Finding the Heart of New Orleans Outside the French Quarter

Last week, I took a trip “down yonder to Old New Orleans” after finding great deals for travel on off days during the holiday week. I am happy to report that this vacation spot is better than ever after Katrina. With the Super Bowl coming to the Crescent City this February, the city is hard at work repaving roads, upgrading the streetcar system and making other improvements to infrastructure. The shops and galleries of the French Quarter, the main draw for tourists, are open now that most of the proprietors have returned after the storm.

Heart NOLA

When I first visited New Orleans, the main attraction for me was the historic architecture of the Vieux Carré, which reflects the French, Spanish and Caribbean people who originally settled in the city. If you visit during the week, especially after Mardi Gras or in the fall, it’s possible to take a pleasant stroll down quiet streets and enjoy the mild weather. After having my fill of café au lait and beignets at Café du Monde as well as the stumbling drunks and cover bands of Bourbon Street, I decided to venture out of the French Quarter to discover what goes on outside the tourist zone. That’s how I discovered that the true strength of New Orleans is its people.

Cross the border of the French Quarter at Rampart Street, and you’ll enter Tremé, which is considered to be the first black neighborhood in America. Many famous musicians were born in the Tremé, and it’s even considered the birthplace of jazz. It’s also the site of the recently renovated Louis Armstrong Park and Congo Square, where slaves used to gather on Sundays to play music and dance. If you ask anybody in the French Quarter, they’ll warn you not to go to the Tremé. Maybe they say that to keep the visitors spending money in the tourist area, or maybe it’s because I’ve lived in Baltimore for so long, but I felt completely comfortable walking around the neighborhood during the day. Everyone I passed said hello or made friendly conversation, making me feel welcome.

Backstreet Cultural Museum

If you are uncomfortable visiting Tremé alone, French Quarter Phantoms offers a wonderful two-hour tour. My guide was Emelie, who provided a wealth of information on the history and culture of the area and seemed to know everyone we passed. Since I was the only one on the tour, I felt more like I was hanging out with a friend than playing tourist.

After finishing the tour, I returned to the Backstreet Cultural Museum, which tells the story of the Mardi Gras Indians and other groups that make the culture of New Orleans so interesting. Mr. Francis, who founded the museum, is a delightful man, who enjoys telling personal tales about the people who donated the memorabilia. Although the museum only has two rooms, I spent more than an hour there, fascinated by the intricate work of the Indian costumes and his stories.

Wanting to experience the true music of New Orleans, I visited Kermit Ruffins’ Tremé Speakeasy at 1535 Basin Street after reading about his new restaurant in a local entertainment magazine. On Monday nights, this cozy restaurant offers a delicious, affordable meal and an amazing set by Kermit and friends that starts around 6:30 p.m. Etiquette in New Orleans calls for any musicians in the house to get up and play with the band, so a long list of people were called onstage to perform, even some of the servers.  Since there are only about ten tables, early arrivers invite the late-comers to fill in the empty seats, making it a great way to meet people. By the end of the set, everyone in the room was dancing together and tossing balloons around like old friends. It felt more like being welcomed to a house party than hanging out in a bar. You don’t find that friendly, laid back attitude in the North.

A typical night on Frenchmen Street

After all that fun, it was barely 9:00, and the night had barely begun. The couple next to me invited me along to hear more music on Frenchmen Street, the area next to the French Quarter where the locals go to hear the best jazz. How could I refuse? I suddenly found myself in a cab with this former scout for the Texas Rangers, his newly divorced girlfriend, Kenny Terry of the Tremé Brass Band and several other groups and his lady friend Raynette. While I normally wouldn’t get into a car with strangers, Raynette assured me that if they were murderers, she could stop the bleeding because she is a registered nurse. I had nothing to worry about because we had a blast popping in and out of clubs and dancing while Kenny joined the bands onstage. Kenny and Mike, the guy who invited me along, seemed to know everybody and introduced me around like they had known me for ages, or at least more than a few hours. I felt like a regular, and I liked it. When the night finally came to an end, Mike and his girlfriend even walked me back to my bed and breakfast.  

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Check out more of my photos of New Orleans.

My Memory of Lionel Batiste

When I was skimming headlines on msn.com last night, I was two stories down before my heart skipped a beat. Uncle Lionel Batiste is dead. Wait … what? I had to back up and read it again. Lionel Batiste. I know him!

To be honest, I don’t actually know Lionel Batiste, a huge figure in the New Orleans music scene, but he made a big impression when I ran into him about two years ago. As I was entering the courtyard of the legendary Preservation Hall to meet up with my jazz tour, he was finishing up a photo shoot.

Most of my family and friends know that I adore the music and culture of New Orleans. I’m also a huge fan of Tremé, the HBO series about the city, so I immediately recognized Uncle Lionel and his Tremé Brass Band drum.

All I could think of was getting a picture of that drum because I was certain that I would never come across anything that screams New Orleans like that beat up instrument. Had I known at the time that Uncle Lionel had used his drum to keep himself afloat in the post-Katrina floods, I probably would have passed out on the spot.

As I stood there trying to work up the courage to ask permission to take a picture, Uncle Lionel was packing up his things. I knew that he’d be gone in a few moments.

What if he thought I was crazy for asking? What did it matter since I’d never see him again? What if he said no? And why were the other few guests meandering around looking more interested in starting the jazz tour when a living, breathing musical giant was standing right in front of them?

Ah, what the hell? “Hi, do you mind if I take a picture of your drum?” I practically whispered, and my heart stopped as I waited for his response.

Slowly, he turned around and picked up his drum. Oh, no, you idiot! Why didn’t you just walk over and take the damn picture before he had a chance to move the drum? I can’t believe I upset him so much that he’s going to hide it. Now I’ll never get my shot!

Suddenly, he turned to face me and struck a pose with the drum. This was too good to be true! My heart resumed beating and began to pound furiously. I only had seconds to get the shot. I was looking straight into the sun. I was too close to get a full body shot.

He started to lower the drum, and I snapped as quickly as I could, praying for the best. Then, despite his age and frail build, he disappeared with his drum in an instant.

I spent the next few minutes willing my heart back to its normal pace, trying to look nonchalant about my run-in with a legend. Inside the tiny, dark hall, I struck up a conversation with the photographer, who explained that he was working on a book of photos of famous musicians posing with their instruments. He soon excused himself to shoot his next subject, Mardi Gras Indian chief Monk Boudreau, who was waiting patiently while we wrapped up our chat.

I don’t know whether it’s the Southern culture or the fact that musical talent is the norm in New Orleans, but it’s remarkable to me that musicians in this town mingle with the masses and don’t put on any airs. In any other city, they would be surrounded by an entourage and a throng of fans and paparazzi. Despite this unusual attitude, I preferred to focus on my success in shooting Batiste rather than pushing my luck with Boudreau, so I faded into the shadows to wait for the tour.

When the tour guide called us together and led us back into the light of day on St. Peter Street, he offhandedly revealed the identities of the gentlemen we had seen inside. The rest of the group, assuming the New Orleans attitude, seemed unimpressed. As for me, it was the highlight of my trip and a memory that will last a lifetime.

Rest in peace, Unc. Enjoy your second line.