City of the Living…Cities of the Dead
New Orleans, LA
February 20, 2019
The drive from Paris to Onzain takes just under two hours, but provides a wonderful…albeit superfluous…excuse to stop for an afternoon in the delightful town of Orléans.
Eighteen years ago, on an excursion among the grand châteaux of the Valois, Rita and I were almost there much longer than that.
Our ever-reliable Renault, rented that morning, seemed to give up the ghost. Under an ominous twilight, in a phone booth beside the Jardin de la Préfecture, my fragile French was suddenly recruited to summon a seance.
Like Martel at Tours, I somehow marshaled reinforcements who conjured a miracle, revived our temperamental buggy, and allowed us to press deeper into the lap of the Loire.
Fortunately, we had ample opportunity in Orléans to kill time as our car died.
In that town innumerable monuments pay homage to Jeanne d’Arc, including an eponymous rue leading like a red carpet to the cathedral in which our heroine heard Mass before saving the city from the English siege.
That shrine’s stained glass still tells her story in potent pictures that conveyed more than a thousand words to the illiterate populace of Medieval France.
In such abundance are its tributes to St Joan that in 1972 Orléans could spare to its unruly Louisiana offspring an equestrian statue of its adopted maiden, now riding majestically behind two cannons along Decatur Street on Le Rive Gauche of the Mississippi.
In addition to being littered with emblematic reminders…many organic, some contrived…of its French founding and subsequent Spanish dominion, much of modern New Orleans is also littered with actual litter.
A cornucopia of debris scatters along the base, under the balconies, and beneath the Babylonian flora adorning colonial Creole cabins erected under Spanish authority to replace the original French kindling consumed by a 1788 fire.
Within the French Quarter, a melting pot of aromas waft from the front of restaurants…and out the back of bars…spicing the scene and lending this exotic city an air of seedy elegance and graceful grit.
A medley of sounds harmonizes the olfactory chorus.
Colorful language proliferates along eminently avoidable Bourbon Street while, as if in cliché, infectious jazz radiates from the sides or center of almost every other quai or rue latticing the Quarter and lacing the Marigny.
Meanwhile, like a caricature, lilting drawls serenely stroll the genteel streets under the majestic oaks of the Garden District…or pour forth from the coffee houses of Magazine or Oak Streets.
And, of course, from every nook, through every cranny, out every fenêtre, and up every alley, music abounds.
This city is charming, and alive…diminished on this stay by the absence of my wife, but compensated by the youthful vigor and exuberant curiosity of my two sons enjoying their first visit.
We arrived Sunday, decided against the burden of a car, and checked into the Maison Orléans wing of the Ritz.
While tempted by the beauty of our room, the elegance of the lounge, and the inordinate hospitality of our hosts to spend our entire stay in that wonderful hotel, we somehow mustered sufficient will to penetrate its walls, and march toward Jackson Square.
Being too late for Mass at Cathedral St Louis, we toured its interior, admiring statues or shrines to St Joan, St Louis IX, and Our Lady…all under a Spanish-inspired neoclassical nave bearing flags from each government that at one time or another ruled Louisiana.
Returning to the square, we meandered past the iconic statue of Andrew Jackson that, like the name of its plaza, has somehow managed to survive the demented cultural vandals infesting the Orwell novel that is modern American life.
After my obligatory stop at Faulkner House Books, we continued past eternal lines awaiting sustenance and souvenirs at Café du Monde and Central Grocery…opting instead to dive directly into the maelstrom of the French Market, and then to the relative peace of the Ursuline Convent.
Unfortunately, the Convent, among the oldest structures in the Mississippi Valley and only surviving colonial French buildings in Louisiana, was more peaceful than we’d hoped.
The last patrons of the day had just been granted entry, so the doors were closed, permitting us only a sliver of history as we peered longingly thru the narrow slit between jamb and gate.
We consoled our loss, pleased our palette, and re-affirmed our instinct in passing Café du Monde, by partaking the al fresco delicacies of Café Beignet.
As we consumed our beignets, drank our coffee, and watched a series of impromptu musicians grace Rue Royal, we noted in a local brochure that this city counts almost as many dead as living among its illustrious residents.
Those who enjoy eternal rest in a city that never sleeps cannot even draw the covers of the earth over their weary remains.
Though above-ground tombs are assumed to be necessary in a city below the sea, they are also high-born replicas of respectable graves housing prominent families in Bourbon France and Hapsburg Spain.
As David recovered Monday from what was apparently a 24-hour bug, Alexander and I made our way to St Louis Cemetery, the most prominent of what Mark Twain (ostensibly) called “cities of the dead” scattered throughout New Orleans.
The tour was informative, enjoyable…and mandatory, primarily to prevent an additional “X” being inscribed, for good luck, upon the tomb of the mysterious Madame Laveau.
A man who needed such luck is also entombed in this “City of the Dead”.
Homer Plessy, an “octoroon” Creole who, backed by the local Comité de Citoyens, dared test Louisiana’s prohibition against blacks sitting amongst white streetcar passengers, rests peacefully in this village as a pioneer who gave his name to a notorious Supreme Court decision…and blazed a trail Rosa Parks would follow six decades later.
The judge in the original case, John Howard Ferguson, rests in Lafayette Cemetery, another above-ground City of the Dead several miles away in the Garden District that we visited the following day.
The most prominent resident of the St Louis necropolis is still alive. Some years ago, Nicolas Cage purchased a plot, erected a pyramidal tomb, and retained his ownership despite IRS claims on the remainder of his wealth. If our guide is to be trusted, most residents of New Orleans would not be disheartened to learn he had finally moved in.
From the tombs, we revived ourselves at the hotel, and re-engaged a city that is perpetually alive.
For the last couple years, Alexander has played trombone in his high school jazz band, and last week took admirable initiative to begin forming its first brass quintet.
Monday night, in front of the front row of seats at Preservation Hall, sitting cross-legged on the floor, we saw up close what he can aspire to.
Backed by piano, trombone, bass, and drum, Leroy Jones’s trumpet blared Way Down in New Orleans, All of Me, Sweet Georgia Brown, Mardis Gras in New Orleans, and Corrine, Corrina at a distance from our faces no greater than that of this phone from my nose. For 45 minutes the place jumped, energy flowed, walls shook, and my elder son was confirmed in his adoration of the original American music.
On that high, and relieved David had overcome his bug (due in no small part to the persistent attention of Dierdre Faucheaux at the Ritz), the three of us proceeded yesterday along the St Charles line to the Garden District, the aforementioned Lafayette Cemetery, and Tulane University.
For dinner, we tried Kingfish in the Quarter, were pleased with the food, and overwhelmed to learn the hotel had compensated our entire dinner to honor the arrival next week of Alexander’s eighteenth birthday.
This morning we returned to the domain of the dead by entering the wonderful World War II Museum.
Rita and I were amazed by this exhibition a couple years ago, and our sons now consider this the best museum they’ve ever seen. Apparently they are not alone, as it is designated the finest of its type in the US, and among the best museums in the world.
After an insufficient few hours trying to comprehend Guadalcanal, Dachau, and the Bulge, and we walked back to the hotel by way of Lafayette Square, and soaked in a couple extra hours in Le Maison Orléans before shuttling back to the airport…and to real life.
Speaking of which, our flight is now delayed…
JD
