The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
A mix of majesty and mischief
New Orleans celebrates its 300th birthday.
I have an eccentric friend who can be as refined as a debutante fresh out of finishing school or as ribald as a sailor on leave, a contradictory nature I learned to embrace long ago. When we’re together, I’m her malleable sidekick, always giving in to her unpredictable moods. One night I’m dancing down the street with smeared lipstick and a merry stream of red hair in my wake, and the next, I’m sitting primly at a fine dining restaurant with a tuxedoed waiter placing a crisp, white napkin in my lap.
The spunky old gal is celebrating a milestone birthday this year, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. She’s turning 300. Her name is New Orleans.
The Louisiana port city on the Mississippi River is all gussied up for the tricentennial and ready to strut its stuff.
I made my way to Jackson Square in the heart of the French Quarter, the oldest section of the Big Easy, to get reacquainted with a few venerated landmarks and museums that showcase the city’s quirky personality.
Andrew Jackson, the park’s namesake, waved his hat at me as he sat poised and confident astride his bronze horse. The statue is a tribute to the general and future president of the United States who protected the city against the British in the 1815 Battle of New Orleans, the last major battle of the War of 1812.
St. Louis Cathedral, a triple-steepled marvel of French architecture, towers majestically over the square. Catholics have worshipped at churches on this site since 1727, making it the oldest continuously active cathedral in the United States.
A 6-foot-tall marble statue of St. John Paul II was erected in front of the cathedral in January to commemorate the city’s 300-year-old ties with the Catholic Church. The canonized pope visited New Orleans in 1987, sparking a spiritual renaissance.
Nearby, a band started blasting jazz standards beneath a sign that read, “Church quiet zone,” transforming me from reverent to devil-may-care in seconds. Those cats may never get an airport named after them like Louis Armstrong, New Orleans’ famous native son who is synonymous with jazz, but I joyfully swished my skirt to the carefree tune all the same.
The Cabildo
French explorer Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville founded “Nouvelle-Orléans” in 1718, but the French weren’t the only Europeans to leave behind an enduring legacy. Louisiana was under Spanish control from 1763 to 1803. (It was back under French control by the time of the Louisiana Purchase by the U.S. in 1803.)
To the left of the cathedral is the Cabildo, an imposing building that was once home to the Spanish colonial government and is now operated by the Louisiana State Museum.
It’s temporarily closed while it gears up for a grand-scale exhibit, “Recovered Memories: Spain, New Orleans, and the Support for the American Revolution,” which runs April 21-July 8.
The show chronicles Spain’s support for the American Colonies prior to and during the American Revolution and illuminates influential Spaniards who helped shape the emerging country.
Original portraits of Spanish Louisiana governors will be displayed alongside historic documents and weapons. Especially noteworthy is the original British flag captured by the Spanish at the Battle of Baton Rouge in 1779, a victory that greatly strengthened the American position. The Presbytere
My visit didn’t coincide with Carnival season, but I still got a taste of Mardi Gras at the Presbytere, a museum just steps from the Cabildo.
“Mardi Gras: It’s Carnival Time in Louisiana” is a permanent exhibit that offers an in-depth look at this festival that is so deeply ingrained in Louisiana culture. It came to New Orleans from Paris and was celebrated even before the city’s official founding.
Sadly, it has become associated with tawdry, drunken displays on Bourbon Street, but the exhibit showcases a more refined side to America’s greatest party.
The role of krewes, organizations that stage parades and balls, is explained, and costumes worn by Mardi Gras royalty are prominently displayed. In some cases, the beadwork on the bellshaped dresses is so elaborate, they look as though they could be worn by real royalty. Speaking of real royalty, a 1950 photograph of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor depicts the pair at the Comus ball bowing to Rex, the King of Carnival, and his queen.
I was captivated by a selection of ball invitations, some of them dating back to the early 1900s. They were charming little works of art shaped as fans, shells and mythological creatures, depending on the theme of the ball.
Over the years, female krewes, gay krewes and black krewes emerged. The Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club, the first black krewe, has been around since 1909. Zulu coconuts are prized parade “throws.”
The Historic New Orleans Collection
The Historic New Orleans Collection, another French Quarter museum, recently debuted “New Orleans: The Founding Era,” a 75-artifact exhibit on view through May 27 to commemorate the tricentennial.
It provides insight into the fledgling French colony and examines the complex and conflicted nature of the town’s development as a diaspora of French, Germans, enslaved Africans and others settled the swampy, inhospitable land in the first half of the 18th century.
Highlights include original maps that show how New Orleans’ footprint evolved over time, a mortar and pestle from an early hospital, and a pair of Native American moccasins.
A night on the town
After a day of indulging my inner history buff, I was hungry and set off for dinner at Tujague’s, one of the oldest restaurants in the city. The barbecue shrimp and grits was everything I expected and more, but if I’m honest, it wasn’t just the food that brought me there.
I was in search of a transvestite ghost. A cross-dressing actor from the early 1900s used to be a regular back when Tujague’s was called Madame Begue’s (there’s a photo of him decked out in his feminine finery), and it’s rumored he gets a thrill from photobombing tourists’ shots. When I checked mine, I was sorry to see he had taken the night off from his pranks.
Later, I caught a jazz concert at Preservation Hall, a music venue established in 1961 when jazz seemed in danger of being usurped by something younger and groovier — rock ‘n’ roll. For baby boomers, jazz was the stuff their parents listened to, which made it decidedly uncool.
On my first visit years ago, I thought “hall” was too grand a word for the tiny, no-frills space that doesn’t serve drinks or even have air conditioning, but I’ve come to love the intimate venue that allows me to catch the saxophonist’s eye and makes me feel the guitarist is riffing just for me.
Afterward, I dug into a plate of French-style doughnuts called beignets at Café du Monde. Open 24/7, it’s just the spot to wrap up a late night.
Back on the street, a primal, acoustic rhythm rolled out of a bar, taking hold of my body and soul like a sensual lover. Caught up in the beat, I grooved on back to the hotel covered in powdered sugar, or maybe that was fairy dust.