some provide herbs and vegetables to the biggest-name restaurants in town. These gardens are bringing a renewed sense of pride to communities that have struggled to rebound.

10. See where the musicians live.

After Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans natives Harry Connick, Jr. and Branford Marsalis wanted to establish a community for displaced musicians, making sure they didn’t abandon the city due to economic hardship. Their vision was to provide a home for the artists and their music that has defined the city’s culture. In partnership with Habitat for Humanity, they started the Musician’s Village, which provides affordable housing near the recently-built Elis Marsalis Center for Music.

As you stroll through this area in the Upper Ninth Ward, you’ll see examples of vibrantly painted houses that reflect the traditional shotgun style. If you’re lucky, you may walk into an impromptu jam session on somebody’s front porch.